The Graveyard Spoke

The Graveyard Spoke

“Come on, chicken!” Frankie goaded, his voice echoing against the iron fence as he and the other boys, faces hidden behind paper masks and pillowcase capes, slipped through the rusty cemetery gate. The hinges squealed like something alive and in pain.

Hide-and-seek in a graveyard on Halloween night didn’t sound like a good idea to me. I liked the apples and cookies from kindly neighbors on our quiet street, the smell of caramel and bonfires drifting on the October wind. But the other boys couldn’t be talked out of it, so I followed, reluctantly, through the dark and overgrown graveyard, where fractured headstones leaned like broken teeth in the moonlight.

“I’m it!” Thomas called, pressing his back to a gnarled oak. He began counting backward from twenty, his voice half swallowed by the rustle of dry leaves.

Everyone scattered. I panicked, unsure where to run. Branches clawed at my sheet as I stumbled over sticks and slick fallen leaves until I spotted a tall stone monument. I crouched in its shadow, clutching my knees, my breath coming fast.

The night pulsed with sound, the hoot of owls flapping like dark angels above, the snap of twigs, the murmur of distant laughter. One by one, the others were caught, their voices fading toward the far end of the graveyard. My heart thundered, half in fear, half in giddy pride. Could I really be the last one left? How long should I stay hidden?

I waited, straining to hear the familiar call of allee-allee-in-free. But the graveyard had gone silent. No teasing, no footsteps—only the whisper of the wind sliding through brittle grass.

Loneliness crept in. My small victory felt hollow. I wasn’t one of them and never would be. Angry at myself for trying so hard to belong, I ripped off the ghostly sheet borrowed from Ma’s linen closet and crumpled it beneath me. We’d moved here from the country after Pa died, and the town boys still saw me as an outsider. Hot tears burned my cheeks as I pushed to my feet, determined to walk home and leave their stupid game behind.

My foot sank into a ragged hole beside the monument. A jolt of pain shot up my leg as something snapped in my ankle. I screamed, falling hard against the cold earth. The monument groaned, a deep rumble like thunder underground, as it tilted toward me.

I yanked my leg free and rolled aside just as the heavy stone steadied itself, settling back into the soil as if nothing had happened. My breath fogged in the chill air. Then, faint and white as chalk, words shimmered across the base of the monument:

You’re welcome. July 28, 1914.

“What the heck?” I gasped, clutching my throbbing leg. “What’s July 28, 1914?”

The letters faded and new ones took their place:

You’ll see.

A cold shiver crawled up my spine. I wasn’t about to thank anyone for a broken ankle in the middle of a graveyard. Gritting my teeth, I found a sturdy stick and braced it against my calf, tearing strips from the sheet to bind it, just like my Scout leader once taught us. When the makeshift splint held, I grabbed a longer stick to hobble home, keeping as far from that cursed stone as I could manage.

Pumpkins grinned at me from porch steps as I limped through town, the candlelight flickering in their carved eyes. July 28th, 1914… I repeated it over and over. Tonight was October 31st, 1913. I’d be fifteen next summer, but what did that date mean?

Ma was waiting in the living room, knitting in the warm glow of the gas sconce while the radio crackled faintly with music from far-off Radio City.

“Well, there you are!” she exclaimed. “What have you done to yourself? Is that one of my good sheets?”

“Sorry, Ma,” I mumbled. “Went trick-or-treating with the boys and fell. Think I hurt my ankle.”

“Dear Lord above!” She set down her knitting and hurried over. “Unwrap it and let me take a look-see.”

I winced as the sheet came loose. My ankle was swollen and purple. “Ow—yeah, I think it’s broken.”

She frowned deeply. “Ain’t no reason to be sorry. We’ll have to see Doc Anderson. Glory be, hope he’s still in fine fettle.” Pinning on her hat and wrapping a cardigan around her shoulders, she helped me up.

We hobbled the three blocks to Main Street, where Doc’s grand house stood with all its gas lights burning. Through the parlor window we could see him slumped at his desk, face down, an empty glass beside his hand.

Ma banged on the door hard enough to wake the dead. “Doc! My boy’s got a broke leg, wake up!”

