The Graveyard Shift

Short story by Rytis Liaučys

The alarm rang like the deafening church bells of Port Ville, always eliciting that jump from him as he heard it. As he overcame the confusion of the sudden jolt of wakefulness, he grew grim as realization of what day it is and what duty he must do downed on him. Cursing under his breath he shut off the alarm and got up. Katherine was sleeping. Children sleep different. The worries of the curse that is adulthood does not get to them.

Ten to six A.M. was what the clock was showing as Harold got to the kitchen downstairs. Stretching his neck sideways, he turned on the kettle and began putting coffee into the French press. He then stopped for a moment as he looked outside into the pouring rain, droplets gently tapping into the window as if letting him know that they will never let him forget her. It is not in his fate to move on. Not that he could put up with moving on anyways. Grief of your loved one, he thought, is eternal, and you cannot escape the survivors’ guilt.

Everything in the kitchen, everything about a morning like this: the sound of a subtly romantic rain outside, the water pouring over the ground coffee in the bench press – everything reminded him of her. Things were different back then. He lived. He smiled. He was happy and content. Oh how he would do a lot of things different had he known what was to come. Now he just exists. Exists for his daughter and for the little, banal things he can still enjoy. He looked over at the bottle of cheap liquor on happy display atop the fridge as he thought of the latter.

‘God fucking damn it’ he cried as he overpoured the coffee, hot water dripping down the counter and onto his lap. Grabbing the towel that has not seen proper laundry for months he wiped off his lap, and then, off-handedly the counter, and started making his morning sandwich.

“You’ve no idea how grateful I am, Liz’. The night-shift guard has fallen sick or something, and, of course, as is always the case, I am the only guy they can think of to replace him.” Harold babbled under his breath running around the house and getting his things as Liza was removing her rain-soaked jacket. It was almost eight o’clock in the evening now, and he was quite running late in his schedule. The graveyard was a good hour drive away, and the day shift officer will not be very content if he was late.

Harold worked for one of those cheap dime security firms that guarded whatever they got paid to watch. Pretty much the kind of work you could sleep through and no-one would care, because nothing ever happens with the boring clients that hire them. Similarly, a lot of the people that he ended up working with were pathetic has-beens and in general sore losers, so it was no surprise that, again, some security officer that serves the night shift in the cemetery got so morbidly drunk that he had to call in sick the morning after. Being the only half-decent human being in that firm, he, of course, gets called out to cover for him.

Harold put on his shoes and absent mindedly grabbed the car keys from the corridor. He then opened the drawer about to reach inside, but then stopped, hesitating. Seriously, who was he going to need that for? Grave robbers? He laughed in his head as he let go of the revolver and closed the drawer, locking it. He was not expecting to do anything other than sleep through the shift anyways. He opened the door, then hesitated, stepping back in and grabbing the whiskey bottle of the fridge, placing it carefully into the bag.

The street lamp lights illuminated the rain droplets rushing down the windshield, some managing to reach the bottom, going down the vehicle and dropping into a pile of puddles, where their journey would seemingly end, while the others met the unfortunate fate of being smeared all over the window by a wiper. Harold paid no attention though. His eyes were on the road, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Somewhere far, back in the perfect world of marriage. He thought how content he was with kissing his wife every time he went for work, how he loved waking up to aroma of freshly ground coffee. It was much more pleasant to share the contents of the French press rather than having to consume the content alone.

What the hell was cancer anyways? Weren’t you supposed to live a long and happy life if you lived healthily? She had never touched a cigarette in her life, loathing the mere smell of some selfish self-centered asswipe smoking as he passed by. Lung cancer. Can you believe it? Her? Out of all the people? Why? She had not upset anyone in her life. Such a sincere, humble woman you’d have trouble to find a match. And yet..

Harold gulped down the cork building up his throat. Opening the glove compartment, he stumbled around with his hand as he found the cigarette pack. He loathed the smell, and loathed the taste. Yet, it made him feel alive. It made him feel something.

The cemetery was in sight now. Harold glanced at the dashboard clock. He was right on time.

The vehicle came to a subtle halt and Harold depressed the brakes, shutting of the ignition and kicking the car into gear. Dropping the cigarette butt, he walked towards the entry.

