I didn’t like being nervous out here, and my mind desperately searched for a reason I felt that way. I couldn’t recall ever being scared in my cemetery: I knew this land and the people buried in it. I remembered the grave with the bracelet… was it related to that?
I walked by the grave; the outline of salt was still somewhat visible. I felt nothing from the grave, and nothing in the cemetery looked out of place.
I walked back over to plot where I was supposed to be digging, and thought about just going back to the cabin and starting again in the morning. But no, tomorrow I wanted to go shopping. I needed to get done as much as possible tonight.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as if an icy breath had touched me. Another glance around the cemetery showed me why I was feeling uneasy: I was being watched.
In the tree line, there was a man standing, watching me. He wore faded jeans and a light blue polo shirt. My stomach twisted and rolled, I gripped the shovel tightly and fought the instinct telling me to run. He could be anyone—he wasn’t necessarily dangerous. I put up my hand and waved to let him know I saw him.
The man walked towards me, and it was hard to stand my ground. I couldn’t understand where this fear was coming from. I dug at the plot just to so I could be moving. He had to walk a far distance, and it startled me when I heard him say, “Hello.”
I was shocked at how quietly and quickly the man had moved, and when I looked up to see his face, I was only slightly relieved to see it was someone I already knew. It was my ex-boyfriend from college, the creepy one.
I forced a smile. “Hi, Brandon, I didn’t know that was you.” I swallowed hard and tried to ask myself why he would be out here watching me. Our breakup wasn’t smooth, but it could have been a lot worse.
“Hello, Helena. How have you been?” His face showed nothing, just a talking body and a neutral voice.
“Good. Yourself? What brings you out here?” I asked. I resumed my digging—standing still was too uncomfortable, and I didn’t want him to see that he was making me nervous.
“I’ve been well. I come out here sometimes and wander around,” he said, and put his hands in his pockets.
I wondered if he was about to pull out a gun or knife. “Really? I haven’t seen you out here,” I said, my heart thudding just a little harder, prepping me to run if I needed to.
“I know. I’ve seen you, though.” He watched for my reaction and pushed his large glasses up on his greasy face. His eyes were small even through the thick lenses, and his complexion showed a definite lack of care. He had gone downhill since our college days, and even then he wasn’t exactly a catch. But I was willing to bet he was still scary smart, which is what had attracted me to him in the first place. It was the scary part that made me break up with him.
“Yeah, I’m usually lost in my own little world out here working. I don’t always see everyone who comes by.” That was the best I could do at not sounding freaked out. Oh, how I wished Raphael would walk out here; I’d settle for anybody showing up right now.
“I usually keep to edge of the woods so I can watch you work.” His expression was still blank.
This time I had no words; I knew my face paled as I looked at him. I swallowed.
“You never let me dig with you, Hel. What’s special about him?” Brandon was shifting his weight from side to side now. He was getting agitated.
He had seen Raphael working with me. He had stood in the shadows and watched us work together—I’d had no clue. I felt so ill.
“You wanted to have sex in a grave and see the bodies. He just wanted to help me get my work done. If you want to help me dig now, I can go get you a shovel.” Please let that work, please let that work.
“Whose grave is this going to be?” he asked nodding towards the plot.
“Joseph Mckinney,” I answered.
I saw rage bubble up from somewhere deep inside. It filled his eyes, and his hands clenched at his sides.
“My grandfather! You want me to help you dig a grave for my own grandfather?” he wailed.
He paced in small circles, clenching and relaxing his fists. He was mumbling to himself, and I heard something about “that sick bitch” that I could only assume was me.
“I’m sorry, Brandon. I forgot he was your grandfather. I’m sure I’ll have another to dig in a day or two. I can let you know,” I mumbled, trying not to raise my voice at all. “I could probably even pay you to help me some if you’re really interested.” I swam through the fear in my brain, looking for more things to say that might distract him. “So, where are you working these days?”
He looked at me with an expression of absolute disgust, ignoring all of my ramblings.
“I should make you dig your own grave, then I could get everything I wanted from you.”
My brain heard what he said, but it refused to process all the vile possibilities he could be insinuating. Every muscle in my body wanted to run, but my feet refused to move.
“That’s a good idea, come to think of it,” he said, and walked in closer to me.
I had the shovel in my hand, but I didn’t want to strike first. I was still hoping he was just being creepy, and this wouldn’t end in violence on either part. But my gut was telling me it wouldn’t be that easy.
He circled around me, looking me up and down. “I could fuck you and kill you and leave you in a grave you dug yourself. Or I could kill you, then fuck you, so you couldn’t put up a fight; leave you for your pretty little boyfriend to find.”
I wanted to vomit, but I fought it, instead I gripped the shovel and brought it down as hard as I could on his foot. It didn’t connect as hard as I had hoped. I wanted it to chop half of his foot off. Instead, it just made him angrier.
“Bitch!” he spat at me as he grabbed my ponytail and painfully yanked my neck backwards.
I cried out, then screamed, “Let go of me!”
