The dead man continued to lie there, beaming at me all friendly-like. I merely stood there, mute, struck dumb with terror. At last my silence must have been too much for him, for he repeated his query. “Hello? Howdyhoo? A yoohoo yoohoo wubba-dab-a doo? Anyone up there? How can I help you - and while we’re at it, who are you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you out and about at night before, and I’ve been here a while yet.”
The mouldering man waited patiently for some moments, moments in which I continued to say nothing, before finally deciding that it was too uncomfortable to carry on a conversation where one of the parties stood above the grave, and the other lay within it. With a single movement - barely even seeming to rise to his feet - he vaulted the six feet out of the pit, landing on the upper earth with an inhuman spring.
Up close his visage was far more horrifying. His face was not, as I had first thought, rotting - it was instead made of a rubbery if rather ethereal material, halfway between a newt’s glabrous skin and ancient loam. The rest of his head was plain, almost smoothed out, save for those wicked, wicked fangs and eyes of burning fire.
His head tilted at an unnatural angle, a long snakelike tongue licking a lipless maw as he considered me, thinking… And then he caught sight of the trim upon my lantern and the truncheon in my hand and whatever suspicions he had cleared up, and he gave me a grin that showed off his entire mouth of sharpened teeth.
“Ah! You must be the new gravekeeper. Yes, the gravekeepers had mentioned to me that they were hiring one - and really I thought they had, for I have seen several men and women of your age floating about after dark… Only their faces were horror-struck when they gazed upon me, and I never have seen them since, so they must have been here for no more than a night jaunt.”
I had a very good idea as to why they had never been seen since, but the thing, whatever it was, seemed friendly enough, so I held my tongue. Instead I bowed low, and offered my regards.
“Indeed. This one is the new… gravekeeper,” I said, using his strange term, “but recently appointed, sent to keep the graves at night so that his elders may go home to their wives and rest.”
The being stepped back into a fantastically ornate bow - not a dip, as mine had been, but a full and proper bow, with the back foot extended and one hand clutched under the ribs. “Ah? An honour, lad, an honour… And may I just say it’s a pleasure to have you - we could do with some fresh blood around here.”
I froze once more at this pronouncement, and the thing laughed, giving me a pat on the shoulder. The move gave me no comfort, for by it I learnt that his hands, far from having overgrown fingernails, were tipped with claws. “A joke, a joke. We don’t feast upon first contact, you know: dinner should be saved till after coffee, once we’ve gotten to know each other.”
Then he stretched, his bones making a horrible cracking sound, before grabbing the lantern from off the bough and eyeing the silent landscape.
“So you are guarding the graves tonight? The nights are cold and lonely, the breeze beating out a morbid tune, and you would walk these hallowed hills all by yourself? Hmm - Tell me, would you like me to keep you company? Ask, and I shall step over the threshold.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
I considered this. By now it was clear that the creature - however horrible he might look - intended me no harm, but I was still filled with misgivings at the thought of prowling through a nighttime graveyard with a stranger - and so strange a stranger - and I couldn’t help but demur. “I thank you kindly for the offer, but are you not busy… over there?”
And I gestured vaguely towards the empty grave.
“I was engaged in the serious task of interior decorating,” the thing confided, following my line of sight. “Redoing the walls, making the floor a little bit more comfortable - you know how it is. But talking to you, I suspect, will be much more enjoyable; and besides, ‘tis not like it’s a time sensitive project.”
By now we had already begun to walk, going back down the hill and once more continuing the round of the grave guard. The darkness danced about our lanterns, occasionally skipping betwixt the two pools of light, and in the distance I heard the call of a Van Der Beak’s Owl.
The creature cracked its arms, again, pinwheeling them to get the blood flowing. His lantern spun wildly, the light momentarily blinding me. “So, tell me my lad, why is a youngun such as yourself working in a dull place like this? Not much goes on here after dark, save for the undead waltzing about.”
The undead waltzing about was plenty intriguing, but I held my tongue and, in a halting voice, poured out my woes to the mottled thing. The creature was a good listener, nodding along, clucking his tongue at the bad parts and making the appropriate noises of approval at the good parts. At last, having heard the story, he remarked,
“Now what to do, what to do? You have told me the story of your woes and - ah! I know. Naturally, you must hear my entire life story.”
“Your life story? Are you not dead?”
The thing tsked. “The man who merely eats and sleeps is surviving, not living; and consequently it follows that one may live without ever having survived.”
Unfortunately for him I had been a petty clerk at my past job, and I knew a sophism when I saw one. “It does not follow, as you presume the difference between survival and life is sufficient to posit a divide, whereas reason tells us that the latter comes only from the former… I beg your pardon,” I interrupted myself, as something occurred to me, “but did you say without ever?”
“But of course. I was born dead,” my interlocutor idly observed, as he ran his hand along a barren branch. It was difficult to tell if his tone was jocular or melancholy.
“And you were buried here, why?” I continued my train of thought, still keeping an eye out for intruders as we paced about the graveyard.
“Buried here? My dear sir, this is a resting place for the dead. Where else would we go on vacation?”
I looked about, at the desolate hills, covered with trees that were dying away for winter; at the mausoleum, rising bleak and forbidding in the distance; and at the graveyard’s lake, choked in weeds, where weird white worms were wriggling. An unusual vacation spot, but who was I to speak of the joys of the dead?
Meanwhile, the creature continued his train of thought. “Now then, you’ve indicated fairly clearly - if circuitously - that you have little to no desire to hear about the incidence of my birth. Alas! ‘Tis a fine tale. But fair enough, fair enough; never let it be said that I am not respectful to the needs of my audience. In that case, sir… Hmmm… Ah! You will hear a story of my school days.”
“I’d really rather not.”
“Ah c'mon. Dead men tell the best tales - after all, only we can appreciate how difficult it is to make your stories true to life.”