Rain pattered down on the roof of the coach as he folded up the letter, slipping it back into its envelope safely where it belonged. The coach bounced and rocked along the old path in the mud as he sat in the dim confines, alone. Coldshore Cemetery. Farther inland from Coldshore Harbour. The cemetery was ancient. A part of old history, having endured for centuries untold. Perhaps, even thousands.

It resided in the cold, damp fog of the murky forests that filled the coastline here up north, and since man was always so ornery about rituals in death, Coldshore Cemetery only grew wider over the centuries. Graves built upon graves, crypts, sprawling outwards ever more. Surprisingly, the cemetery was still manageable for one man alone.

Although, keeping graves wasn’t exactly a hard pressed job. But Coldshore was unique. The undead were not uncommon across the world. From the scourge of those who fed on the blood of others in the shadows, vampires. To the beings that dwelled farther down south on the opposite coast of the continent in a place called The Shroud. The undead, the undying, were everywhere.

Scattered across the world in all of their numerous forms like mankind itself, like the ancient, enduring remnants of magic, and all the forms it could take, alongside creatures of wonder, the undead were a part of life. But what made Coldshore Cemetery so profound, was the sheer number. It was as if the cemetery were a well of sorts.

A collection, an indent on the land that drew souls to it. Why, he could think of no other place across all the world where the souls of the deceased walked so freely and appeared in such number. Which was why the long, and storied history of gravekeepers who had called this place home had a reputation. For they were more than just merely gravekeepers.

And now, he was stepping in to fill the role. Stepping in to fill the shoes of the man who wrote this letter for his successor. Under the dim light in the coach he listened to the patter of rainfall on the roof and looked outside beyond the windows to dark and fog. The letter, written by Cromwell. The man knew what it was to be a keeper of the dead.

Musing on the path that led him here, the long, winding road, tiring to him. A world he wanted to vanish from, and disappear from. The coach came to a sudden stop, lurching him back to things. No matter. He was here now. Slipping on his hat and a thicker coat, he opened the coach door to the black of night, lit only by the light of the lamps on the outside of the coach, and now, the light of an old building, not far away.

Before him stood the gates of Coldshore Cemetery in the night, given some shape in the darkness and rain by light that shined through the windows of an old building behind them, ancient cobble and a simple, hayed roof. The sound of heavy iron was heard as a figure pushed through the blustering rain towards the coach in darkness.

He could barely see the man as he strode towards him, and was barely even given a greeting as the man spoke up in the rain.

“Right, you’re the replacement then?”

“That I am.”

“Right, I’ll not spend another night here! I’m just a courier for this place. I’ll take your shopping lists and bring you what you need. Get your bags ready. This place is all yours now!”

In a hurried manner the man went round to the back of the coach as the driver steadied the horse up front. The driver spoke now.

“This place. Spooks horses. Best if we all moved this along.”

In silence the three men hauled trunks of luggage out to the only source of light in the rain and dark, promptly dropping them off at the steps of the old home at the gates. Through the light of the windows he could make out the man a little better but never got a chance to say anything, as the last of his trunks were dropped off and in hurried silence, the man quickly went out beyond the gates to the coach.

The driver, a man more courteous, stayed behind, if only for a moment, tipping his hat in the rain.

“I wish you luck sir. This job is not one so easily shouldered.”

The driver held his hand out, and he took it, shaking it firmly.

“Did you know the old keeper here before me? Cromwell?”

Under the darkness of his hat the driver nodded.

“Only vaguely, sir. I am but a ferryman. But I hear the fellow who watched over this place was the one who found him.”

“What happened?”

The coach driver chuckled.

“What else? He died.”

With one last tip of his hat in the blustering rain, the coach driver turned, walking back out to the dark beyond the house, closing the iron gates behind him. That was it then. He was the Gravekeeper now. The sound of leather straps and a horse making to move far away from here was heard alongside the creaking of the old coach. He looked out from the dim light that shined through the old windows of the house to the darkness beyond.

There was nothing. Only wind and rain in the night. Well. That settled it then. He stood on the stone step to the house, feeling the patter of cold rainwater on his hat. May as well bring his luggage inside for the night. He’d sort things out in the morning.

Grey skies dawned under a dim light in the morning, as the rain continued, albeit slower than the night. The small cottage of sorts, he quickly discovered, was very well built despite its appearance outside in the night. It was warm. Welcoming. And not a spot of cold water to be found here. A simple space really, a bed, a desk, and all around him, books. Stacks of paper.

With only a little room left behind for his own things, he found spots to nestle his trunks into and use them as chests of sorts. He mused on the cramped space, all the books here, and wondered why they were left behind. And on closer inspection, he soon understood. The books, and stacks of paper were records.

Some were records of the dead brought here. And others, were records and documents of the instructional kind. Upon skimming through pages and pages, he’d found them all signed by Cromwell. It made sense, perhaps. One needed time to occupy themselves out here. And so Cromwell had prepared things for others. And, as if on cue, like it were planned, he opened up the drawer on the desk by the window, to find another envelope. Signed to, “The New Owner.”