The cemetery was located good twenty kilometres away from Port Ville, just outside Town Extershore, beside the main road. Surrounded by grey, worn out and washed out concrete walls with various mythological creatures ready to tear anyone disrupting the sleep of its inhabitants into shreds. A particular figure of half-man half-dog shaped creature with demonic, sharp wings, sitting on four legs and looking at him with rusty fangs sticking out, caught his attention. He looked at it for a moment, not quite sure what was running through his head himself, as he walked inside the guard cabin. The faint street lamp light creeped inside, disfigured by the moving tree branches of the subtle wind outside.

“There ya’ be,” the guard jumped up, obviously excited at the sight of Harold. His shift was now over and he was going to go home where he’ll be greeted by his children and later go sleep with his wife. This guy didn’t seem to be broken, you could see it in his face. He lacked the purplish red on his nose that people in a relationship with alcohol often have, his face was generally bright and his fingernails were not brown from the constant tipping of a cigarette. His face and neck were shaven clean and his uniform seemed to have been ironed recently. This man had not much to worry about. He was content. “There I be,” Harold mumbled to himself, almost mockingly, hatefully, as he set his bag on the chair nearby.

“Right. This joint’s a walk in the park, I tell ye. All ye got is four CCTV’s ‘ere. Nothin’ ever happens ‘ere so I say you should’ve really brought a pillow,” said the guard as he swung the backpack onto his shoulder. “Someone will be in to replace ye’ at eight in the mornin’”.

Silence, at last, Harold thought, as his predecessors car’s engine became a very faint sound in the distance. The guard room left a lot to be desired: it was a small room, with a TV stand and a TV on it, a small living room table with an old wooden chair beside it, as well as a computer running the CCTV’s, split into four distinct windows, each showing nothing but eerie quiet among the tombstones, the only motion being the tree branches caressed by the wind. An old but comfy looking armchair was placed beside the wall, looking directly at the TV. Harold happily obliged to take refuge there.

Hours passed by slow just as was the action in the worn out banal drama being shown on screen that Harold has previously seen ten times before. Late night television did not seem to be keen on keeping their audience awake. His tired eyes looked around the room slowly, feeling as if every movement of his eyeball taxed his energy more and more. He shifted his gaze to the CCTV, knowing that he’ll see nothing but the same boring sight of bunch of tombstones.

But no. Harold stiffened at a moments notice once his eyes landed on camera three. He realised that there was something else in the picture now. It was moving. His heart subtly increasing pace, Harold moved closer to the monitor, trying to get a good luck at it. A shade dropping from the trees seemed to be covering whoever was in there. His heart still pounding in his head, Harold grabbed the flashlight off the counter, turning it on to see whether it worked, and stormed outside.

It was still raining. The wind seemed to have stepped up in intensity, making it hard for him to see as raindrops were being blown in his face. Covering his eyes from the wet attack with one hand and gripping the flash-light tighter in another, he moved around the guard cabin to the northern part of the cemetery which was covered by camera three.

As he moved closer to his goal through a trail surrounded by grass and tombstones, the comfortable numbness and ignorance he felt in his natural state ever since the passing of his dear wife faded away with each consequent step. The heart once again picked up its pace. Harold knew he was being irrational. ‘Stupid,’ said he to himself. But one is not in control with his body. Heart is often in disagreement with the rational mind.

He could see the sector now. His knuckles have turned pink from gripping his flashlight this hard. ‘This flash-light’s quite heavy,’ he thought, knowing he could inflict some damage had he needed to take a swing. As whoever was in the shade was about to be revealed to Harold, he took a deep breath and turned on the flash-light, flashing right into the shade.

Making a loud noise, something similar to a meow, a black cat looked up at him completely taken aback. It had something in its’ jaws. Frightened by the sudden interruption of its meal, it hissed at him, dropping whatever it was and ran off into the darkness that loomed ahead.

Harold loudly sighed in relief and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Pull yourself together, the matter is with you, you moron’. He walked over to the tombstone the cat was dining next to, which revealed a half-eaten mouse lying on its back with all fours up in the air. Harold giggled under his breath because of the absurdity of the situation. ‘A freaking cat. I got scared of a freaking cat’ he thought.

The moon and the dim lights of the cemetery were illuminating the tombstone. Jon Heisseweyer McReary. Dead in 1921. The tombstone looked in a rather good condition considering the death date. Perhaps it’s been replaced?

Harold shut off the flash-light and made way back to the cabin. He has now noticed he has gotten quite wet.

Though his heart was to pick up pace again, as he opened the door into the cabin. A man was standing inside beside the window, watching. His back was turned to Harold, and he could see that he wore a black suit. His shoes were perfectly shined and his hair seemed to be neatly combed backwards.

