“When Graves Won’t Speak”

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Justin Alcala

 

        “Dready night to be traipsing around a graveyard, young man,” said the groundskeeper, his skull-carved turnip-lantern smiling   strange. He was a villein and a simpleton, of short stature and pasty complexion. Port and tobacco clung to him, and his frock coat looked unwashed. It was clear why the abbey monks made him responsible for dirt and stone. Still, he alone could guide me to my quarry. “All Hallows’s Eve is the devil’s holiday.” 

           “That’s why I must enter,” I said.

           The groundskeeper removed the key dangling from his neck chain, eyes fixed on my sword.

           “Is there a problem, sir?” I asked.

           “You a knight or something? Funny looking one, if you are.”

           “I am an adherent of the Order of Bones. We protect the sanctity of death.”

           “Oh, right. And you believe Sister Evans’s corpse was... desecrated?”

           “Sister Evans died thrice wice ago, this day.”

           “And?”

             “People of the cloth have reported a perversion of Sister Evans skulking within the abbey, wracked in despair, for a fortnight.

           “I see,” the grave keeper stepped over a bucket of gray water sitting under the partially scrubbed wrought iron bars, giving the impression that the laborer resigned. “We keep the clergy underground. You may find its conditions dowdy for your likings.”

           “The church’s work doesn’t stop because of conditions.”

           “Suit it yourself.”

           I’d studied what written history I could find during my three-day carriage ride. The graveyard exceeded its limits during Henry’s reign, so they barred its gates to any additions beyond servants of the abbey. Once the mourners died off, so did any care for the souls buried beneath. Gravestones leaned like weary travelers and mud patched over grasslands like clotted milk. This loathsome wretch whom the church took pity on was its only custodian, and it appeared he didn’t mind the state of neglect.

           “Mind the open grave ahead, young man,” said the grave keeper. “Just dug it.”

           “Will this journey be long?”

           “We’ll get to the catacombs through the church, but I warn you, it’s in a state of ruin. Dare not touch anything for fear of it falling.”

           “I’m nay here to inspect its integrity.”

           “Oh, right, here to hew a corpse.” The grave keeper used his same brass key on the narthex’s royal doors. A hawthorn wreath strung with hanging bells nailed to its center.

           I flicked the wreath. “You are a church servant, yes?”

           “Oh, yes,” he said, turning the key. “I grew up in the old ways, but converted long ago.”

           “But you have your doubts about the integrity of my work?”

           “Just saying, chopping off a sister’s head is more about quelling people’s fears. You know, with the sickness going around.”

           “I’ve witnessed such malevolence before. Nightly, these creatures emerge from the grave. It feeds on innocent locals, driving them into a sickly demeanor. This is a holy labor.”

           “Oh, and you say you’ve seen this before?”

           “Well, my master has,” I stuttered, a guilt pang striking my stomach at my stretch in the truth. “He slew an unholy creature of this nature in Shropshire.”

           “Oh, I see. With that sword of yours?” The grave keeper smiled, teeth both crossed and gold.

           “This is a holy relic of Saint Wenceslaus. The church lends this throughout Europe to vanquish evil as required.

           “Oh, how imposing,” said the grave keeper. He shoved the door open, its bottom dragging on stone. “Please, after you.”

           I entered the church estates, which were only a cat’s-whisker tidier than the grounds outside. Cracked saint statues and grime covered stain glass lingered in the darkness. An old candelabra burned with tallow candles, the scent of pigs fat stewing within the walls. The grave keeper locked the doors while I crossed the nave. In one of the sturdier pews rested a pillow and ratty quilt next to a carver’s knife and turnip shavings. The grave keeper caught up, guiding me to the North transept where an arched door riddled in old scars awaited.

           “This is where you make your dwelling?” I asked.

           “Oh, yes,” said the grave keeper. “I was destitute before the church took me in.”

           “I, too, was an orphan until the brothers adopted me,” I mentioned, examining the door ahead.