I swung the shovel and tried to connect with any part of his body, it was too long for me to get a good angle while he was this close. I didn’t want to drop my weapon, but just maybe if I did I could use that other hand to scratch and claw my way out his grasp. I saw the mattock on the ground; the sharp end with the pick could definitely slow him down, or stop him for good. That was the weapon I needed.
I dropped the shovel and grabbed his arm, digging my nails into his flesh and pulling at his arm hair. I screamed and fought, and when he brought his hand up to cover my mouth, I bit him until I tasted blood, and ripped off a piece of skin with my teeth. I spat the flesh out, and tried not to think about the taste that was lingering in my mouth.
He howled and shoved me away from him hard before gripping his injured hand.
This was my chance to get away. I tried to gain my footing to run, but it was no use: I tripped from the force of his push, and as my body went down, I felt my head smash against the hard, sharp edge of a gravestone. I felt the hit echo throughout my head, and for a moment I couldn’t move. I fought to stay conscious, to get away, but I could only see out of one eye now, and everything was blurred.
I could try to make it to the cabin, back across the cemetery, back to Raphael where he could call 911; or I could go towards the road and hope someone saw me and took me to get help. I felt blood pouring down the side of my face and neck; the collar of my shirt was already soaked and sticky, and I didn’t know how much I could afford to lose. My head was burning with pain and my eyes were stinging with sweat and blood, plus I was sure I had a concussion.
I needed help fast. I went towards the cabin to warn Raphael; I couldn’t see Brandon, but I didn’t hear him anymore. Maybe he had gotten scared and run. I knew my wounds were severe, but I didn’t think they were lethal just yet.
The sky was nearly dark now, and I was trying to navigate myself towards the cabin without tripping over every headstone along the way. My legs were scraped from the stones I didn’t see, and I felt like I wasn’t doing much better than I would crawling. I saw the porch light and kept what little sight I
had focused. I could make it.
Suddenly, I was brought to the ground by a force like a train hitting me. Sharp, searing, otherworldly pain ran through me like lightning. I wanted to scream but whatever had hit me knocked the air out of my lungs—or had it punctured a lung? I felt the presence of someone standing over me and knew it had to be Brandon; then I remembered the mattock. The bastard had used it on me. I wanted to curse at him, to threaten his life, but I had no air—just pain… and then it all stopped.
In a moment of clarity, I realized I was on pavement: I had been going the wrong direction all along, following the glow of a street lamp instead of the cabin’s porch light. Darkness was closing in on me; I tried so hard to fight it—to hang onto any bit of light and life. It was just all too much, and the darkness was so very heavy. But I was on the road, and that filled me with relief. Good, I thought, Raphael won’t be the one to find my body.
People aren’t wrong about the bright light. That’s the first thing I saw when I woke up, if you can call it that: waking up.
“Hey,” a gruff voice shouted, and someone shook my arm like they were waking me up from a nap.
I raised my arm against the agonizing light, and the person turned it away from my eyes. The man offered me a hand to sit up. His hand was huge compared to mine, and mine weren’t exceptionally small.
I sat up and realized I was covered in dirt; everything around me was dark except for what the brilliant flashlight shined on. I saw the light reflect off of what could only be a shovel. The evening’s events came into focus: Brandon, the graveyard. Had he thought he killed me and tried to bury me?
“Did you dig me up?” I asked.
“I did,” the gruff voice said again.
I couldn’t see the man’s face, but from the shadows he cast, he was tall, and had shoulders as wide as a doorway.
“I need to get to a hospital. I have a bad head injury,” I said. But as I touched the side of my head, I didn’t feel a cut, or the stickiness of drying blood. I looked at the man, clearly confused.
Another voice, another man I couldn’t see, said something from in the darkness. The man with me answered, “Yeah, it always sucks when they don’t know.”
I knew what he wanted to tell me, but I didn’t want to hear it. Tears were already streaming down my face faster than I had ever known them to fall. All I could picture was Raphael’s beautiful face, and all I could feel was my heart breaking so hard that it might have killed me, if I wasn’t already dead.
“Ah hell, she’s crying,” the gruff man said. “Can you come get her? She’s got to get assigned.”
I heard the other man walking up. “Yeah, I’ll take her if you’ll wake my next three.” His voice was higher, and he had an accent I recognized.
The gruff man made a noise that sounded like “yeah,” and walked off.
The other man walked over to where I sat in the dirt and kneeled down next to me. He was skinny and lanky; he was missing a few teeth and had a few poorly done tattoos, but he patted my shoulder with empathy.
“It’ll be ok honey. I know it’s quite a shock. I need you to come with me though, so they can get you assigned.” His voice was much more gentle than the big man’s.
“Assigned?” I croaked out through my sobs. “Am I in heaven or hell?” Looking around as my vision cleared, it certainly didn’t seem like heaven, and although it didn’t look like a happy place, it didn’t seem bad enough to be hell.
“You’re kind of in an in-between place. You must not have been religious in life or had any set belief systems. When that happens and you die, you come here. You’ll be assigned living quarters and a job,” he explained.
“Do I have to stay here forever?” I looked around; it didn’t seem like much, from what I could tell.
“You can, or you can choose a religion or reincarnation, but you’ll have to work the rest of your time off first.”
