VOICES
FICTION
The
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Gravedigger Maggie Rosinski
he first snowstorm of the winter had ripped through St. Stevens just a few days ago, but now in the village the snow lay still, covering each roof in a white shroud. I clutched my cloak tighter to my chest as I stepped out into the winter chill, my hand shaking as I gripped the key to the cemetery gate. I had taken the job of night watchman only out of necessity—it is not easy to feed a wife and five children on the salary of a schoolmaster alone—but it was not until that night when I realized why volunteers for the job had been scarce. The graveyard was utterly silent, and at first glance there was nothing amiss. The gravestones stood perfectly at attention like soldiers, their rounded heads peeking out of the icy drifts, and the snow on the ground lay pristine before me, its surface so perfectly smooth that I was sorry to disturb it with my heavy tread. But there was something peculiar about it all that I cannot describe. Whether it was some portentous feeling or my mind playing tricks on me I will never know, but the air seemed heavy, pressing in on me as if a steamer trunk sat upon my chest. Don’t be nonsensical, I thought to myself. A man like yourself should be above childish fears. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to go on, walking along the perimeter of the yard. I had just begun checking the gate for any breaches when I heard a faint sound. It was a quiet thumping, like metal against a woolen rug. I looked around me, my heart pounding. That was when I saw it. By the old gnarled oak tree in the westernmost corner of the cemetery stood a dark figure silhouetted in the snow. It was perhaps a hundred paces away or more, but I could just make out a large shovel in the figure’s hands. Slowly and deliberately, the figure raised its arms and skewered the ground with the tool, lifting up muddy mounds of dirt and snow. Now, I had only seen the gravedigger in the cemetery once before. The nurse had told me his name—Parsons—and that he had fought in my regiment at the Somme. I came back with shell shock, and he with a missing leg. But surely this could not be the same Parsons. Who would want to be laboring at this late hour in such a dark and solitary place?
One could not bear it for long, with the memory of barbed wire, mangled flesh, and distant fires still fresh in the mind. No, I thought, it cannot be. Whoever this is, they are in a place they should not be, and that means they are up to no good. As frightened as I was of the dark and anxious to get back to the fireplace at home, I felt resolved that I should do something to stop any tampering with sacred ground. Grasping the pistol in my pocket, I stepped forward and called out, “Hey! Who goes there?” The figure halted its work and slowly turned to face me. It was then that I nearly lost all my senses, for where there should have been a face under the hood of the figure’s cloak there was nothing at all, only a black void. I realized that this was no human, but a specter of terrible strength. Lifting a wizened hand from under its cloak, it beckoned to me silently, and, as if obliged by some otherworldly power, I obeyed. As I drew closer, I saw that at the feet of the specter lay a pit about six feet square, quite large enough for a grave. I noticed, too, that around the specter were no footprints or disturbances in the snow at all, as if it had been merely blown in by the wind. Knowing that I now dealt with a creature far wiser than myself, I chose my next words with care. “Now look here—I don’t know what you want with me, but I don’t want any trouble— “ I stopped, ashamed of my words as if I were one of my pupils speaking out of turn. What could I say that would sway the will of such a being? I looked into the faceless hood and said, “I will do anything you require of me.” The figure once again raised its hand and pointed at the pit before him. I peered down into it and nearly fainted in fright. Before that moment the pit had been pitch black, its contents obscured by the moonless night. But now it burned fiercely, its red flames licking the snow. That was not the worst of it, for among the flames lay a coffin, the lid cast aside. It was then that I realized, this was my coffin, and this specter, this monster was here to lead me to the grave! Oh,
Lifting a wizened hand from under its cloak, it beckoned to me silently, and, as if obliged by some otherworldly power, I obeyed.
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