Gravedigger

Emotionless, beady eyes peering at me through the fog that lays low on the church property. The obnoxious cawing of the murder of crows swarms the cemetery, some resting on the half-standing fence around the headstones. I walk up to the church, dreading the inside, knowing it’s going to require a lot of work. I open the big wooden door, the white paint chipping off the oak.

To my surprise, the inside is far more intact than I thought it would be. It seems like my grandfather took good care of this place. Which would make sense, seeing as he was always spending his time here.

I run my hands down the row of benches leading up to the lectern, the dust quickly gathering on my fingertips. I look up, noticing the light fixtures fit for candles that vary in size, the wax frozen in time from when it was last lit.

I firmly grasp the broom I was dragging behind me, immediately sweeping the floor while light comes through the arched windows. I sweep the dust I’ve gathered from the broom into the cracks between the wall and floor. I glare out the window, looking at the headstones with my late family members’ names, the repeated last name Forrow engraved on every tombstone but one.

My grandfather was a very kind man. Two years ago, a woman had stayed after church and walked up to my grandfather, who was the owner and pastor of the church, and asked that when she passed, if she could be buried on the property. She had no family left, was a widow, and was very much alone, and of course he accepted. He was a very good soul.

Three months later, the old woman passed away from a sudden heart attack, and he kept his word and had her buried on the property. But for someone buried quite a bit ago, the grave looks so fresh, the dirt looking freshly dug. It looks fresher than my grandfather’s grave, who was buried only two weeks ago. A crow rests on the woman’s grave.

I continue sweeping and wiping down the windows. It’s getting darker. I reach into my pocket and grab a lighter, lighting most of the candles, the warm orange flames displaying on the aged walls. The light flickers, creating a cozy atmosphere. The silence is interrupted by the sound of clicking, like that of a clock, the noise coming from outside.

I turn to the door that leads to the graveyard, walking to it. The clicking gets louder. Then louder. Until the sound is bouncing around in my head like a pounding drum. I open the door and am immediately met by a cold shiver, the noise abruptly stopping. I peek around the graveyard, holding a candle, the hot wax dripping on my thumb. The shallow candlelight does nothing but get swallowed by the fog.

The door creaks behind me as I step further into the patchy yard. The closest grave to me is the widow’s. I almost lose my balance. Her grave has been dug up. Piles of dirt surround the poor woman’s headstone. Her casket is open and her bones are missing.

I place my hand over my mouth, maybe because I’m surprised, or maybe to keep myself from throwing up. I can smell the rotting of her clothes and flesh, but no remains are left. I immediately head back for the door, but just as I reach it,

"Click. Click. Click."

The sound comes from behind me. I turn around and am met by a creature, around five foot something, almost my height. It’s covered in a thin fur and has arms so long they almost reach the ground. It turns around and jumps almost twenty feet in the air, over all the graves, before being swallowed by the darkness.

I get back inside and immediately curl into a corner of the room. I sit there for what felt like minutes that turned to hours. I’m too afraid to make a run to my car. I sit in that corner until the sun has risen, until I build up enough courage to leave.

I walk up to the window, peering over the graveyard and the woods behind it. Most of the fog has cleared, and I notice huge holes in the ground, like from groundhogs, if groundhogs were ten times their regular size. My face is still pale, my hands trembling like it just happened. I look at the widow’s grave once more to assure myself it wasn’t a dream, and, low and behold, the six-foot-deep hole is still there.

I step outside, looking around, making sure the creature is gone. The crows caw as I exit. Am I going mad? Her grave looks normal. Already over it, I head to my car, shuffling my feet in the wet, dew-stained grass. The clouds cast a shadow over the church as it begins to rain, and quickly the dew-soaked grass turns to mud.

I hurry to my car and stop dead in my tracks. There are crows surrounding my car like some kind of cult. I yell at the crows, “Shew, shew!” I throw my arms at them. When most of the crows are gone, I notice there’s someone in my car.

My heart drops to the mud-filled path.

It’s the widow’s body.

Her body is in my car, rotting into the drivers seat.

I don’t know what to do. I just stand there in the rain. I make the decision to go back inside the church and think, think of something. I’m miles away from civilization and my phone is in the car.

I make it to the giant heavy wooden doors and hear it again.

"Click. Click. Click."

The sound gives me déjà vu. I peek around the corner of the weather-beaten church and slowly approach her headstone. The giant hole is filling with water. I lean my head further over the hole to peer down,

And I feel a heavy shove to my shoulders, like I was just hit by a truck. My jaw smashes against the edge of the hole on my way down. Before I can even move my arms to get up, I feel the dirt falling on me. It’s burying me.

I see the creature looking down into the giant hole, shoveling dirt over my body with its hands. I can’t do anything. The dirt covers me throw by throw. Soon it covers my head, and I feel my throat tighten, trying to breathe as my air pocket fills with mud and blood from my jaw.

My breaths get faster. And faster.

Until there’s silence.