The Journal of the Walk, Thursday, October 31st
Suspicious shadow-figures only lit by hazy lantern glow standing at the edge of a graveyard are, as the classic proverb goes, bad news.
At least I think that's what the proverb was. I admit, it's been quite some time since I spoke to that necropriest. Like it or not, this is where the Path led — straight through a sprawling graveyard. I noticed the figure about one or two kè ago because I had looked back right after passing through the entrance (another thing the unholyman had recommended against within graveyards). It had been keeping pace with myself the whole time, which I couldn't help but appreciate. After traveling for so long I happen to think I've pioneered the perfect pace. Still though, I couldn't shake the nerves that plagued me.
I attempted to drown them out by examining my surroundings. The headstones here were quite large, about double my height, and seemed to be made of a dark grey granite. The sound of slapping shoes echoed, overwriting my own steps. All manner of carvings, ornaments, and statues adorned the graves; there were plenty of the expected angels, crosses, and personal symbols, but most of the stones also had wide bowls carved into the top. A metallic tapping joined the footfalls; I glanced back and saw the figure now seemed to be holding a shovel and was letting it jounce upon the gravel.
Cresting a hill, I saw that the graveyard was even larger than I had initially thought. If I just kept focusing on my surroundings, my heart beating a little too fast, or anything else really, I'd eventually find the end and I wouldn't have to learn the identity of the thing still walking behind me. I tried to quell the immediate counter-thought pondering what would happen if it didn't stop following me. I shook my head. Get back to looking around, I told myself. I couldn't see into the bowls, but I did notice that the headstones were in poor shape. Bits and pieces were missing, weeds grew in abundance, and offered bouquets (which I assume were left by travelers or perhaps fell out of the bowls) had donned the pungent smell of decay. I glanced back again. Had it gotten closer? …No, just a trick of the night.
A chill gust of wind blasted past me, which caused me to pull my jacket in closer. Throughout the cemetery I realized I was hearing a slight jingle. Looking about to discover the source, my eyes fell upon one detail I hadn't noticed before. Small bronze bells hung from a small pole beside or in front or within each headstone, all softly chiming until the wind passed.
Up ahead, I spotted an odd gap in the crowded stone assembly. As I got closer I realized it was a much smaller gravestone, just a simple curve at the top. At first I kept my pace, but then I stopped. I took a look behind me. There was a pretty good distance between us. I'm not sure if it was my curiosity speaking, but I began to rethink my situation. I didn't know what was wrong with me — in any other situation I'd usually wait for my fellow traveler to catch up so we could chat. Things just felt different. Maybe a quick look couldn't hurt, just to sate the curiosity. I could make it work. I quickly went back to the grave. The inscription here was completely unreadable by way of lichen and age. Where the bowl would be there was instead crumbled stone with…
My heart skipped a beat. I didn't expect to find another moving creature here, much less to meet the gaze of a nightingale. She stared at me like a prophet does the future. The compulsion continued, I crouched down and attempted to pull the clumps of dirt and grime off the stone's face, at least to read the engraved name. A quick glance behind me, and I didn't see the figure. Must be below that hill — I still had time. I dug into it all, my fingernails devouring the caked-on scrum, searching for an identity under the age, nightingale watching on.
To my surprise, she began to sing. Whoops and ticks and high-pitched sighs; cheeps, chirps, and trills all a duet with a quiet of night air. I do not subscribe to the idea of good or bad omens, but it was an omen to be sure.
The footsteps stop. The passerine prophet flits away.
A canned voice lurches out from behind me. "This one then?"
I turn to meet the blank stare of a living skeleton, with a large, jagged cranial cavity. That hole held a wrought iron lantern which shone through its eyes and mouth imitating the light of life. It wore a massive trench coat — the shoulders themselves seemed impossible for its frame. Three dead doves hung from his belt and his muddy boot soles were unglued and flapping around as he stepped. The look was completed by a rusty shovel propped on its shoulder. After some thought, the skull didn't appear to be human, but only slightly so.
"Pardon?" I couldn't help but stare at the doves. This individual was clearly no friend to be made.
It threw up its hands in a mock surrender. "Where are my manners? I'm the caretaker of these here grounds. How do you do?" Its jaw clicked and clacked up and down with no regard for matching the cadence of its speech, the voice just droned on from somewhere within the skull.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Being a caretaker for such a large cemetery must be," I glanced down at my dirty hands, "a challenge."
Something flickered in the lantern's flame and with nary a word the ghoul swung the shovel high into the air. I am reluctant to admit it, but I flinched something terribly. The shovel rocketed back to earth, expertly shearing the remaining muck off the face of the grave to reveal a name: Eloise. No last name.
The caretaker crouched down to examine the name, tracing it with its fingers. "Oh it's not too bad. I supplement it with a pretty good side gig."
