THE CARETAKER
Brian D. Holland
(Genre: Horror)
(Originally published in Nocturne - Edition 4.5, Dec. 2005)
He'd often wave to me.
I could barely make him out, as he would emerge only as a distant shadow in the murky cemetery. He'd be standing alone, axe in hand, surrounded by ceramic crosses and granite headstones, all eerily illuminated by the soft light escaping from the equipment shed’s opened door. I always had a flashlight with me, too, so I’d aim it in his direction immediately after getting a vague glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. Then one night, probably because I was finally getting used to him being there, I stopped to say hello.
“Crawford’s the name,” he said.
“Billy Lineman,” I said in return. He smiled while shaking my hand, and said that he liked me right off the bat, as he respected those who weren’t easily intimidated by the graveyard at night.
I had shut my flashlight off, so the glow spilling from the shed supplied the only means of visibility in the eerie necropolis. Though the old man had given me the impression that he was accustomed to this late night scenario, he also appeared to have been exposed to it for way too long. He had the eyes of someone who had seen many strange things, for they were bedazzled, as if frightened into a petrified and glassy state. Even when he laughed, those eyes kept their distant, cold stare. He appeared slightly crazed, yet at home amongst the darkness and the gravestones, and whatever else that may have been lurking about.
“What brings you through the bone yard, Lineman?” he had asked that first night. I explained to him that I worked the second shift in the factory on the other side of the woods. I went on to tell him that cutting through the cemetery on foot was my fastest route home. I was still quite nervous, as the act of making graveyard acquaintances seemed awfully strange to me. The axe he held didn’t do anything to ease my apprehension either. And to make things worse, I remembered the television anchorman saying a killer was on the loose, and possibly roaming the general area. I realized Crawford wasn’t the killer, of course, mainly because he'd been the cemetery caretaker for at least as long as I’d been cutting through it. However, the thought of murder only augmented the eeriness of the situation.
“Keeping busy?” I had asked, more to break the silence and conceal my fright than anything else. As silly as it may have sounded, it made sense because the ground was full of tools and gardening equipment.
“Sure. This is when I get most of my work done,” he replied. “I’ve a couple of young guys to help me during the day, so that’s when I sleep.” Crawford went on to say that he felt at home during the evening and early morning hours and that it was his favorite time to work, primarily because distractions were minimal and no one was around to bother him. "The dead don't interrupt me," he went on to say, "Only the living do."
"I guess that means me," I said. He just grinned, and then invited me into the shed. Though I wasn't too keen on the idea, I went along anyway. He showed me around the place while we chatted some more. I was much more relaxed by then, and even though his eyes still displayed that faraway gaze, it was more reassuring to converse in the light of the shed than outside in the dark. He turned out to be a pretty nice guy actually, interesting as well, and he made me feel good about my decision to stop and say hello.
Old man Crawford and I eventually became friends. Every night after leaving the factory, before finishing the rest of my trek home, I’d walk around the back, over the rocky path in the stream, through the woods, into the cemetery, and down the road to Crawford’s shed. We’d always have a good chat. Sometimes I’d help him with a project or two, as the old guy often needed a hand. I even helped him dig a few graves, and we took turns hauling the wheelbarrow loaded up with tree roots and rocks down the path to the woods. Afterward, we’d sit and have a beer or two. He had a grill set up next to the shed for late night meals. I was often hungry after work anyway, so that worked out just fine for me. Sometimes he’d start cooking the burgers without me, knowing I’d be along shortly. I’d get a good whiff of that smoky grill upon entering the cemetery and realize immediately that I was in for a tasty midnight snack, a thirst quencher, too. After a while the cemetery didn’t spook me anymore. We’d sit there eating sandwiches, downing beers, and relaxing with the soft wind whistling through the trees, and everything was just fine. I’d look at it as a perfect nightcap to whatever kind of day I may have just had.
I got to know the old man pretty well after a while. I felt kind of sorry for him, though, because he had had a pretty rough go of it, and he was all alone in life. After losing a son in the war and another in a car accident, both in their late teens, his wife was finally taken from him as well. The remnants of a once happy existence consisted of his small house at the far edge of the cemetery, his old dog named Boner, who was getting on in years as well, and his night job in the lonely graveyard. Nevertheless, he’d get all perked up and happy when I came around. It brightened my evening as well, especially since I was too wound up to go right home after a night’s work anyway. So, unsurprisingly enough, I started looking forward to the company of my new nocturnal friend just as much as he looked forward to mine.
However, the old guy still had the tendency to spook me.
