Chapter Text
All it takes is a twinge in his bad knee for him to know the weather’s bound for a turn. Never mind the blue skies and tepid breeze. His knee says rain, so he starts his day a little earlier than normal to get done with his work before it hits.
He opens his curtains as his coffee brews, taking in the sight of the sun bouncing off the tops of the headstones. A hearse rolls slowly down the lane that runs down the side of the cemetery, likely coming from an early morning service. He'd like nothing more than to enjoy the quiet but his knee aches again, and reminds him to get a move on. He takes his coffee with cream and sugar and his eggs over easy and heads out for the day, not bothering to lock his door behind him. He lives in a little cottage on the back end of the cemetery. All his neighbors are dead, who does he have to worry about sneaking in? There’s plenty of people too superstitious to set foot in a cemetery, let alone live in one. Not him, not really. He’s seen his share of strange things he’d rather not try to explain, heard and told his own stories of creatures and spirits. Caoineag weeping through the night, nuckelavee skulking along the coast. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that there exists more in this world than he can comprehend. But the souls of people, he believes, have somewhere better to be than alongside his house peeking into his windows or knocking things off his shelves. That’s what he keeps the cat for.
Today John has to mow grass, plant the new fall bulbs in the garden and mark a plot to be dug tomorrow. Sometimes it feels like he’s more of a gardener than a cemetery keeper but he’s not about to complain. They could make him dig the damn things himself. Fortunately for him the ground here is too rocky and harsh for anyone to be expected to dig by hand, so they hire a backhoe to do the hard work. He just takes off the top layer of grass so they know where to dig.
By midday the grass is cut and he’s elbow deep in the dirt, making sure the soil is loose enough for the sprouts to cut through without issue. There are small, rounded gardens between sections of plots with signs directing visitors about. This fall they’ll bloom with gladiolus and autumn crocus, and greenery that’ll resist the coming chill. And those numpties that come traipsing in around Halloween looking for a scare and a place to get drunk.
“None of that,” he mutters, half to himself, half to the plants he’s nestling down in the soft, cool earth. “I’ll keep you safe, even if I have to chase the bastards off myself. I’ll take good care of you.”
He feels a little silly, but he has to take his companionship where he can get it. He's found there aren't many people willing to befriend someone in his line of work. In his back pocket his phone rings. Ugh, now his ass is gonna be covered in dirt for the rest of the day. He shakes his hands off as best he can and takes it out to see the caller. It makes him take back what he said about companionship.
“What d’you want, Keegan?”
“Don’t be like that. Got some work to keep you occupied.”
He rolls his eyes but there’s no malice in them.
“Go on.”
“Mr. Bronner’s kids called earlier. Tomorrow is his birthday and they’re all coming by for a bit of a memorial. Think you can get him cleaned up and looking nice before they get here? Been a while since he’s had a scrub.”
John looks up to the storm clouds rolling in on the edge of the horizon.
“Maybe.”
He doesn’t have a problem with it at all but headstone maintenance specifically is not his job - it’s Keegan’s.
“Doesn’t sound very committal.”
“It could.”
“John.”
“That takes time and you know it. It’s Friday, maybe I have plans.”
And he doesn’t, but what if he did? That’s a guaranteed way to kill a date. Sorry, I can’t make it tonight. I have to scrub a headstone after cemetery hours.
“Fine. Name it.”
“Seventy-five.”
“C’mon, man. I don’t get paid much more than you do.”
“Get paid enough to call me to do your work for you. Fifty and the day off Monday.”
“God, you’re an ass. Deal. He’s at 528B if I’m not mistaken.”
“Right.” He knows quite well where he’s at. “It’ll be done.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
As far as half coworker-half bosses go Keegan isn’t the worst. He’ll pass his work off on John, sure. But he’s close enough to the same boat to understand the pot needs sweetening from time to time. Truthfully he’s not too put out. He really didn’t have anything to do.
Once the bulbs are all planted and he’s gotten himself cleaned up he feels lunch is in order. Some benefits of living at work include the short stroll back home to heat up leftovers, and the big, breezy gazebo in the center of the cemetery that’s perfect to rest under.