His timid wife, Mamie, cracked open the door. “He’s—uh, resting, Mrs. Kissinger.”

“Resting, my foot!” Ma stormed inside. “Doc! It’s Mrs. Kissinger from down the street! Bobby’s hurt!”

Doc Anderson lifted his head, bleary-eyed. “Wh… who? Come back tomorrow,” he slurred.

Ma planted her hands on her hips. “We ain’t doing no such thing. You sober up this minute. The whole town depends on you! How dare you take to drink and leave us with nobody!”

Mamie scurried away and returned with a cup of black coffee, which Doc snatched from her with shaking hands. “Mamie, get the surgery ready,” he muttered.

My stomach knotted. A drunk doctor setting bones? I might never walk again.

She guided me to the back room, part kitchen, part surgery. The metal examining table gleamed under the light, still wet from a quick wipe-down. Doc swayed on his feet, examining my ankle. “Broken clean through,” he announced. “Needs a cast.”

Mamie appeared like magic with a basin of water and a roll of plaster gauze.

“Hang tight to your Ma,” Doc said, clenching a pencil between his teeth. “Gonna hurt like the devil.”

“Please, language!” both women scolded in unison.

He grunted and twisted my ankle sharply. The pain was blinding, then blackness.

When I came to, Ma and Mamie were easing me off the table. Doc’s face was clearer now, though his eyes still held a watery gleam.

“No baths till it’s healed,” he warned. “Get it wet, and I’ll charge you double next time.”

“How much do I owe you?” Ma asked.

“You knit Mamie a sweater before Christmas and we’ll call it square,” he said.

“What color?”

“Red. Mamie loves red.” He lifted his refilled glass in salute.

At home, Ma made me hot milk with bits of torn bread floating on top. “Well, it could have been worse,” she sighed, rummaging for yarn. “A sweater I can manage.”

“I’m sorry I caused you trouble,” I said, then hesitated. “Ma… is there anything special about July 28th, 1914?”

She squinted at me. “Why, July 28th’s when your granddad, Reverend Tom, passed, years ago. Why you asking about next summer?”

“Just something I read,” I muttered.

“Well, nothing comes to mind. Now, get to bed. You’ll mend faster if you sleep.”

I hobbled to my room, heavy with shame. That night, my dreams were filled with fire and screams—soldiers clawing at the earth, gas swirling yellow in the air, the sound of rifles cracking like bones.

I woke crying, Ma pressing a cool cloth to my face. “Bobby, you’re having a nightmare!”

“It was awful, Ma—soldiers, poison in the air—”

“Poison in the air? Ain’t no such thing. You just rest. It’s the pain talking.”

By afternoon, I was settled in bed when Tommy Anderson came by, a school folder tucked under his arm.

“Hey,” he said shyly. “Mrs. Benson sent your homework. And… I’m sorry about last night. About my dad.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “My Pa used to drink when he was sick. Said it cleared his throat.”

Tommy smiled weakly. “Guess grown-ups just do what they have to. Anyway, I’m having a birthday party in December. You wanna come?”

“I’d like that,” I said, surprised. “Maybe people’ll stop treating me like I don’t belong.”

“They treat me that way too,” he shrugged. “You get used to it.”

We listened to The Madman Chronicles on the radio while Ma brought apple fritters and milk. That was the start of our friendship.

My ankle healed crooked, leaving me with a limp, but Tommy and I stayed close. Then came the news from Europe. War.

On July 28, 1914—just as the grave had promised, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. We didn’t pay much mind at first. Not until years later, when our own country joined the fight.

By 1918, boys our age were being drafted. Tommy was spared; his asthma saw to that. My limp disqualified me. We stayed home, listening to the radio describe horrors overseas: machine guns, trenches, mustard gas.

One bright afternoon, I went back to the cemetery. The monument was easy to find. Time had cleaned its face, and I read the inscription carefully:

Reverend Thomas Alvin Kissinger, 1845–1905. Methodist Circuit Rider. Civil War Veteran, Survivor of Bull Run, Gettysburg, Antietam, Chancellorsville, and Vicksburg.

Beneath that, a small engraving read:

“God had more plans for me.” — Rev. Tom

At last, I understood. My eyes stung with tears.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and the wind carried it through the sleeping stones.