Offering

by B.F. Vega

The offerings sat on cracked stone—a bottle of Pepsi, still full, tipped on its side. A single cigarette carefully inserted into the center of the paper cempasúchitl that sat between the bottle and a little figurine of the Virgin. The tiny cemetery was deserted, other than the Virgin statue and me. 

A thin fog was starting to roll in off the Pacific Ocean, slipping past the ancient oaks and bent Monterey Pines. This tiny knoll would soon be impossible to see from the main ranch road. It, like all the private ranch cemeteries in this area, was purposefully situated that way. It’s one thing to visit and remember willingly, but another thing entirely to be forcefully reminded. 

Despite growing up on the next hill over and being an almost dangerously curious young girl, I hadn’t even known this was here. No small town gossip ever mentioned it, and not a single one of the various high school Halloween dares took place anywhere near here.

All of that made the ofrenda even more startling. The paper flower was untouched by the constant marine moisture, the label on the soda bottle unfaded, and the virgin still smelt faintly of copal.  

Between the setting sun and my desperately out-of-date glasses, I couldn’t read the stone. I was hesitant to sit or kneel on the barbed weeds and jagged bits of granite that littered the land here. As always, my curiosity won out over my good sense.

I scraped my knee and my left palm getting close enough to the stone that I could see the faint indentations. The first name was almost gone, as if fingers had flitted across it so often that they had worn it smooth. The first letter might have been an S. The last name was missing a few letters, but was recognizable as Villalobos. Under the name was a single date 

November 1, 1892. 

That was it. I wondered if there had ever been more, but it didn’t seem like it. 

“So weird,” I said to the little Virgin statue. 

Off in the distance, I could hear the herds of cows being driven in for the evening milking, and on a hill not far off, a brave or stupid coyote started his evening serenade. I knew it was time to go. I had spent the golden hour trying to figure out the enigma in front of me instead of taking the assigned photos. 

“I’ll be back,” I assured the little Virgin statue. 

She winked at me.

Or at least I thought she did. I stared at her. So serene, her eyes downcast. “It was a trick of the light,” I said out loud, and turning on my heel, started the short hike back down to my car.

As soon as I had a cell signal again, I called Lola.

“Yeah?” She said, picking up. It was her standard answer. Lola did not believe in politeness. 

“Hey, I’m just heading out…”

“Send me the photos, I’ve got a million things on my plate.”

“I didn’t take any.”

“What?

“I didn’t take any. It didn’t feel right somehow.”

“What the hell, Ramirez? You’re a photojournalist. You don’t have feelings. Get it done.” She hung up.

Despite her being very wrong about the need for feelings in photojournalism, and the fact that this wasn’t that sort of assignment anyway, she was right about one thing: I had never let feelings get in the way of work before. 

I told myself that I just needed more information about the odd grave and its fresh offerings. I toyed with stopping by the local bar, but if nobody had let slip anything about the graveyard in the 42 years I had lived here, they weren’t going to now.

The next day, I drove to the main county library. I got off the elevator on the top floor and walked to the information desk of the local history section.

A man I had never seen was sitting at the desk. His long, thick black hair was shot through with silver and formed a solid knot at the base of his skull where it was bound into a bun. His tawny skin was flecked with freckles and the small moles common in those of us with Mexican heritage. He also wore thick silver bracelets on each wrist. 

“Can I help you?” He asked in a slightly feminine voice. 

“Is Mariam here?” 

Over the years, I had found Mariam to be a wizard at finding obscure facts

“No, but I might be able to help.”

“Oh, I’m looking for information about a ranch cemetery.”

“There are a lot of those dear, you are going to have to be more specific.”

“Yes, I’m looking for anything about the Giacomo ranch.”

He gave me an odd look. “I don’t remember seeing one marked on the map…”

“It’s okay, Victor dear,” A familiar voice said, “I know what she’s looking for.”

I turned startled, “Mariam. I thought you weren’t working today?”

“I’m not, but I happened to see you outside and thought you might be heading this way.  I thought I might help.”

“I couldn’t ask you to help on your day off.”

“Nonsense. I’m a librarian. Do you think that I just stop being curious on my days off?”

I laughed. It was a very Mariam reply. 

I explained why I was there. 

“That is odd. Why would a Villalobos be buried on the Giacomo Ranch?” She asked.

“I was hoping you would know.” 

She grinned at me, “Well, if it was some sort of scandal, I think I know where we can start looking.” She gestured me over toward the rare document room.

“Gloves, dear.” She said as she swiped a card to open the door. 