“What do you mean, work off the rest of my time?”
“We all sign contracts in spirit, before being born, that we’ll serve so many years on earth. An early death equals time owed,” he said as we walked. “You’ll get one of these to keep track of everything,” he held up his arm showing me a small black watch on his wrist.
“Even if you’re murdered?” I asked.
“If you’re murdered and don’t have set beliefs. There are all kinds of bylaws and stuff.” He shrugged. “Even in death, you can’t get away from politics.”
“So if I’d been a Christian, I could be in Heaven right now?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That blows.” I realized I wasn’t crying anymore, and somehow that caused a stabbing pain in my heart.
“It’s not all bad here. As long as you do your job, you can do pretty much whatever you want,” he said.
As we walked, the scenery changed from flat dirt covered lands, to sidewalks that ran through what looked like an old, tired city.
A man with paper white skin and curly long red hair stepped out from the shadows of a building. His eyes had no white, but looked as though they could have been cut from emeralds. His nose and cheek bones were sharp.
“Hello, lovely new girl,” the strange looking man said.
“Not right now, Boude. She’s on her way to be assigned,” said the man with me. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped walking and was staring at the pale man with the flaming hair.
My guy tugged on my shirt and we continued.
“Who was that? What was he?”
“That’s Boude; he’s a vampire. Best stay away from them.”
“Vampire? What!” I froze. I admit, I had never given much thought to vampires before. I recalled watching Lost Boys with Raphael and almost had to laugh, but not in the ‘haha’ kind of way—more like the ‘oh shit’ kind of way.
My scrawny guide just glanced at me and motioned to keep walking. “You’ll learn it all, eventually,” he said.
I looked around my surroundings again. There was light, but no sun; it felt overcast, but there were no clouds. And the sky—it was just… gray.
We rounded a corner, and there was a line of people waiting outside a rather plain brown building. I found my guide showing me where to take my place, and estimated being number thirty, at best.
“OK,” he said, “you just wait here, and when you get in there, answer all the questions they have. Make sure you don’t lie: they already know the answers to most of the questions they ask. They’re usually pretty nice, though; you’ll be fine.”
“Are you leaving me here?” I realized I still didn’t know his name. I didn’t know him, but he was the only person I’d really met so far. I didn’t want to be alone.
“I have to get back to work.” He smiled his gap-tooth smile.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Billy,” he said, and held his hand out.
I shook his hand and said, “Thank you, Billy.”
“You’re welcome. See you around.”
And with that, I was by myself again. I was alone in a line of people—dead people—waiting to be told what to do next. I was heartbroken and scared. Death was already worse than I could have imagined.
No one in the line tried to talk to me, and I was grateful. Whether I was simply lost in thought, or these people were efficient, the line moved faster than I would have expected. Before I knew it, it was my turn.
The doors were elaborate for the plain looking building. They were ornately carved, and appeared to be painted gold, with some type of pearl-like inlay. From far away they looked impressive, but up-close they looked cheap. I wondered if they were some sad replica of heaven’s gates. It seemed mocking to me, but maybe it was intended as a comfort or flattery.
“Helena Pierce.”
I heard my name called from a room to the left. I poked my head in and saw a small woman sitting behind a large mahogany desk.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.
“Come in and have a seat please, Ms. Pierce.” Her hair was brown, and
curled close to her head. Silver glasses sat on her nose, attached to a chain that hung down around her neck.
I sat down in one of the chairs in front of her.
“I see you were murdered. Being here must be a surprise for you.” Her voice was monotone and nasal. “Well, I think you’ll find most people get along here pretty well. It looks like you have sixty-five years to work off here: that would have been when you were supposed to die.” The lady was scribbling something down in a book.
Sixty-five years here sounded terrifying. I was originally supposed to die at eighty-seven; that would have been nice.
“Is there any way to lessen that?” I asked.
The woman scribbled some more and nodded. “Well, a lot of it depends on the job you take: more labor-intensive work takes off more time, choosing a religion or reincarnation takes some, but you still have to work off the time you owe.”
“Do you assign me a job or can I choose?” I asked.
“Either way.” The woman actually smiled at me.
“Which job shaves off the most hours?”
“Reaping,” she said.
I immediately pictured a scythe and a long black cloak following people around when it was ‘their time,’ but had the sense to ask, “What is that?”
“The person who woke you up was a reaper. You work in the fields, so to speak; you would dig up the deceased and send them here to get assigned, or if their souls are spoken for, you send them on their way. It is a labor-intensive job,” she told me. “But, being a gravedigger in life, you might find it appealing.”
“How many hours will that earn me?” I asked.
“You work when you want, but realize you’re only working off time when you are working. You owe 569,400 hours, reaping takes off five hours for every hour of work.”
I couldn’t do the math in my head, but I knew that was still a lot of time.
“Of course, you don’t have to eat or sleep here, but most people still choose to. There are restaurants and such comforts. You will be assigned lodging near your work; we don’t have many reapers, so you should have a place all to yourself. You’ll check in with me every five hundred hours. Any questions?”
The Girl Who Digs Graves Page 6
