Why do the marble headstones show death dates that haven't occurred yet? Which mourners place fresh flowers on graves that were never dug? What lies beneath the mausoleum door that requires three different skeleton keys? And why does the groundskeeper's shovel strike something that isn't earth in every plot?
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Within its gates I heard the sound Of winds in cypress caverns caught Of huddling tress that moaned, and sought To whisper what their roots had found.
― George Sterling, The Thirst of Satan: Poems of Fantasy and Terror
The morning mist clung to Millbrook Cemetery like a shroud, refusing to lift despite the climbing sun. Eliza had accepted the groundskeeper position out of desperation---three months of unemployment had drained her savings, and the isolated nature of the work suited her preference for solitude. The previous caretaker had simply vanished, leaving behind only a ring of keys and a leather journal filled with cryptic observations about the grounds.
Her first week passed quietly enough. She learned the rhythms of her new domain: the morning sweep of fallen leaves, the careful tending of the older sections where marble angels watched with blind eyes, the evening ritual of securing the wrought-iron gates. The journal’s entries seemed like the ramblings of an eccentric mind---notes about certain graves being “active” on specific dates, warnings about avoiding the eastern corner after sunset, detailed charts tracking the phases of the moon.
It was during her second week that Eliza began to understand. She noticed it first in Section C, where the Victorian monuments clustered together like a stone congregation. The earth around three particular graves---all bearing dates from 1847---remained soft and dark, as if recently turned. When she checked the burial records, confusion gnawed at her. According to the ledger, these plots had been filled over a century ago, yet the soil looked freshly disturbed.
The journal’s warnings about the eastern corner proved prescient on a Thursday evening when twilight painted the sky purple-black. As Eliza made her final rounds, she heard what sounded like a child’s laughter echoing from behind the mausoleum of the founding family. Following the sound led her to a small section she’d somehow overlooked---a cluster of tiny headstones, their inscriptions worn smooth by time and weather. The laughter stopped abruptly when she approached, replaced by a silence so complete it seemed to press against her eardrums.
That night, sleep eluded her in the cottage at the cemetery’s heart. Through her bedroom window, she watched pale figures drift between the headstones---translucent shapes that moved with purpose, congregating around certain graves while avoiding others entirely. By morning, she found fresh flowers on graves that had been barren the day before, and footprints in the morning dew that formed patterns around the monuments, as if the dead themselves had been dancing.
The journal’s final entry, dated just days before her predecessor’s disappearance, contained a single line that chilled her blood: “They’re not resting anymore. Something is calling them up.” As autumn deepened and the nights grew longer, Eliza began to understand that Millbrook Cemetery was not a place of eternal rest, but a waystation for something far more ancient and hungry---something that fed on the boundary between life and death, growing stronger with each soul that refused to stay buried.