           “Oh, that’s Bloody Mary’s work. She didn’t much like the Protestants, so her Catholics paid the place a visit.”

           “Yes, I see.”

           “Curious. Does your order consider it all a sin?”

“Consider what a sin?” I asked, removing my cravat to swallow the tallow taste from my mouth.

“For brother to slay brother simply for the manners of worship? I accept hatred for the old pagan ways, but killing because of a difference in popes and prayers?” 

           “Nay, am I able to remedy the wrongs of our church’s past?”

           “But you’ll look the other way?”

           “My friend, I don’t believe I ever caught your name?”

           “Osric.”

           “Mr. Osric, I deem your tone improper, given the circumstances. I have not the authority—”

           A distant rumble of stone falling on stone resounded from beyond the door. I gripped my blade’s ornate handle.

           “Does anyone else dwell here?” I asked.

           “We get our occasional beggar trying to avoid the elements, but they never make it past the headstones.”

           “Then it’s time to witness the integrity of my work,” I said, drawing out St. Wenceslaus’s sword. “Stay here if you must.”

           “No, no,” said Osric. “It might be the local boys playing a Hallows Eve trick.”

           “Then raise your lantern, Mr. Osric.”

           Osric drug the door open, then shadowed me as I plunged down the stairwell’s depths. The musty air and the uneven stone steps leading to the catacombs presented my first harsh challenges. We made our way to a single hall stretching east and west, void of cobwebs and dust.

           “Where does Sister Evans loom?” I asked.

           “Take a right, young master,” said Osric.

           I did as instructed, lurking into the crypt’s south hall. A stream of dried brown droplets served as my guide while I followed the S shaped hallway. When we reached an open vault, Osric and I moved shoulder-to-shoulder. The burial space, composed of rectangular niches carved into walls of galleries, sealed with slabs etched with names. A single tomb, whose slab fell removed, traced with a similar brown liquid. Osric hurried over before I stopped him, shining light with his turnip lantern into the tomb cavity.

           “Would you look at that?” said Osric. “She’s gone.”

           “Wait,” I put my finger to my lips. “Listen.”

           A faint hum laced with incoherent words sang further down the hall. It was a church hymn, and its rising volume meant our vocalist drew near. I pushed in front of Osric, my sword at the ready as a figure emerged from the void. The creature which was once Sister Evans, complete with a habit stained in bits-and-ruby, floated as if the very winds carried her a hand’s length off the ground. Her eyes shined like a copper coin glinting with light, and her skin grayed like ash. Her black lips revealed long, sharp teeth. I clutched Saint Wenceslaus’s sword, beseeching it to grant me courage.

           “Relinquish your wretched existence,” I said. “Your reign of malevolence in these parts ends now.”

           “As I live and breathe,” said Osric.

           Sister Evans stopped in their place. Her gold eyes considered me, then Osric. She buried her face in her hands and wept. A syrupy blood trickled from her fingers. Upon dripping to the ground, they sizzled as if the floor were scorching.

“Sister, submit yourself to me and I will end this agony,” I said. “You were a woman of the church. This is not what you desire.”

           Sister Evans dug her claws into her eyes and shook her head. Steam boiled off from under her habit and a sound like a growling alley cat whirred from her mouth.

           “I sense virtue in you, Sister,” I said. “Tell me, is this why you’ve visited the abbey? Do you search for salvation from this curse?”

           Sister Evans nodded her head, hands still covering her face.

           “I will deliver this mercy,” I said. “But first, tell me how you reached this lowly state?”

           Sister Evans’ head jerked up, taking us in again. With a snarl and a hiss, she made the unholy decision to surrender to her vile nature. She pounced with devilish alacrity, shoving me to the ground before I could wield my blade. I heard the sword’s metallic clang as it released from my grip. Hunched atop of me, Sister Evan’s maw went agape as she applied an unnatural strength to hover her lips all but three-fingers above my neck. But before she could deliver the killing blow, I felt her efforts relinquish and her body jerk. An ichor dripped upon my coat-and-frills as Sister Evans’s head ascended across the catacombs.