“What are we looking for in here?” I asked. Usually, Miriam steered me toward the ancient microfiche machine while she magically found me the correct spools. Or she found a convenient mimeograph of a deed or announcement and brought it to whatever table I was working at, she had never had me follow her before.

“Well, obviously, anything unsavory wouldn’t be in the paper.” Mariam reasoned as she unlocked a cabinet and pulled out an old Floresheim shoe box.

“Did they have Floresheim’s in 1892?” I asked.

“The company started in 1892.”

“Oh, but the date on the stone…”

“It was a birthday.” Mariam interrupted me. “At least that’s what makes the most sense. It’s possible that whoever that stone was cut for isn’t even buried there. That would explain there only being one date.”

She brought the box over to the sterile white table in the middle of the room. She lifted the box lid just as some commotion broke out by the elevators. 

“Oh dear,” She said, “I’m going to go check on Victor. He is very sensitive.” So saying, Mariam bustled out of the room, leaving me with the box.

Opening it, I saw that it was packed with folded pieces of paper. I plucked out the one on top and discovered it was a letter written in sprawling ink that had faded somewhat.

Dearest S

The South Pacific is all that they say it is. I wish you were here every hour of every day. Last night there was a terrible squall, and I thought that we might perish. I didn’t have time to do anything but help the crew keep the ship afloat, or else I would have written to you right then and there so that you would know my last thoughts were of you. Soon, my love, I will find a place where we can be together.

With all my love

V

I felt uneasy reading the words. The intimate thoughts of strangers seemed an inappropriate place for me to dwell, but for some reason, Mariam thought that there might be something in here. I wondered at the S in the letter. Perhaps it was the S from the gravestone. 

I plucked another one at random from the box.

Dearest s

I know that my father is a hard man. I am trying my best to find a way for us to be together despite him. Please have hope. It cannot be much longer.

Resolute in my love,

V

“Well, that’s a cliché if I ever read one,” I said to the empty room. At least I thought it was empty.

“What are you doing in here?” Victor demanded from the doorway.

“Researching,” I answered, holding up one of the letters.

“How did you get in here?” 

“Mariam, let me in. Is everything okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a commotion…”

“That was nothing. Don’t…I don’t think you … those letters were meant to be private.” He finally finished.

“Yes, but whoever wrote them would be long dead by now. I’m a journalist, I…Oh, forgive me, I didn’t even introduce myself. My name is…” I was cut off by another commotion at the elevators.

“Hold that thought,” Victor said, turning on one heel and hurrying toward the desk.

“Busy place today,” I said to myself before turning back to the box. 

I must have spent a couple of hours poring over the letters, but there was no indication of who these two people actually were. All of them were from V to S. I assumed I was reading a traditional star-crossed lovers sort of situation until I reached the bottom of the box. There were two letters that were in envelopes. One had obviously been mailed and was addressed to Mr. Giacomo. The other envelope only had the word Susanna written on it in block letters. As I lifted them, I discovered a letter-sized scroll bound with cord. It had a single dried marigold stuck into the string. 

The first envelope was from a lawyer's firm. Dated 1943, it informed Mr. Gregor Giacomo of the death of his daughter Victoria. It recounted that she had left a sizable estate to her stepmother, but that, of course, due to the legal standing, all profits transferred back to him.

A sudden chill ran down my spine. I shook it off. The lights flickered. I looked around, but everything seemed normal.  However, the interruption of my thoughts prompted me to check my phone. 

Lola had called four times. More importantly, if I didn’t get back to the grave in question, I wouldn’t get the shot today either. I stood up, intending to go find Victor or Mariam and have them put the box back, but my curiosity got the better of me. Grabbing my phone, I took a picture of the second envelope. Then I pulled the two-page letter from it and took quick snaps. 

I was tempted to sit and read it then, but knew I couldn’t.

The scroll, though, was a different matter. It was obvious that it hadn’t been unrolled since the flower had been dried and wrapped around it. I couldn’t quickly unroll it.

I turned toward the glass doorway and saw a flash of the Virgin swim in before my eyes. 

To this day, I don’t know if I really saw something or was just thinking so much about the grave that I imagined the statue. Either way, I instinctively grabbed the little scroll and stuffed it in my camera bag. Then I replaced all the other letters and left the restricted room to find either Victor or Mariam.

Neither was at the desk. I did a cursory search but couldn’t find anyone else around. I didn’t have time to do anything else but leave. 

I stopped by the main desk on my way out and told the woman there that the box was out and needed to be put back in.

She looked like she was going to argue, but I didn’t have time, so I gave her a brisk “Thank you,” And left quickly.

The entire 20-minute drive, I kicked myself for stealing that scroll. It wasn’t like me. I didn’t steal, and I certainly didn’t steal from a library.