I looked at the skeleton quizzically.
"Grave robbing. Thanks for picking the next target for me, by the way."
My eyes widened and words rushed out of my mouth in a panic. "I did no such thing!"
The grave robber cocked its head to the side, and pointed at my journal — this journal — hanging by my hip. "You like stories, right? That's why you stopped. You sensed a story. I'm the same way, no need to be ashamed of it." Something about the way it said that last bit made me think it was trying to deceive me. I decided to push further.
"Did you know this person?"
"Not at all. I don't think anyone knows her, barely anything about her in the records I've got." I grimaced, which I think it noticed. It continued with a slightly amused, defensive tone. "Heyy, I'm doing her a favor! What's the worth of staying down there? I can absorb what I can and tell her story, give her a new life. I'll just be taking a modest monetary and reputational boost; it's a necessary evil."
It shoved the tip of the shovel into the cold ground with a strong push from its foot. "Headstones just don't have enough info, y'know?" It flung the dirt to the side. "Gotta browse the archives." The shovel shunked into the ground again. I couldn't help but to watch. I can't help but to write.
Like a canary in a coal mine, the small bell beside the diminutive grave began to shake violently, clapper jangling and clanking, bell metal clanging against the post as if it was trying to rip itself off its moorings. The grave robber stopped digging, head jerking up. It was then that I noticed the string attached to the spasming bell. It fed itself along the pole, and to my horror I realized it entered a small hole in the ground. Whoever was desperately pulling that cord was directly below us.
"Ah shit, we got a live one." The grave robber dragged itself out of the progress made and scooped some of the discarded dirt back up.
"Wait. You aren't abandoning her, are you? She's alive down there!"
It shrugs. "Don't care much for the living. No offense." It cocks its head to the side. "Besides, why do you care? I don't know her and you don't know her either. She's barely even real, more of a symbol than anything." I was breathing quite heavily, puffs of mist rhythmically forming from my hot breath in the cold air.
The skeleton stared at me, still holding the shovel full of grave-dirt. I noticed its eye sockets weren't empty after all; they had a thin film over them. It shifted ever so slightly, bubbling and shaking like a fried egg ready to be flipped. It seemed to think for a moment before dumping the dirt again and holding the shovel out to myself. "Go play hero then. No skin off my back." It chuckled.
For a moment I felt rooted to the spot, but the constant ringing broke me from my anxiety. I snatched the shovel and jumped in, shovel in, dirt out, shovel in, dirt out, shovel in, dirt out. Over and over again I dug and I dug and I dug. A bright shadow loomed over me. The grave robber was leaning over me now, its body blocking the natural light of the moon and replacing it with the fell lantern's. Sweat dripped into my eyes. My hand slipped and the shovel made sure to give it a parting gift of splinters.
The volume rose. Like wind over a wheat field creating waves, more and more bells were ringing, a cacophony of the forgotten with only a thief to watch over them. It all shifted to no longer be an individual sound, just a high-pitched thrum. If I strained my ears I swore I could hear voices — screaming voices. Then…
Thunk. I hit the coffin. The ringing instantly stopped.
I sucked air through my teeth, I was almost there, just a little bit more. Back to my hands now I swiped away the remaining grave-dirt and pried open the lid. I'm only met with more bones. Within the coffin was an unremarkable skeleton, completely decayed, wearing a dress that I'm sure was lovely at the time of burial. A few trinkets, some jewelry I'd never know the significance of, and that was it. Eloise had been dead for a very long time.
"I don't understand."
The peanut gallery above me made some sort of creaking, groaning noise, "Well, well. Looks like she was dead after all." It hopped down beside me, feet planted on either side of the corpse's waist. It began picking through the coffin, placing the baubles in its coat pockets.
It started to unbutton the trench coat. From where I was standing, I couldn't fully see inside the coat, but what I did see was metamorphosical. What I could only imagine was the original body of the skeleton was blackened, broken, and withering away. The grave robber was only still standing because of the mass of bones greedily grafted onto its form. I counted at least four skulls, but there easily could've been more.
The skeleton reached down, gingerly placing its hands around Eloise's skull. With a sickening crack, it tore the skull clean off, a few vertebrae hanging on for dear unlife. Then it paused, and swiveled its head towards me. "I think it's best if you were to leave now."
I could've stayed. I could've tried to stop whatever it was going to do. But that's not the type of person I am.
I climbed out of the hole, and rejoined the Path. Behind me something made a sickening crack. Adrenaline abandoning me, my muscles beginning to ache, it called out to me once more.
"Actually, grave robber ain't quite right." He grunted, as if in pain. "I moonlight more as a, uh, how d'you say it? Oh yeah."
In a proud voice, it said the word as if it was the vilest title it knew.
"A Historian."