The Gravedigger

By Cathryn Free

Wisely they leave graves open for the dead
‘cos some too early are brought to bed.

 I flung the last shovel of dirt over my shoulder and climbed out of the hole. Tossing the shovel to the ground, I wiped my hands on a handkerchief from my back pocket.

“How many more this week?” I asked.

Walter scratched his weathered face. “Two more tomorrow.” He counted off on his fingers. “One on Thursday. Not a bad week.”

“Not at all.” Lifting the shovel to my shoulder, I stepped away. The family would arrive soon, then we’d have the back-breaking job of filling the hole.

“Wonder how long the preacher’ll be,” Walter muttered, rolling his shovel between his gnarled hands, chunks of dirt spinning loose. “Seems funerals get longer and longer.”

“People need to pay their respects,” I said mildly. I used to think of graveyards as evil. The moss-covered gravestones hung with small bells made my skin crawl. My greatest fear was to hear one ring, announcing someone still lived below. Now, the graveyard was a place where sweat and muscle led to a finished job and an honest paycheck.

Walter coughed into a rag, wiped his mouth, then folded the cloth into his pocket.

“Could be worse,” I nodded toward the gilded leaves dancing in the autumn breeze. “It could be winter.”

Walter barked a laugh that morphed into another cough. Gesturing toward the mourners he said, “That’s quite a turnout.”

My gaze lingered on the crowd. I could always tell what type of person the deceased was based on the funeral’s attendance. This particular funeral was well-attended, meaning the deceased was either beloved or incredibly rich. Judging by the clothing of the mourners, I decided rich.

The preacher said, “Amen,” and they sang a slow, mournful hymn.

“I hate these funeral songs,” said Walter. “If I never hear another one again, I’ll die a happy man.” He tugged his cap and motioned with his shovel. “It’s time.”

Once the crowd left, we both grabbed our shovels and got to work.

The busy week went by in a dizzying blur. Wet, autumn air led to more infections like pneumonia and cholera. I held my breath just to avoid any illness that lingered on the corpses.

“That’s it for this week.” Water said, stomping down the dirt of a new grave. This one was in the back with the criminals and suicides. Soft rain fell, turning the ground into mire.

“There’ll be more,” I said.

“There’s always more. We just have to wait.” Walter grunted a laugh without humor. “Waiting for people to die. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it?”

I shifted. “I never thought of it that way. To me, it’s a job that needs to be done. Somebody’s got to; might as well be me.”

“And we make money off of it.” Walter had a way of taking the bad and making it worse.

“I guess.”

“C’mon. We’re done.” He motioned with his arm as he coughed into his handkerchief.

“You should go to a doctor,” I said. “You’ve had that cough for a while.”

He waved my concern away. “It’s this damp weather, is all. I just need to get out of this blasted rain.”

Saturday night, I had just fallen asleep when a knock at the door startled me awake. I groaned and rolled out of bed, wearing nothing but underclothes.

“Wake up, Cutter!” called a gravelly voice.

“What?” I croaked, opening the door.

The hallway was dark, lit by a small candle held in a gnarly hand. “We got a job,” Walter said. “Get dressed. Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

I stared. “It’s ten o’clock at night. Who needs burying now?”

“Old stodger. Died in his sleep. No money for a proper casket or anything. Just a small headstone.” Walter looked like he finally got over his illness; his skin held a glow, and his eyes were alert.

“Fine. Give me a minute.” I threw on some clothes, grabbed my hat and coat, and headed downstairs.

“This is bleeding ridiculous, Walter.” The night was clear and the city streets were empty, lined with dark buildings. “You pull me out of bed for a night funeral? You sure this isn’t some sort of crime?”

“I’m sure. West side,” Walter said. The west side was where the poor buried themselves. Headstones, if any, were small.

We walked through the graveyard, the lantern casting shadows on headstones. A light wind lifted scattered leaves, rustling like whispers. Oak branches creaked. Every sound stoked my nerves.

The gravestones shrunk as we two moved farther west. Relief washed over me when we reached the west side. The sooner we finished, the better.

“Where?” I asked.

“Over there.” Walter gestured with the lantern. “Under that oak.”

The plot was small, and the grave was already filled.

“Walter, someone’s been here already!” I said. “Hand me the light.” I held my hand out. “Walter?”

The faint tinkle of a bell rose and fell on the breeze.

My belly turned ice cold. “Do you hear that?”

Walter fell silent, listening. He shrugged. “Just the wind.”

A gravestone bell rang again. Fear slid its frozen finger down my spine and sent a chill throughout my entire body.

Another bell joined in ringing. And another. Every hair on my neck stood straight up. “The grave bells!” I croaked out.

“Just the wind, boy.”

But they rang louder and louder. The entire graveyard swelled with the sound of bells. My heartbeat throbbed in my ears as my skin erupted in chillbumps. Panic squeezed the air out of my lungs. I turned to grab Walter and run, but he was gone.

The bells stopped.

The silence was more terrifying than the bells. I heaved a shuddered breath, my legs weak. The lantern stood on the freshly turned dirt of the grave, casting light onto the headstone.

Wind blew my dirty hair out of my eyes, and I squinted to read the carved headstone:

Walter Morden
B. July 1821
D. October 1889

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cathryn Free is a middle school teacher and writer. Her works have appeared in numerous publications such as Highlights, Cricket, Muse, and even internationally. She lives in Wisconsin with her family. When not writing, she can be found drinking coffee and running country roads.

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