Harold took a moment to collect himself, before stepping in.

“What the hell? Who the hell are you?” he sounded stern, his raspy voice echoing the room. He was getting quite angry, in fact. Who does this bloke think he is, coming in into another man’s territory like that and just wondering around? Whatever his intentions were, that was not acceptable. He gripped his flash-light tighter.

“Oh. You are not Powel,” the man said once he turned around. His voice was calm and collected, yet a hint of surprise could be heard. He was obviously not too frightened by being caught off guard like that. His face was young - the kid must’ve been in his twenties, and smooth. One might say, he was rather attractive. Harold was not having any of it, though.

“I - , wha -, listen ‘ere, mister.” Harold stepped forward. His body language said a lot: he tensed up, leaning forward slightly as he moved his right hand slightly backwards, ready to use the flash-light against its’ intended purpose. The man did seem to notice Harold’s increasingly agitated behaviour.

“Calm down, sir. Please. I most certainly did not expect to see you here, you see. Powel, Powel Abrams. He would usually be the one here at this hour. I.. live nearby so I would always stop by for a talk.”

Harold seemed to ease, realising that this man was hardly any threat. Suddenly becoming conscious of how inappropriately he must’ve behaved in front of this bloke who seemed rather nice, he stood straight, fixed the collar of his uniform and put the flash-light on the table.

“Sorry. I.. I was not expecting visitors,” he said, carelessly propping into the armchair and turning the TV back on. “Your friend is not here tonight. He’s sick. I am filling in.”

Harold made it no mistake that he was not about to get talkative with the man and preferred had he left as quick as possible. The man seemed to catch on rather quick, as he only mustered a quick “Oh” as he nodded at Harold and moved to the door in quiet and quick steps. Opening the door, he quickly looked at Harold, said ‘Sorry for the intrusion’ or something along those lines before turning around and leaving, closing the door behind him.

Harold propped up from the armchair, moving to the window to look at the stranger one more time. But he was nowhere in sight by now. Tiredly, he went over to the armchair but stopped abruptly, looked over to his backpack, and then hesitating a while, went over to it. Taking out the bottle of whisky he took with him from home, he poured half the glass he found laying around under the small table. It was quite an unusual night, he thought. He grabbed the cigarette pack off the table before going outside and lighting it up.

The day after, and then yet another day after, Powel Abrams was not to be seen at work. That naturally meant that Harold had to fill in for him. He now had three consequent night shifts at the graveyard. He could not complain, however: he just slept through all of them, returning home well rested, if not a little hungover, though.

It was the fourth night. As usual, Harold would arrive at around eight, relieve the day shift officer, settle himself in the armchair and open up a bottle of whiskey. He realized the place had no smoke detectors, so he opened the window and lit up a cigarette.

The supervisor has promised that this would be his last shift filling in for Powel. He’ll have someone else come by and relieve Harold once this shift was over. Not that Harold could complain much - alone time with a bottle of whiskey and a boring TV programme: what else could a widowed man want?

It was around three o’clock at night, and Harold has nodded off. He was woken up by a subtle knock at the door. Standing up in slumber, Harold walked over to the door and opened it, not thinking much of it.

“Oh.. I take it Mr. Abrams is not here yet?” said the man, who was now visible to Harold. It was the same bloke with his well shined shoes and hair combed backwards in a fancy suit that nearly gave him a heart attack three days ago. Harold yawned inappropriately, as he opened the door wide.

“He’s not, but, hey, come in,” the slight tipsiness had not faded away in him yet, and he was feeling particularly talkative. After all, just how long can a man last for four nights alone in a middle of a cemetery?

The young man looked at Harold warily for a moment, then looked inside. Finally, he decided to step in, unbuttoning his jacket and neatly hanging it. He wore a white, tight shirt that has fit him well. In fact, you could see that this was a well-built bloke. A little, pale, though, as Harold has noticed.

“I am sorry for the intrusion once again. See, Mr. Abrams and I are good fellows. As he would not sleep at night, he would often see me in so we would talk,” said the man. His voice sounded in his twenties and was particularly calm and soft. It was the voice of a man who did not have a worry in the world. It contrasted greatly with Harold’s own raspy, husky voice.

“And what exactly it is the two of ye’s would talk here in the middle of the night?” Harold asked with a cigarette between his teeth, as he settled down in the armchair, motioning for the young man to sit in the chair opposite the table.

“Well.. I mean.. Many things, certainly.”