“I just work here,” Crawford once said, still holding the axe in his hand. He appeared to hold the damn thing out of necessity, as if he was afraid someone might come along and grab it. Even after placing it down, he’d habitually look back, merely to confirm that it was still where he’d put it. “Six nights a week ... haven’t missed a shift in thirty-seven years,” he added. “I dig the graves, lay the headstones, cut the grass and weeds, trim the bushes and trees, and clear the paths.” He then paused, and just stared out at nothing with that icy gaze of his. I awaited his next words apprehensively, because I realized he was going someplace that scared even him. “I don’t have to watch over this place ... if you get my drift,” he finally said. I looked at him skeptically and shook my head, as if to say ‘No, I don’t get your drift’. He moved his head closer to mine, and said, “They see everything.” His eyes shifted back and forth, encompassing the hundreds of gravestones that surrounded the both of us.
Yeah, I was spooked all right.
But I never took the old-timer too serious. I just thought he was getting on in years, his senility worsening maybe. I’d often catch him talking to himself when he didn’t know I was looking. Sometimes he’d appear smack-dab in the middle of a damn good conversation, wild expression and deranged smile on his face and all. I got used to that, too.
But then came that strange night in early autumn.
Each oddity led right to another.
I didn’t realize I was without my flashlight until I reached the stream. Just when I needed it was when I remembered that I had left it in my locker. It was the only night I had ever been without it. With it, I could see where I was walking, and step from stone to stone over the stream. This time I had to rely more on the memory of where each steppingstone was located. Not completely in the dark, as the factory’s rear spotlight shined in the distance, intermittent moonlight as well, it was still too dark to make out all of the stones. Sure enough, though, I became quite pleased with myself upon realizing that I was actually making it to the other side without slipping or falling into the frigid water. However, just as I was about to put my right foot down on solid ground, I lost my balance and fell. In an effort to keep from getting wet, I instinctively grabbed a nearby stone, which turned out to be quite jagged. It cut deeply into the palm of my right hand, and blood began seeping from the wound. I couldn’t see it very well, but the wetness appeared black in the dark of night. I then lifted myself up from the damp ground and began walking into the murky woods. Like the stream, it wasn’t in total darkness, because the moon still had the ability to shine down through the cluster of tree branches and leaves wherever possible. I eventually reached the cemetery road and started down it, blood dripping sporadically from my hand while moving along. This part of the walk was relatively easy because the path was a straight, flat surface. I soon reached the usual spot and realized immediately that Crawford wasn’t there. All I saw was the lonely equipment shed beneath the moon, which was fairly bright at that location that night. There were no tools lying around, and no grill situated next to the closed door. I was stunned, as I hadn’t anticipated this at all. The old-timer was always there.
“Crawford, where are you?” I said just above a whisper. I then strolled around the shed and cased the area out, dumbfounded by the fact that he wasn’t anywhere to be found. I scratched my head while looking about, unaware that I’d just smudged my forehead with the pasty blood from my hand. On impulse, I walked up to the door, tried the handle, and found that it was unlocked. I decided to enter and browse around, primarily to find something to clean the blood from my hand. After fumbling with the light switch a bit, I flicked it on. The interior didn’t look all that unusual, but the tidiness of it surprised me. I could tell immediately that nobody had been there that night. Maybe he didn’t feel well and decided to take the night off, I thought, attempting to ease my thoughts. But that idea didn’t sit too well with me, mainly because I remembered him being so vigorously alert the previous evening.
Something is wrong. I can just sense it.
Finding the paper towels, I ripped off a few plies and started wiping the blood from my hand, all the time in deep thought of my present dilemma. Although it didn’t seem like much, I knew something was seriously wrong. Crawford always came to work, six nights a week anyway. His only night off was Saturday, and that was mine, too. Looking about, I saw a phone at the end of the table. I’d have called him if I knew his number.
“I wonder if it’s written somewhere,” I said, thinking aloud, “so other employees can reach him.” While continuing to scrub my hand, as the bleeding hadn’t yet subsided, I strolled over to the end of the bench. It was then that I realized I didn’t even know his first name. All along I knew him only as Crawford. Looking closer, I saw telephone numbers listed on a piece of paper tacked to the wall, but I couldn’t associate any of the names with the old man.
Suddenly the phone rang, and then the light went out.
I was in total darkness.
I picked up the receiver immediately, yet apprehensively.
“Hello,” I said.
“Lineman, is that you?”
“Yeah, Crawford. Where are you?” I asked, relieved to hear his voice.