           “My word, you were right,” said Osric. He stared at Saint Wenceslaus’s sword in his hand before tossing it down as if it were contagious.

           “You saved me, Osric,” I said. “I owe you my life.”

           “You don’t owe me a scrap.”

           “We must burn the body.” I made it to my feet, inspecting the twitching corpse.

           “Yes, an All Hallows Eve bonfire seems in order.”

 

           It took longer than expected to gather enough dry kindle from the graveyard to construct a blaze large enough to send Sister Evan’s flesh back to Hell. I only hoped her soul concluded to a contrasting course. Osric and I’d remained wordless during the burning of our pyre. I noticed the grave keeper in a state of shock as we lingered around the flames. He rubbed at his hands as if to wipe off imperceptible blood stains, mumbling to himself.

           “Were you familiar with her?” I asked across the fire.

           “She was all honey before tonight,” said Osric. “Young, innocent, much like yourself.”

           “It can be difficult for a simple soul to excuse what we’ve committed, but what we’ve done today is righteous.”

           “Yes, a holy labor,” said Osric.

           “That indeed.”

           “So, where does your next toil linger? Paris, Vienna?”

           “My task remains here in town, Mr. Osric. Sister Evans may have stirred the illness in town, but the question is, who stirred the illness in Sister Evans?”

           “What do you mean?”

           “I’ve studied these fiends since my adoption. There is a sire to this affliction. Sister Evans was but a neonate, which means her master lurks in the area.”

           “Oh, I see.”

           “Tell me, are you familiar with Sister Evans’s churchly position before her demise?”

           “She restored the church properties in town. Gardening, stone washing, and that lot.”

           “I assume she never made it here to your graveyard?”

           “What makes you say that?”

           “An assumption. Do you know the whereabouts of her last toil?”

           “I rarely leave the graveyard. If I were you, I’d check the docksides in the morning. Plenty of shadiness there.”

           “The morning, you say?”

           “Oh yes, you’d be surprised,” Osric said as he wrung his hands together. “Seedy travelers coming from port to port conducting business before anyone catches breakfast.”

           “Yes, interesting.”

           I considered why Osric would claim such a falsehood. From what I’d gathered, the town’s diminutive port was a peaceful fishing harbor, and proved charming with its local shopfronts centered on the family-owned inn. That claim didn’t suit Osric, despite his eccentricities. Then, like a game puzzle, small peculiarities pieced together. I investigated the graveyard where firelight glinted on the shovel and fresh grave. Then my attention drew to the half-washed gate and dirty bucket. I gripped Saint Wenceslaus’s sword before glancing at Osric’s hands.

           “Pardon my discourtesy, Mr. Osric,” I said. “But what reason is there for your dug grave? I thought only clergy were interred in the catacombs?”

           “Oh, you never can tell when you’ll have to bury someone with this sickness spreading. Better to be prepared, if you know I mean.”

           “Yes, I see. Out of curiosity, is there some strange All Hallows Eve tradition to half washing your gates? You know, the old ways?”

           “Half wash? Oh, yes, a failed task. If you stop midway through a labor, it’s easy to not return.”

           “Is that what Sister Evans was doing when the curse took her?”

           “How would I know?” Osric shrugged. “Until today, I didn’t even know she was a vampire.”

           “I never said she was a vampire, Osric,” I said, gripping the handle of my sword.

           “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

           “Perhaps, if educated.”

           “Oh?” Osric looked down at his feet.

           “Osric, I’m going to make a request,” I said, drawing my blade and pointing it at Osric. “I will ask this only once. Show me your hands.”

