grad trip bonus chapter from the journals of vicky

The crunch of gravel under our shoes was the only sound as we filed through the iron-wrought gates, their skeletal shapes silhouetted against the bruised purple of the evening sky. I, Vicky Blackwood, led the procession, my posture as rigid as the headstones we passed, a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of subcultures trailing behind me. To any prying eye, we were a disastrous school field trip gone horrifically astray. To me, we were the Society of Shadows, right where we belonged.

“Remind me again why the ‘personal field trip’ funds came from the ‘Botanical Society’ budget, Silas?” I asked without turning, my voice crisp and carrying in the damp air.

Silas, our treasurer, adjusted his thick-framed glasses, the ledger in his hands practically an extension of his being. “Because ‘grave flora reclamation’ has a more academically justifiable ring to it than ‘necromantic reagent procurement,’ Headmistress.” His tone was dry, efficient. I allowed the ghost of a smile. He was excellent at his job.

We reached the oldest section, where the stones leaned like tired, grey teeth. Morgana, who had come straight from her antiquities store—which also served as her home—immediately knelt by a particularly ornate Victorian marker. “The moss here is perfect,” she murmured, her fingers, adorned with silver skull rings, brushing the stone. “Saturated with passive spectral resonance. Theo, the trowel.”

Her boyfriend, my son Theo, wordlessly handed her the tool from their shared duffel bag. He and his twin sister, my daughter as well Luna, stood like two pillars of quiet, observant gloom. Both shared the same sharp, dark eyes and a stoicism that could curdle milk. One can tell how much they take after me to the point it is like looking into a mirror and seeing ones own reflection.

“The ambiance is chef’s kiss,” Lilith announced, already setting up a small, portable easel. She was sketching the scene, her black lace sleeves billowing. “If my band doesn’t write a song called ‘Elegy in E Minor for a Forgotten Plot,’ I’m quitting.” Her voice, soon to be roaring over gothic metal amplifiers, was currently a soft, melodic hum.

Finn, ever the anchor to Luna’s silent storm, was unpacking the core components: black candles, a bowl of salt, a few… ethically sourced bones. “Where’s the fun in raising the dead if you don’t do it with proper ceremony?” he quipped, winking at Luna. She responded with a roll of her eyes so profound it was practically a speech.

The lesson began. Tonight’s focus was on communing with residual echoes, not full reanimation—we weren’t barbarians. As I explained the nuances of channeling through limestone versus granite, my senses were on a razor’s edge. The calculus of it all—the risk, the reward, the profound quiet of the grave—was a thrill no classroom could ever provide.

The thrill turned to ice when a bobbing flashlight beam cut through the darkness. A night watchman.

“Shit,” breathed Finn, instinctively blowing out a candle.

“Language, Mr. Crowe,” I chided automatically, my mind racing. The Society froze, a tableau of guilty goths. Then, the teacher in me, the haughty, unflappable Miss Blackwood, took over. I stepped forward, placing myself between the light and my students.

“Can I help you?” My voice was pure frosty condescension, the kind that made sixth-formers weep.

The watchman, a portly man in a too-tight uniform, blinked. “What’s all this, then? School group?”

“A private historical society,” I corrected, nose tilting upward a fraction. “We are conducting a survey of pre-Edwardian funerary epitaphs for a comparative linguistics paper. The melancholic twilight, you understand, is essential for capturing the correct… morbid atmosphere.” I gestured dismissively at Lilith’s easel. “The sketch artist is documenting the aesthetic decay. Is there a problem?”

I layered the lie with such academic pomposity that the man visibly deflated. “Oh. Right. Well… just be careful. It’s damp.”

“We are intimately aware of the moisture levels, thank you,” I said, turning my back on him, a dismissal as clear as a slap. He mumbled and retreated, his flashlight beam wobbling away.

A collective, silent sigh of relief passed through the Shadows. The moment shattered, we packed up with practiced speed. The adrenaline left me buzzing, and as we settled in a clearer patch to share a thermos of absurdly strong, sweet tea, an old, familiar itch returned. With the watchman gone, I pulled out my phone, its glow illuminating my face.

I navigated to a streaming site and, driven by a wave of nostalgia from these very graves—where I’d first secretly pored over The Lesser Key of Solomon as a teenager—I pulled up an episode of an old cartoon from my childhood. The bright, silly colors and slapstick sounds were a bizarre counterpoint to our surroundings.

I was lost in a memory of Saturday mornings when a voice, drier than the bones we’d just been studying, cut through.

“Is that… The Lesser Key Of Solomon”

Luna. She was peering over my shoulder, her expression one of profound, judgmental amusement.

My finger stabbed the screen, changing the app to a true crime documentary about a serial killer in the 1970s. “Don’t be absurd, Luna,” I said, my voice perfectly even. “A stupid advertisement popped up. Algorithmic nonsense.”

The silence from the twins was a tangible, skeptical force. Theo just raised a brow. Finn coughed to hide a laugh.

Luna’s lips twitched. “An advertisement. For a show that ended twenty years ago. That you just happened to have fully loaded and ready to play. How serendipitous.” Her eyes gleamed in the dark. “I hardly ever took you for a sentimentalist, for something that has content as lighthearted as that. Does the Head of the Society of Shadows have a secret soft spot for traumatized cartoon animals?”

The teasing was gentle, but it struck a nerve. Without breaking my cold, calculating composure, I picked up the nearest hardback—a dense tome on post-Victorian burial customs—and gave her a firm, deliberate, and utterly playful thwack on the head.

“Ow! The book is for knowledge, not violence!” she protested, rubbing her scalp, a real smile finally breaking through her stoicism.

“Consider that a lesson in not questioning your elders’ media choices,” I stated, snapping the book close. A snort came from Morgana. Silas shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. Lilith started giggling, which set Finn off for a good one too, and soon even Theo was chuckling softly something rare indeed for someone like my son.

We sat there, in our circle of candlelight amidst the dead, the sound of our laughter mingling with the rustle of ancient cypress trees. Silas passed around chocolate chip biscuits he’d “acquired” from the school cafeteria. Morgana and Theo debated the spectral potential of 18th-century lead-lined coffins. Lilith hummed a new melody, and Finn rested his head on Luna’s shoulder.

I leaned back against a weathered angel, the cold stone seeping through my coat. The watchman was gone. The lesson was done. The lie had held. And here we were, a collection of sarcastic, sharp-witted, introverted misfits, perfectly at home in a graveyard. It was, I mused, the most darkly humorous and wholesome ending one could hope for. We were, all of us, a little gloomy and dead inside. So really, we’d just come for a family reunion.

The end.