Young Writers Society

I was just finishing my afternoon stroll when I suddenly heard the softest melody coming from a familiar spot in the graveyard.

The sound was like the pitter patter of rain on a window pane at night. It was the same melody that played, at each round, the tempo decreases. The tune was coming from a music box.

It was quite unusual to hear music in a place like this. I was used to hearing whispers, gentle sobbing and remorseful muttering. This is an old fashioned graveyard with iron wrought borders in an old fashioned little town by the sea. There were statues of weeping angels scattered around like guardians watching over the many lonely graves. The place was usually filled with light and the grass was healthy in the areas where people were mostly seen.

The other side was the oldest and forgotten part of the graveyard. Here, the grass almost turned brown and the untrimmed bushes and vines made little thickets around the statues and headstones. This is similar to any frightening graveyard scene you must’ve imagined while reading Wuthering Heights or Dracula.

I heard the entrancing music in this miserable quarter of the graveyard. It was the most beautiful music I’ve heard in a long time, so you could imagine my growing curiosity on where the sound came from. I stepped lightly towards its source, as if fearing it would run away. Which it probably might.

It wasn’t long before I reached the last grave at the end of the block. It was supposed to be a small mausoleum for one body. Two hundred years ago, it was an elegant rectangular shaped burial with its four columns as foundation and an iron wrought gate for a door. The left and right walls of this mausoleum had iron wrought, glassless windows that matched the door. Today, this mausoleum is in ruins because of the many damages it had received from the falling branches of the oak tree behind it. The doorway and its roof had been smashed, leaving only stumps of the first two columns. The other two columns at the back survived but now they only support one fourth of a roof it used to have. The only structures that seemed untouched were the iron door, a concrete bench and the sepulcher itself.

I hid myself behind one of the vine-covered walls and peered to the side.

I saw a girl.

When I suddenly realized that I did not need to worry about being seen, I came out of hiding. I watched her. She sat on the concrete bench adjacent to the sepulcher while she held a pocket-sized music box. Her long and wavy auburn hair was swept to one shoulder, letting me see only the right side of her face.

She was pretty.

When the song ended, I took another step closer to the girl.

“Oh,” she squeaked and she stood and faced my direction. She seemed to have noticed my presence for she looked into my eyes. She met my gaze with eyes of brilliant blue though the rays of sunshine that the tree allowed. Her face and her figure was much like a beautiful fox's

Yes, a very beautiful fox.

We stood there looking at each other in silence a second too long. “I d-didn’t mean to disturb,” she said softly.

I was baffled that she spoke to me. No one speaks to me. I managed to clear my throat and say, “Disturb who?” I glanced at the sepulcher behind her. “Or what?”

She blinked and turned around to glance at the grave. “I’m afraid I don’t know whose grave this is,” she muttered.

“No one does.” I nodded slowly, getting used to my deep British voice that I hadn’t used in a while. “The words have faded, impossible to read."

“I asked though.”

“Asked what?”

“I asked if I could stay here for a while,” she said.

I couldn’t help chuckling a bit. “And what did he/she say?”

“I don’t think he/she was displeased.” She smiled with her pale red lips.

“I could tell you that he’s not,” I grinned. Here, she narrowed her eyes a bit at me, uncomfortably. “Er, he/she would be if you moved the remains.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I wouldn’t want a curse on me.”

I started pacing and looking around the small, old place. I strangely found myself trying to find a subject for conversation. “What brings you to this side of the graveyard?”

“I came here to think some things through,” I heard her say.

I nodded and turned to face her. “Then it is I who should be the one who asks pardon for the disturbance, my lady.” I suddenly saw myself bowing to her. (What are you doing?!)

The girl obviously was not used to being called a lady. “It’s alright, I guess. I’m done anyway.” She started studying me. “Sir, I suggest you don’t call me a lady because I am not.”

“Just as I am no sir,” I said as I bowed again, this time, taking her hand and attempting to kiss it. She pulled her hand away and reeled back, her eyes in caution. She observed me. Yes, I would also think that I was suspicious. Any man in a black suit was suspicious. Even with my perfect blond hair and well built figure. The women loved me.

“Perhaps I should return the question to you then,” she said seriously. “What brings you to this side of the graveyard?”

I smiled almost menacingly at her. “My answer will not be anything close to what you have answered me earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

I ignored her question. “Most would be afraid around this area,” I said. “Much more suspicious it is to find a girl here alone to visit the grave of a person whom she doesn’t even know.”

“First of all, I am not most,” she said sternly. “And second, I don’t understand why you should care—“ I raised my brow at the sudden halt in her dialogue.

“I-I said I didn’t mean to disturb the grave of…your relation,” she said. She almost said it as if it were a question.

“He/she is none of my relation,” I said.

“Then you are also trespassing here.”

“I am not trespassing any grounds here, miss,” I said. I also wondered why I suddenly changed my usual dashing air. Perhaps seriousness is contagious these days. I paced to the sepulcher and placed a hand on it. “Malcolm knows me quite well.”

Her eyes widened and fear was soon plastered on her face. “Y-you’re a—“

“Yes,” I interrupted her. “I know every corpse that was buried here.” She’s shaking now, unable to run away because I had cornered her in the ruins. My deadly demeanor did not falter. “And perhaps I also know their stories.”

