The Graveyard Shift

The moon was safely hidden behind a dark cloud, when the three men finally deemed it safe to emerge from the crypt.

The body was hanging limp from the shoulder of the leader of the group, a burly man taking long and leisurely strides, not seeming to notice the dead weight.

Then again, she was very thin.

He carved a straight path through the graveyard, around and over old forgotten graves and patches of freshly dug soil, yet unmarked by rain.

The second man, the lookout, had emerged first from the sealed vault. It took him a while to get back to his place of leading the procession, cautious as he was to not walk over the dead. He was moving fast, his steps light and silent.

The others had not been pleased with his addition to the team—or with how their payment would be redistributed to include his share—they could see how he was necessary after they were almost caught twice on their grave runs.

Right behind the behemoth carrying the body, uncomfortably close to her expressionless face, cowered the third man. He was speaking in faint, trembling whispers, his gaze never moving away from his target. The jostling movements of the body were playing tricks with the shadows and the wind, revealing eyes peering out under her long hair, but it was only his imagination.

The three men passed the rundown church, where mice were suddenly scurrying frantically between tangled vines, and the empty bookshop, then the bad tailor's. They briefly crouched behind a low stone fence when they thought they heard the sound of footsteps, but it was only a cat, stepping on some dry leaves. Apple tree branches were stretching out above their heads, their fruits hanging heavy, dark orbs within a bigger darkness. The lookout slipped one in his pocket and they were on their way again.

All this time, the third man had kept his undecipherable chanting strong. His voice would occasionally quiver and tremble, and he had swept his brow and neck more than he ever had before, but he wouldn't stop to catch a long breath or swallow, and his throat had gotten very dry.

The lookout was spending more time turning back to check on the other two than actually keeping his pace ahead to mind the path out of the burial road, so when he slipped on a smooth stone and fell backwards, he landed on the big fellow, who without much manual effort stopped his colleague's fall.

Before the third man could realise the abrupt halt, he had stumbled forwards, his head suddenly finding no more space to move—or chant. He clashed with the big man and his voice went silent for only a second.

But a second was enough. The body launched at him like a rabid dog, clawing blindly at his face, screeching madly as she drew blood from his cheeks. The man recoiled with a pitiful yelp and landed on his behind. After a second he stuttered back to his whispering. The body fell limp again.

The burly man sighed heavily. His effort to restrain the dead body on his back had left him panting. He turned around to give the third man an angry look and a courteous gesture, readjusted the weight on his shoulder and straightened his belt.

The lookout was about to faint. The client was paying well, but certainly not that well, he thought. He stood frozen in his spot until the big man started moving again and brushed past him; well, she did, and her accidental touch shot up a cold stream from his arm to his eyes. The third man passed him by as well with a sympathetic pat. His face said more about the event than his busy lips. The lookout followed reluctantly.

An eternity later, they found themselves on the edge of the bog and made a brief stop for the big man to move the body once more and give another warning look to the third man who was stepping away from the direction of the swinging woman half-shrieking the part of the chant he was on at the time.

The alchemist was waiting for them at the usual spot, his cape making dark clouds as it was fluttering around him. This was the fourth delivery of the month, but perhaps not the last they’d have to carry out. He led them through the canopy of birches and dwarf shrubs, shutting down any attempt the lookout made to talk to him, and took them past thinner trees engulfed in fungi, and around clusters of cranberries lining the bog woodland floor. The land felt wet here, a sluggish humidity that made them feel much more tired than they had on their way to their client.

Some time later they saw faint lights in the distance, and they quickened their steps. The alchemist’s cottage was well hidden behind a copse of pine trees, only visible by the candles he had left inside to light the way through the bog.

One by one, they got in. The big man laid the body down on a marked plank and sat by the front window, stretching his aching limbs. Once a wreath of ling heather had been placed on the body, the third man finally ceased his chant and gulped down all the water from his flask. The lookout came inside last, closing the door behind him and grabbed a chair as far away from the body as he could.

Now that she wasn’t a threat anymore, the Count’s daughter was resting peacefully as if in deep sleep. She hadn’t been dead for long, but her skin was already yellowing and deep wrinkles had started to form around her mouth. The disease that had claimed her, had not left any visible marks on her, but she had thinned considerably during her short sickness.

“She wasn’t sick,” the alchemist said, emerging from behind a thick blanket hiding a room at the back. The basket he was carrying was laden with vials and branches, but none of the three men were willing to get close to the body to help him. He heaved the basket on a long table and brushed plates and papers aside. The clatter of the plates made the third man jump and he quickly glanced at the body. She hadn’t moved. “She was cursed.”

The lookout turned to him. “What are you talking about?,” he said. “And what the hell happened back there?,” he asked the other two. The girl was only the latest in a series of fever deaths that struck indiscriminately and claimed rapidly. No cause or medicine had been found; the only thing everyone knew was that the victims were always young girls and that their relatives were never affected.

“What did you think was going on with all that chanting,” snapped the big guy.

“I thought he was just superstitious,” the lookout said. “You didn’t tell me we’d be graverobbing a ghoul!” The alchemist was making rounds in and out the hidden room, bringing out one mug of hot tea at a time with his left hand, and holding a smudged cake he wasn’t willing to share with his right. It looked like a fruit cake. The lookout stared at it suspiciously; he was hoping those were raisins, and managed to distract himself for a second.