He looked outside the old window to dull grey beyond outside. Gravestones, hills of them as far as he could see. Crypts. And the borderline remains of the forest that surrounded this place, standing tall in the form of very ancient trees among the graves. Thick iron bars taller than the house he was in surrounded the perimeter of the cemetery, held together by immense stone pillars and cobble walls, vanishing from his view behind the hills.

He could wait a while. There was no real rush involved with the dead after all.

He stared down at the parchment, folding it up and placing it into the envelope before sliding it back into the desk drawer. He looked out to the cold grey skies outside the window, tinged with fog and mist, over hills of tombs and graves, some cast under shadows of ancient, twisted trees and their gnarled roots. Well. That was certainly informative.

   Cromwell’s letter set him at ease somewhat. Maybe it was the way the man scrawled across the parchment. Like he was talking so sure of himself that he knew someone would come to take his place after he was gone. He thought about it. And he almost felt…..reasured? As if the old and now previous Gravekeeper was waiting for him. Expecting him. Wrote everything down in this house, just for him.

   He looked out to the graves beyond the cold window. Was the previous keeper out there, somewhere? He found the idea rather funny. What if he was? And he bumped into him as a shuffler? In the silence of the house and the vague sound of the wind outside, a sound resounded through the door that almost made his heart skip and knocked him out of his chair.

One.

Two.

Three.

Three, slow, heavy knocks on the wood of the door. Silence and wind howled outside the walls of the house. The grey sky and fog, unchanging.

One.

Two.

Three.

He scrambled up to his feet, suddenly, aware. Aware of the reality of things. He was surrounded. By graves of the dead. Dead who could rise and come back, and walk.

One.

Two.

Three.

The knocks continued. And fear, found itself traveling up his spine. The fear of something. Something beyond the door. As it knocked, yet waited for him to open it. He tried to picture it. What would be waiting for him outside. He couldn’t do it. He knew, that inches away through the wood, outside, right now, there was a corpse. The fear. The paralyzed stillness was beyond him. He had never known this before.

One.

Two.

Three.

And then, reassurance found him. Carefully written words from somebody who’d been doing this long before he ever set foot here.

“….or when they find you, give them a trinket.”

He nodded. That had to be it. He faced the door, and closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, and counted, in hushed breath alongside the knocks.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

His hand found the latch on the door and he pulled, listening to the creak of old iron hinges, and for one brief moment that fear overwhelmed him as he pressed beyond the veil of what was unknown, and into reality. The latch unhinged, the door pulling back, his heart skipped, breath stopped, frozen in place as the old iron hinges groaned, and the door opened.

   And there it was. Looking at him. Decay so old that the corpse was dry. Thin, bony shambles of what remained of it stood in the doorway, staring at him. He was paralyzed. It had no eyes, just empty sockets, an ugly visage of missing teeth as its mouth was stretched dry and there were no lips, accented by the hard bony features of its skull through the remnants of skin that once clung to it.

   But in the place of its sockets, a dull light flickered. And through the shreds of the clothing it wore, under the visible ribcage pressing through a skinny frame, was a dull glow. But as the wind howled along, and the moment passed, the fear, the shock, all faded. The corpse raised an arm, bony fingers curled with one left pointing to him.

   He looked down at himself, to see the pocket watch dangling from his pocket. He raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly. He grabbed the watch, holding it up.

“You want this then?”

Grabbing a dial on the back of the watch, he twisted it, and the watch clinked and clicked. The dead corpse before him stood taller, eyes alight with wonder. He closed his own eyes. It didn’t even have eyes. But the lights in the sockets of bone. He felt like it still had eyes.

   Slowly, cautiously, he held the watch out on the chain, dangling it over a bony hand that extended so much faster than bone and tight dry flesh would have eluded to. He dropped the clinking watch into the awaiting hand, and the corpse clutched the watch close, holding it up to its head, as if trying to listen to its inner mechanisms, before clutching the watch close to its heart in both hands, before it turned, slowly, and began to shuffle away from his door.

   In the fog, he watched, as the shambling being hobbled along the path, through graves upon graves, and disappeared into the mist. He closed his eyes, exhaling deeply as he realized that he’d practically been holding his breath the entire time. He closed the door, slowly, looking out to the fog, the graves, and listened to the howl of the winds.

The latch clinked, the door shut.

Something, suddenly changed. Coldshore Cemetery suddenly took on a strange light for him. It was all so……real. Not an hour ago, a corpse, dead as dead could ever be, stood at his door, and knocked. And then left, holding a trinket in hand that had excited it. It was all so alive.

   And he realized, that Cromwell’s letter was real. The words the man had written, his explanations. He had done all of this before. He had encountered everything he had spoken about. And it finally, arrived at his doorstep and dawned on him, that he was the new gravekeeper. This place, was his job now.

   Over a kettle of tea and somewhat shaky hands, he read through Cromwell’s letter in the desk, running over and over again through his notes. He looked outside, catching the fading light of the day. He set his cup down on the desk.

The wisps. The lamps.

None of them were lit. In a rush, he stood up from his chair, and found his heavier coat, and his token hat, slipping them all on. The door creaked loudly as he stepped outside this time, out to the strange world he now called home.