She was backed up against the wall and was about to scream when I closed the gap between us and covered her mouth with my hand. She was trembling and struggling in my grasp when I cocked my head down. I, too, started shaking. I started to loosen my grip on her and she froze in place, looking at me in horror.

I was giggling. “I am the caretaker of the graveyard, silly!”

She fumed and pushed me away. “Oh my God, who do you think you are, scaring me like that?!”

I stood and brushed myself clean. “I am so sorry, I just haven’t laughed in a while.” I gave her a smile.

She still looked at me stubbornly for what I had done. As I looked at her, I realized that there was one question that I had been asking myself since the start of this all: Why does she still stay? I tried to answer my own question by walking away from her and looking around the mausoleum again. I could sense her eyes watching me. I bent down and started raking some of the old leaves away with my hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked. I just glanced at her.

She later approached and bent down beside me. We patted that area clean until I found what I was looking for. It was an old and dusty bronze plate. I took it in my hands and started cleaning it. When I finished, I stuffed the cloth back into my pocket and showed her the engraving.

“Abiit nemine salutato,”she read.

“He went away without bidding anyone farewell,” we both said at the same time. I looked at her a little surprised. “You know Latin?”

She kept her eyes on the bronze plate, caressing it with her dusty candle-like fingers. “Yes. My father was a Medieval Historian.”

She looked at me with her eyes seeming truly delighted for the first time. “He was fluent in Latin and taught me when I was little.”

By the way she spoke of him, I knew the good man was dead. “My condolences.”

She nodded. “He was the thought that brought me here.”

“Isn’t a graveyard the last place you wanted to be for comfort?” She nodded again.

“But it is also the first place I want to be,” she said sadly. “My earliest memories took place in a graveyard.” I nodded in understanding at her. I did not want to pry.

I found this amazing somehow. When I was little, just the thought of a corpse terrified me. But now that I’m older, I find out that graveyards are not just the final resting place of the dead, but this is also where the transformation of the living take place. They all change because of their loss. I stood.

“I’ll show you something,” I said as I offered a hand to help her up. She took it.

We walked to the entrance of the mausoleum and I knelt down to the left stump. I started moving my fingers around the stone, feeling for the little gap.

“This mausoleum was one of the finest in this graveyard before a terrible storm came and unfortunately, one of the largest branches of the oak fell and destroyed the façade,” I narrated. “It is also in this sorry state because no one has come here in so long. No one visits.” Soon, I found the little latch and the stump opened a secret door. I took its contents and faced her again.

“This used to be hanging above that door.” It was a golden plate this time and it read, Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.

“So passes the glory of this world,” she said. “But…why did—?”

“…the memento mori say something so grim?” I continued as I stared at the plate in my hands. I looked up at her. “Why do you think so?”

She stared at it for a moment and then reached out to touch the letters. “The outside contained something happy—something fulfilling—yet the inside held something much like regret. “ She faced the iron gate of the mausoleum with a melancholic gaze. “They are connected.” She looked at me. “It’s his story. So passes the glory of this world a shame he went away without bidding anyone farewell. That could be the case. He seemed to be a great man with many accomplishments and a lot of people loved him. But he failed to see the love until he died.”

I couldn’t help but get lost in her eyes at that moment. She looked back at me, but with remorse as if she knew me.

“Either that or he was tragically misunderstood. His works remembered but his memory was not, considering that—as you said—no one ever visits this part of the graveyard.”

“Well?” she said after a while.

“Well,” I echoed. “You truly have proven that you are not most.” Perhaps I was imagining that she reddened at my comment. “And you’re right for suspecting why I should care if you’re here.”

“Well, you’re the caretaker. You must know all that’s going on in the graveyard.”

“But you must know that there is more to that,” I said gently. “I thank you for bringing music here again.”

“You’re welcome,” she said gratefully. “My father made it.”

I nodded. “Beautiful. It was made with love.”

She blushed a little and this time, I knew I wasn’t seeing things. “Would you like me to bring it here again?”

I can’t help but smile. “That sounds wonderful.” I looked around us and saw that in a few moments, the sun would set. “It’s getting late.”

She looked around too. “Oh, I suppose you’re right. Thank you for your time.”

She took a step to leave but then quickly faced me again. “Uh, I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten to ask for your name,” she said.

“Oh... yes,” I stuttered. “We were both quite distracted, eh?”

“Quite,” she said. “Overall I was distracted because I’m not used to seeing graveyard caretakers dress so nicely.”

“Well, I’m trying to change the status quo,” I winked, fixing my cufflinks. “I can’t look like a corpse myself in the event when an unexpected visitor suddenly arrives.” I cleared my throat again. “My name is Henry,” I said. “Henry Allen.”

She nodded. “Henry.” It would’ve been ecstatic to hear her say my real name.

“Yes. And what might I call you?” I asked, for the first time in a long time, feeling excited.

She smiled and brushed a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. Really, why do women do that? “It’s Luke.”

I blinked for a heartbeat in disbelief. “Your name is Luke?”

She nodded and grinned. “Yes. L-U-K-E. Luke Erstill.”

“You are a Latin speaking, grave lurking, past reading, beautiful young lady… named Luke?”

“Probably,” she laughed a little. “I always loved that reaction.”

I chuckled. “What a lovely name then.” I extended my hand. “A pleasure.” We shook and maybe held hands a bit longer than intended.

“Farewell for now, Luke.”

“Farewell for now, Henry.”

I hope she didn’t notice how cold my hand actually was.