“I fell earlier. I tripped over ol’ Boner while taking out the trash. That damn mutt don’t move for shit no more. Crap flew everywhere. I sprained my ankle pretty badly.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Ain’t your fault. I just thought I’d call to see if they replaced me with anyone. Figures. They can’t even get another living soul to work the graveyard shift in the graveyard. I’m irreplaceable!” he said, with a chuckle. “What are you doing there anyway?”
“Oh yeah, right,” I said, suddenly realizing that I had no right to be inside the shed. “I fell and cut my hand down by the stream. I had to find something to clean it with.”
“You all right, kid?” he asked.
“Yeah. Funny we both get hurt on the same night. And other than the light going out just as the phone rang, I’m fine.”
“What?” Crawford asked immediately. I could sense the uneasiness in his voice.
“The light went out just as the phone rang,” I said again. An eerie pause occurred, emphasizing my abrupt feeling that he knew exactly what was happening.
“You’d better get out o’ there, kid,” he said, breaking the silence. “As I had told you before, there’s more to that place than meets the eye ... at first.” His words made me more nervous than I was previously. I had a sudden urge to flick the light switch a few times, but it was over by the door, a good distance away in the dark.
“Just leave,” Crawford said in an odd, demanding manner.
Suddenly, I felt a presence!
Although I couldn’t see anyone, or anything for that matter, it sounded as if the place was filling up with people, one by one. I could hear the rustling of feet and bodies, and soft whispering as well. Eventually I saw shadows lurking about, moving objects that were blacker than the darkness of the unlit shed.
I was terrified.
“Crawford?” I inquired with an uneasy stutter. But the line was dead.
The gleaming eyes were staring at me!
The whites of them were bright, some even with a yellowish glimmer. In the otherwise pitch-blackness of the shed’s interior, the eyes gawked at me. I shook uncontrollably and my mouth gaped.
Then the light came back on.
I didn’t know if the apparitions had actually departed or had become imperceptible in the light, but either way, I was still extremely frightened. I trembled while looking about the shed, awaiting the next occurrence.
Then the wooden door creaked open slightly. A body shimmied into the shed.
Although the individual had his back to me, I was almost certain it was Crawford. Simultaneously, and only vaguely translucent in the dim light, I saw the staring eyes in the shadowy corners of the room again. Faces were faintly perceptible as well. That was even more alarming, as the wide-eyed expressions appeared frightened for me.
“What’s going on, Crawford?” I inquired nervously. With his back to me still, my question went unanswered, as though he didn’t hear it. It was then that I noticed he was holding the axe. Though nothing out of the ordinary on typical evenings, this was far from typical. I started to back away from him.
He turned and looked at me.
I saw a stranger.
Whoever the person was, his expression was a confused mix of terror and malice. He sustained a crazed stare while slowly opening his mouth to speak. “You've been bleeding,” is all he said. Then, the individual I had originally thought was Crawford broke into insane laughter. I thought of springing by him and running off, but my legs were frozen in place.
“What do you want?” I inquired, hoping the stranger might come to his senses. Instead, he swung both his arms back and heaved the axe right at me!
It landed into my chest with a solid thud.
* * *
Yup. That’s how it happened.
I had heard the rumors about a killer running loose. But you know how it is; you never think it’s going to happen to you. I was wrong about the intruder’s identity, of course. But Crawford had an uncanny instinct. You see, the angel of death had roused him a few times before, and that same insight had entered his head when the intruder was closing in on me. He knew something was wrong.
I no longer eat or drink, but I see Crawford cooking away on his grill almost every night. His eyes still have that crazy gleam in them, and his face is bursting with expression. Not only when he’s chatting away at me, but when he’s talking to his wife and sons, too.
They’re all here.
After all, this is our home—and Crawford is the caretaker.
His wife calls him Harold, by the way. That was the first name on the list in the shed.
Even ol’ Boner, who died not long after I did, is here. He never leaves Crawford’s side anymore, in the cemetery anyway. Dog on one side, axe on the other. His family is very nice, and he has a bunch of close friends. I like them all, and they’ve accepted me into their little clique. In fact, it was all of them who were watching me, all wide eyed and worriedly, that fateful night in the shed. They knew what was coming; they possess that kind of intuition. Evil exists here as well. They’re the ones with the yellow glimmer in their eyes. We ignore them, just as we did in life. Crawford likes to scare them with his axe. He’s kind of a control freak that way.
Yes, sir. Ol’ Crawford loves his cemetery job.
He hasn’t missed more than one night in thirty-seven years.