For some reason Harold became particularly focused with his cigarette. Against all odds and his character, he really wanted to talk now. He really wanted to get all of the trouble and burden on his shoulders off his chest. He had just realised how much he missed those days when he could tell his late wife what was troubling him, and she would listen attentively, calmly, then re-assure him that everything was going to be okay. There was no-one to re-assure him now. He had to walk forward blindly, not knowing what awaits ahead. And worst of all not knowing what future for his little daughter can he provide.

It was not long before that was what they ended up doing. The whiskey made it easier for Harold to unswirl his tongue as he poured his heart out to the stranger. He told him about how much he loved his wife, not forgetting to repeat that with each consecutive glass of whiskey that he downed, which, by the way, his guest politely refused. ‘I don’t drink much’ he said with a smug smile. What a prick in Harold’s eyes.

He continued about how he hated being alone, how much he loved his daughter and how it made him feel worthless for he can’t provide enough for her with his security guard salary. He, nearly weeping, reminisced about how his wife got sick and died. He kept going about the devastation that it inflicted upon him. He cried that he hardly had any friends, and he just kept existing for the mere reason of providing for his daughter.

The man listened intently, nodding once in a while. The topic has later shifted upon the man, who told Harold that his name was John and he was a son to a wealthy family in Town Extershore. Life was good while it lasted: the parents were able to provide well for him and his older sister. A tragedy stuck their household, however, as a fire broke out in the house. They all woke up to a smell of smoke a little too late for them to be able to do anything about it. He said he could still feel the heat merely by talking about it. They died: his sister and his family all died in agony.

It was almost five o’clock in the morning, and the guest noticed that Harold was having a hard time keeping up. After all, the alcohol was starting to take its’ toll on him and he did not seem to be able to keep his eyes open for much longer.

“I think I should go now. Thank you for having me over. It was interesting talking to you,” said the young bloke as he stood up and put his jacket on. Harold opened his eyes.

“Wait, John. I think.. We should meet again some time soon, no? After all, we could all use a friend.”

The man stopped and stood silent for a moment, before turning around and smiling at Harold.

“Yes, of course. Why not. I live near-by. Oakwood street, house number 9,” he said, as he turned around and left into the darkness. Not long later, Harold fell asleep. He hasn’t slept that well in a while. It felt good speaking to someone after all those years.

Harold has not felt that well in a while. Certainly, his troubles and worries did not go away, but releasing all those pent up emotions over the years certainly did make his week. The supervisor kept his word – he was relieved from duty for a few days and someone else was sent to fill in for Powel.

It was Sunday when Harold decided to visit his newly found friend. After all, he could really use one after all that time. He was in Town Extershore by 12 o’clock and arrived to 9 Oakwood Street. It was a fancy, big house with a mini-van parked on the pavement. Harold knocked on the door, and not long later it opened.

“Sorry, can I help you?” a man in his forties asked.

“I am looking for someone. Does John live here?” Harold asked, rather confused.

The man got visibly dazzled for a second before composing himself and answering: “There is no-one named John that lives here. I am sorry mister, but I think you got the wrong address”.

Harold turned around slowly and walked to his car. He was pretty certain it was 9 Oakwood Street that John mentioned. Suddenly, at the thought of the latter, he realised something. Something that was against all of his rational mind.

He stormed into the car and very audibly took off, torturing the engine. The road was a blur in his vision as he speeded to the cemetery, parking the car outside and storming past the guard house. Powel seemed to have returned from sick leave and smoking outside, and he yelled after Harold but he waved him off, running deeper into the graveyard. He was almost certain that his memory did not fail him. He finally found the trail that led to the spot where that stupid cat scared him that day. He slowly walked over to the tombstone, feeling more and more faint with each consecutive step. And it most certainly was what he suspected. John Heissenweyer McReary, 1900 – 1921, Elizabeth Heissenweyer McReary, 1890 – 1921, Paul Heissen…

Harold was visibly sick. His eyes became a blur and his head was faint. He could not rationally explain any of this. He was almost sure that it could have been a coincidence, but his heart protested. A faint click of a lighter being lit up reached his ears, followed by a cigarette smoke.

“So, I see you met him too,” muttered Powel with a half hearted smile on his face. Harold looked at him, feeling as if he was about to collapse. “Enough liquor helps you forget. Come on, let’s go. What do you think was doing all that time I was ‘sick’?” he laughed. It was one of the most eerie laughs Harold has heard in his entire life. The smell of smoke made him uneasy.

Died in a house fire.