As I got into town, I was initially confused. The entire downtown had been transformed into an overflowing display of Marigolds and Chrysanthemums. It wasn’t until I pulled even with the post office, where a community ofrenda had been set up, that I remembered that it was November 2nd—día de los Muertos. The second day honored the adult dead and the spirits that did not fit into more traditional categories. 

The chill I had felt in the library returned. I turned on the heater and headed to the Giacomo ranch.

When I reached the lonely grave, I was surprised to see that the offering had changed. A red rose and a handful of coral beads now flanked the virgin. The Pepsi was now a Coke in the bottle, and the cigarette was gone.

I reached for my camera, but my hand brushed the scroll. I knew that I wasn’t going to get any pictures done today.

I sat once again on the spiky ground and pulled out my phone to read the letter. As I did so, the chill returned, but tears quickly followed it.

I had been so wrong about the relationship that the letters detailed.

It was a confession from Gregor Giacomo. Signed and dated November 2nd 1941, wherein he confessed to the murder of his only daughter, Victoria. She had returned from her adventures flush with cash, but it was not the money he coveted. 

She was there to take his wife, her stepmother Susanna, away. He raged in the letter about Victoria’s refusal to act like the lady she was, instead always dressing in men’s clothing. He reveals that he had found out she had been pretending to be a man named Victor Villalobos as she had worked her way around the world, saving enough money so that she and Susanna could run away together. 

He was explicit in how he had strangled her and then taken her to the cliffs, affixed two leaded bracelets to her arms and two lead cuffs to her ankles to help her sink, and flung her off before going home and forcing his wife into her ‘marital duties’ 

I felt sick. I drew my legs up to my chest and hung my head between my knees, willing myself not to throw up. 

I wanted to leave, to go away from this tragic place, but in the back of my head was still that impertinent nosy girl who thought it was strange that the name on the tombstone started with an S.

“It’s Susanna,” I said, raising my head with sudden understanding. My hand fell onto the scroll.

With a whispered prayer of apology, I slipped the twine off. Before unrolling it, I placed the dried flower at the feet of the virgin, then read what turned out to be Susanna’s story.

“My dearest daughter, Emily,” It began. “I am writing this on the night of your wedding because you need to know the truth. As your name changes to Emily Ramirez, perhaps it will be easier to understand that my name once also changed. My name is not Mariam Villalobos. It is Susanna Giacomo, yes, those Giacomos. Victora and I fell in love when we were girls attending catechism together. I had no idea the long days at her home would attract the wrong kind of attention from her widowed father. I didn’t even know what that was. When her father, your father, forced the marriage, Victoria Giacomo took her mother’s maiden name and became Victor Villalobos. 

I promised that I would wait for him no matter what and that, as soon as he returned, I would leave with him, no matter the cost. You have always asked why you never knew your father. It is because I had already watched him kill one daughter. I would not let him have you. I hope that I have the courage to give this to you. It is not something one discusses — this sort of unnatural love — but I hope I have raised a daughter who understands.

With all my love,

Mom

I sat stunned. I don’t know how long it was after the sun set that I felt a soft hand on one shoulder. 

I looked up at Mariam, who smiled down at me. She sat beside me. “I’m not buried here.” She said. “No one is. It’s empty.”

“Who leaves the offerings?”

I felt a presence sit beside me and was not surprised by Victor’s voice saying, “Who do you think?”

“Emily? My mother? No, my mother would never leave offering at the grave of a d—” I started crying harder as the ghost of my uncle and grandmother rubbed my back.

“I know, Emily said a lot of ugly things to you.” Mariam said, “And I’m not at all convinced that Lola is good enough for you. But I needed you to know that there is nothing wrong with you.”

“Give her the scroll,” Victoria said.

“But…” I started.

“I know,” Victoria replied, “She said she never wanted to see you again. But she is walking up the hill as we speak. She always comes on Dia de los Muertos.”

The two started to fade into the thin fog.

“Wait,” I called out, desperate to know more about these two…

“Susan?” my mother’s voice said behind me.

“Hello, Mother,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Sit down, we need to talk.”

BIO: B.F. Vega is a horror writer, political poet, and overworked theater artist living in the North Bay Area of California. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines including: Dark Nature, Dark Cheer: Cryptids Emerging, Haunts & Hellions, Good Southern Witches, and Club Chicxclub among others. Most recently her short supernatural horror #RichTok appeared in Cat Eye Press’s Modern Mummies anthology. She is still shocked when people refer to her as an author---every time. Facebook: @BFVegaauthor Insta/Bluesky: @ByronWhoKnew web: www.bfvegaauthor.com