“You’re saying this is a curse. That they were all cursed,” he continued. The alchemist had finished eating and looked up from the vials he was placing on the table. There were crumbs everywhere on the table and on his thick, grey moustache, and he was now picking at them with his finger. “I am,” he insisted. The lookout ran one hand through his hair but stayed silent. The alchemist began to move his ingredients around, mixing liquids from vials, stirring crushed herbs and leaves into a metallic bowl. “What else did you think this “disease” is? Ed,” he cried out to the big man, “go hold her down”.

The big man shrugged and got up. He had not reacted to the conversation at all and neither had the chanting man. The lookout stared at both of them, perplexed. Ed straightened his belt and kneeled down over the girl. He placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and nodded to the third guy, who pretended not to notice him. “Tim!,” he said between clenched teeth. Tim shook his head violently and retreated further in his seat. He then turned to the lookout and gave him the same angry gaze he had displayed earlier until he moved closer; he was too thin for this task, but he would have to do. “Get the legs,” he ordered. The lookout slowly obeyed.

Over at the table, the alchemist had finished with his preparations and had disappeared again behind the hanging blanket. “What the hell are we doing here!,” the lookout whispered to the big man. He had moved his sleeves down over his palms to hold the girl’s ankles in place. “I thought we’d just get our pay and leave.”

“That’s not how this works,” Ed replied. “When he comes back,” he nodded to the direction of the alchemist, “just hold her down”.

The calmness of his voice was unnerving the lookout more and more. He turned to the third man. “Why is he not helping out?”

“Let him be, it’s better for all of us.” The alchemist approached them holding a brush made of thick straw, held together by a greenish cord. “Tim,” he commanded, “the bowl”.

With great hesitation and careful steps around the body, the third man brought back the bowl and set it down hastily. A few drops of liquid splashed on the floorboard and the lookout, who flinched and grimaced at the sight of the foul concoction. It smelled worse than the body.

“What is this?” he demanded at the alchemist.

“Does he always ask this many questions?,” the big man asked him too.

“Shut up, both of you!,” the alchemist offered back. “Hold her.”

He slipped the brush in the bowl and whirled it around until he was satisfied that it was well-soaked. Then he removed the wreath from her torso.

The second the last purple flower had been lifted, the corpse shook wildly. It caught the lookout by surprise, but he didn’t let go. The girl was shrieking and twitching, glaring with foggy eyes. The two men holding her down were looking away, but the alchemist lifted the brush and drew a crude symbol on her forehead. She continued to shake and scream. The third man had retreated further away towards the door. A knife was glinting on his hand, but he made no move to the door, afraid to attract the girl’s attention.

The brush had gone back into the bowl. This time, the alchemist drew on her mouth. Her voice went silent, but she continued to fight against the men holding her down. The lookout was struggling to keep her down. Her violent movements had lifted one sleeve over his wrist and he was shuddering at the sensation of her cold ankle. The big man did not seem strained by the effort, but he was still not looking at her.

The alchemist drew a third symbol, this time right below her collar bone. The corpse started banging its head backwards, spitting at the big man, who recoiled in disgust and let go of her on instinct. The girl hauled herself forwards to the last restraint she could see. The lookout yelled out and let go of her, scrambling backwards, but she was faster. “Tim!,” the alchemist shouted, but the third man had run out, leaving the door open. She was now clawing wildly at the lookout, but the contents of the bowl, spilt on the floor around her, were slowing her advancement a little.

Behind her, the big man had stood up and launched himself at her back. The sudden movement startled her enough for the alchemist to snap out of his shock and murmur a couple of words before grabbing the wreath and slamming it down on her back.

The body fell forwards, lifeless, and landed on the lookout’s legs. He screamed again and kicked himself out of the way. Her head made a sharp, wet cracking sound and stayed still, eyes wide open.

For a few moments, nobody moved. The big man got up first, sweeping at his face with his sleeve. The alchemist extended a hand to him and he lifted him up. The lookout had not gotten up. He dragged himself until his back reached the wall and sat there, frozen. “What the hell is going on?,” he said breathlessly.

The alchemist steadied himself on the table and pointed at a blanket on the other side of it. The big man picked it up and covered the body with it. “Well that didn’t work. What now?,” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what now’?,” the lookout said in disbelief. “We're not doing this again!”

“I told you he wasn’t any good,” the burly man offered. “I’ll go find Tim.”

“You do that, and tell him to not bother coming back for his money!” The door slammed behind the big man, shaking a shelf that was placed right over the wooden frame. The alchemist looked much older, his face lit by a stray candle on the table as he turned around. “Oh, get up, you coward. She won’t hurt you now.”

The lookout stood up and moved carefully around the covered body, half-running to the table the alchemist was leaning on as soon as he was out of her immediate reach again.

“The question is why she could hurt me earlier,” he asked the first of many he had in his mind, pulling out a chair. The alchemist did the same and landed heavily on it. He turned to look at where the girl was lying. “When the grave can’t hold its charge, we could all get hurt,” he said calmly. Then, he reached inside his pocket and took out another piece of smudged fruit cake, which he put in his mouth, and a pouch, which he offered to the lookout.

“Same day next week?”