The last rose of autumn is the most beautiful. Night Watcher sits on a marble bench in front of his tomb. He looks pensively at the pale petals falling. The leaves of the thorny flower have already gone. They wither on the bare ground, but the rose itself is still there. It smells of tea, old paper, and decay.

It's cold. The nasty insects are finally gone. Nothing buzzing, chirping or beeping above your ear. The time of life, noise and bustle is coming to an end. Night Watcher gives himself a satisfied pat on his skinny knee. These days he's been thinking more and more about retiring. But the cemetery cannot be left without a successor.

The ghoul shifts the heavy gaze of his only eye to Gothic Hare.

Tonight is the big clean-up night. Hare diligently wipes the photos on the old tombstones with a wet black rag. His cape is open. His fur is ruffled.

The old ghoul shakes his head. No. This one is not done living yet ...

‘There's another stain on the left,’ comes Deadly Root's voice.

Root himself is nestled with comfort in a bed of dried asters in the very centre of the grave. Hare cleans the last of the dust, and the old photo looks old and yellowed again.

This one? Hmmm. Could be, could very well be... The ghoul nods to himself.

A rat's face peeks out from a crevice in the pile of firewood. ‘Here you are.’

The ghoul sighs. ‘Here I am.’

‘A biscuit and I'll tell you something,’ the rat snickers slyly.

‘I know without you,’ Night Watcher waves it away. ‘Go where you're going. I've got cleaning to do – as you can see.’

The rat promptly disappears into the bushes.

The old ghoul gets up from the bench with a grunt. He snaps his spread fingers with affection. The thorny thickets cling in fright at the grave stones and plates. Watcher has always liked this part of his job. Two remaining rotten teeth stick out as stakes in his smile.

The bushes crackle. Branches overgrown over the summer fall in a messy heap. Long, crooked nails cut the plants better than garden shears. The paths have to be cleared so that spiders have a convenient space to weave their sticky webs. The thickets have to be shaped in a more frightening way.... The cemetery must be ready for visitors.

Gothic Hare sweeps the dust off his whiskers. He gets dizzy by the endless row of tombstones.

‘A biscuit and I'll tell you something.’

A rat’s mug appears between him and the next photo.

‘Everyone already knows,’ Hare replies.

Nevertheless, he is glad to get a break. Besides, the tombstone can also be wiped with the folds of his cape. Clean is clean, right? Hare makes himself comfortable. An oatmeal biscuit appears in his paws.

‘Help yourself,’ he gives half to the rat.

They both crunch for a while.

‘The Rat King is dead and buried,’ the cemetery rat announces after all.

‘Long live the King!’ Gothic Hare pours the leftover crumbs onto the grave mound.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

‘And that's the bad thing,’ the rat busily finishes the rest of the biscuits.

‘Why?’

‘The King of the Field Rats wants to be the new Graveyard King. None of us can compete with him.’

Gothic Hare takes a critical look at the grey rat. That's true. Field rats are twice as big. And twice as hungry.

‘Rumour has it that the cemetery is getting visitors back. Which means biscuits, candies, cupcakes and the like. Soon we'll be well fed again,’ the rat grins. He darkens immediately, though. ‘Except the new king will evict us and take over the graveyard himself.’

You can't argue with that. There are plenty of field rats. And there's only little room in the cemetery.

‘They'll make a sieve out of the gravesites, scare the visitors,‘’ lists Hare, bending his fingers. ‘They'll eat the wreaths and candles.’

‘They're from the fields. They're even used to eat vegetables there. Yuck!’ arrogantly adds the rat to the growing list of future troubles. ‘Root vegetables too,’ he cunningly ducks down on his front paws.

‘Root vegetables, you says...’

Hare resolutely puts aside the wet rag. A dusty portrait looks at him with reproachful eyes from another gravestone. But the king's business is more important.

‘Lead the way,’ Gothic Hare wraps up his cape and cocks his chin up higher.

The rat rustles servilely in the grass in front of him. Night and silence thicken behind them.

The field rats are already very close by. Just beyond a rusty fence with thorny bushes. Their pelts are not grey, but brown. Their muzzles are long. Small eyes blend into the darkness and it looks like there's no eyes. There's so many of them, it's like the field outside the fence isn't there either. If they take over the cemetery, there will probably be nothing left of it too.

The King of Field Rats looks over his future holdings with foretaste. Graves slumbering peacefully under the waning moon. Single burning candles. Piles of leaves and smoke from the Watcher's tomb. The faint smell of oatmeal biscuits. It's worth the struggle. It's worth the victory. The King's tail twitches with excitement.

A tall, dark figure emerges from a hole in the fence. Two long black ears look like two swords. They slash their way through the liquid darkness and stop in front of him. Gothic Hare looks over the imposter with scepticism.

‘Brute strength and a large appetite are not enough to be the Graveyard King,’ he remarks.

A derisive murmur rises in the brown ranks. The Field Rat exposes his sharp teeth in a grin.

‘Is there anything else then?’

Hare nods mournfully. One of his ears is tilted forward. The faint glare of the dying moon dances across it.

‘Knowledge,’ he says with feeling, answering the moon with a look full of mutual affection. ‘And a high soul...’

The brown rats laugh. The field seems to be covered in quivering brown patches.

‘Let's see how that works out for you!’

Imposter rises up on his hind legs. His claws are sharp. His teeth are long. His tail is like a living rope. There is a warning cry from the barn owl. The Field Rat throws himself into the attack. He can't wait to put his paw on the cemetery ground.

Only there's no one in Hare's place... Just the shadows of bare branches and night birds. Gothic Hare's leap is swift. He soars with ease towards the moon. His paws are strong. His gaze is serene. He flies over Imposter like a bad, very bad omen. The billows of his black cape flutter open, obscuring the luminary.

For a moment, pitch blackness reigns over the scene of the duel. In that darkness, there sounds a hit of something heavy. Something like... like... like...

The moon blinks sleepily in the sky again. It illuminates the Book. Gothic Hare flips through the ink-black pages.

‘Ah, here it is,’ he raises a paw upwards, conducting the rhyme.

The earth is deaf,

The grass stops rustling,

The Graveyard King is on his way.

He has a crown of moonlight,

His steps are weightless,

Undead, undead…

‘Do you understand now?’

On the cold ground in front of him lies a brown figure. Its long tail is bent in a question mark.

‘However, poetry is not for everyone,’ Hare humbly replies to himself.

‘The King is dead! Long live the King!’

From behind the fence comes the high-pitched squeak of cemetery rats....

***

Through the veil of darkness Night Watcher sees the brown shapes disappear one by one into the fields. The empty farmland is visible again. Imposter is the last to crawl away. His gaze promises a terrible and long revenge. Gothic Hare's heart thumps loudly in anticipation.....

Well, maybe, nods Watcher to himself again, it could very well be...

The last rose petal falls silently at his feet. With a single sweep of his outgrown fingernail, the ghoul cuts the stem off.

‘That's all,’ he mutters. ‘That's all.’

The rose is frosting at once. A cold shroud spreads rapidly in all directions. It freezes the bushes, puts the trees to sleep, covers the graves with a shell of ice. Winter creeps through the cemetery...passes the fence... brings deep black dreams, alike to death...

‘That's all,’ repeats the ghoul for the third time.....