           Osric looked up at me, brows raised, and head tilted. After considering my threatening posture, he smiled and upturned his hands. His palms singed with markings from Saint Wenceslaus’s ornate grip. His incisors retracted from his gums, giving him a rattish appearance, as a glint twinkled copper pinpricks in his eyes.

           “Appears, I’m all figured out,” said Osric before letting out a roar like a wild cat, then pressing forward.

           I was ready this time and brought the blade down on Osric. He’d charged with an extended claw, which I removed with my blade. Osric hissed as he held his stump before dissolving into shadow. The blackness where Osric once stood split into four directions, masking with the other undulating shades in the cemetery.

           “You’ll find that I’m far more capable than the fairytales your master told you,” said Osric’s voice, sounding like a voice underwater. “Been around since the old ways were all there was.”

           Fear rivetted me. Before I could second guess myself, my feet captured me, taking me towards the gates. I was ill-prepared and needed to warn the church. Away from the fire, the grounds grew dark. I knocked my knees against several headstones before I completely lost my footing. Like a fool, I’d fallen into the fresh grave. It was deeper than most, causing a horrible crack in my ankle. Luckily, something unwieldy and squelchy cushioned the rest of my body as I crashed prone. I could feel the form of a corpse beneath me, but it was its scent that shocked me. It did not smell decay, but drink and tobacco.

           “I told you beggars never make it past the headstones,” said Osric, reforming above the grave top, his turnip lantern glowing with hellfire down into the hole. Osric’s other hand, now mended, seized the shovel. I looked below my feet, taking in a rotted man stripped of clothing.

           “By the grace of all that is holy, release me,” I commanded.

           “Sorry, but your little holy sword ain’t going to reach me now,” Osric put down his lantern and threw a large scoop of dirt onto my face. “And seeing that I don’t have Sister Evans anymore, I’m in the market for a new retainer.”  

           He continued to toss dirt atop of me with unnatural speed. In but a few seconds, I could not fend off the heavy weight of soil crashing upon me, especially with my throbbing ankle.

           “Please, I implore you,” I said, choking on dirt. “Allow me to deliver your tired soul a mercy.”

           “Oh, there’ll be no mercy,” said Osric. “But we can talk about that upon your awakening. Happy All Hallows Eve my friend.”

 

          It’s been a fortnight, and there’s still no reprieve in sight. The hunger takes me into a state of thoughtless feasting, and my sire’s regency over me binds me as his thrall. I go to the abbey each evening hoping someone will bring me deliverance, but I am yet to receive such mercy. All I do now is Mr. Osric’s bidding while the sick in town grow at panicking rates. Still, the gates have never looked so clean as I’ve finished all of Sister Evans’ duties.

 

Justin Carlos Alcala (he/him) is an award-winning Mexican-American novelist & short story writer. His works are most notable for their appearance in Publisher’s Weekly, the SLF Foundation Awards, and the University of British Columbia project archives. Justin is a folklore fanatic, a history nerd, a tabletop gamer, and a time traveler. Alcala’s fifty-plus short stories, novellas, and novels can be found in anthologies, magazines, journals, podcasts, and commercial publications. He currently resides with his dark queen, Mallory, their fey daughter, Lily, changeling son, Ronan, goblin-baby, Asher, and hounds of Ragnarök, Fenrir and Hilda, in Bigfoot’s domain. Where his mind might be is anyone’s guess.

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Sophia Wiseman-Rose (aka Sr. Sophia Rose) is a Paramedic and an Anglican novice Franciscan nun, in the UK.  Both careers have given Sophia a great deal of exposure to the extremes in life and have provided great inspiration for her.  

 She has travelled to many countries, on medical missions and for modelling (many years ago), but has spent most of her life between the USA and the UK. She is currently residing in a rural Franciscan community and will soon be moving to London to be with a community there.  

 In addition, Sophia had a few poems and short stories in editions of Black Petals Horror/Science Fiction Magazine

The majority of her artwork can be found on her website.

 https://www.artstation.com/sophiaw-r6