While he munches on last night’s sausage and peppers he looks out over the sea of plots. The cemetery isn’t the biggest but it’s nothing to laugh at either. They see their share of services and visitors, making sure he never runs out of work. It’s not glamorous, but he’s never been one to chase glitz. No, he wanted to be of service, be useful. That didn’t happen. He reminds himself that he was a child, and it’s unfair to punish himself for making a child’s mistakes but it feels hollow considering what it cost him. He bites right down on a red pepper flake and sets the side of his tongue on fire. No sense in dwelling on the past. Not while there’s work to be done.
In the time it takes for him to get the good shovel from the tool shed the wind has picked up, whipping the trees into a restless sway. The knee never lies. It does, however, complain. The minute he starts in the direction of the plot it’s aching like all hell, cracking with every step he takes. Dramatic.
He doesn’t know much about the lady they’ll bury here Saturday. She was young, not much older than him. That’s about it. Where she served or how long he’s not sure. It never really dulls, that strange feeling knowing just how many people have beaten him here. To know that there’s nothing but the luck of the draw keeping him out of one of the very holes he digs. It’s scary, sure. But in a way it makes him feel even more alive. Reminds him not to take anything for granted. Death has never scared him any more than strictly necessary. Seeing it happen to other people, and seeing how shattered it leaves their families, though, is sobering. Through the years it’s tempered the burning abandon he wanted so badly to live his life with. Blessing and curse.
When the last shovelful of topsoil is deposited neatly in the pile he says a quiet blessing for the deceased and her family, and moves on to his last task of the day. Thick, black clouds are settling in the sky, dark almost like smoke. He hopes to every power he can think of that he’s able to get done before the rain starts. The last thing he needs is the stone cleaner washing off right after he’s applied it. He replaces the shovel and takes the jug of cleaner and the brush out. The air feels colder, sharper. It puts a pep in his step despite making his knee hurt worse. Fortunately for him 528B is just a stone’s throw from his house.
Augustine Bronner is one of a few of his neighbors that he knew in life. Everyone knew him. He was a big hearted old man that loved his family, a good glass of scotch and the Glasgow Rangers. He had at least something in common with everyone. His service packed the place fence to fence. He doesn’t have many wishes but to be that kind of person, the kind whole villages show up to say goodbye to, is chief among them. He wonders how he’ll make that a reality when he spends his time here, away from the living.
“Evening, Augie,” he greets as he approaches the plot. Keegan was right, he’s a bit grungy. “Mind if I clean you up a bit? You’ve got visitors coming in tomorrow.”
Before he starts he looks to the top of the headstone and sees the row of coins there. Some pennies, two dimes and a single quarter. He gently scoops them into his hand and puts them into his pocket.
“I’ll hold onto these for you, ‘s that alright? I’ll see to it they end up in the right hands.”
He gets started then, hosing the stone down with water, then with a generous layer of stone cleaner. He was only asked to clean Mr. Bronner’s, but what kind of gentleman ignores a lady?
“Mrs. Bronner, you look lovely as ever. Would you care for a touch up? Can’t let the old man have all the fun, hmm?”
John puts the coins dotting her headstone safely into his pocket and sprays it down as well. Side by side, the two of them for the rest of time. He knew Georgette Bronner as well. Wonderful lady, like a mother to the whole community. To him. Her and Augustine were like fire and smoke, never one without the other. Served together, and when it was time to come home they did that together, too. Raised their kids and a few they picked up along the way. Georgette went first, nearing ten years ago. Augustine followed within the year. Just couldn’t do without her. They looked out for him, the Bronners did. When the adults responsible for him couldn't be bothered they were there as if he was their own son.
“Try to act surprised when they get here, yeah? You know how Maisie gets about her plans.”
While the cleaner sets he pulls some of the weeds that have come up in the area. “And Connor, here’s to hoping he finally gave in and shaved his head. Lad’s been balding since he was nineteen, bless him.”
He grew up right alongside their kids. Spent more time at their house than his own. He got his share of teasing about how much time he spent around the Bronner girls but the thought has always made him gag. They’re his family as far as he’s concerned. Maisie the oldest, Donna closer to his age, and Caitlyn the youngest of them all. Then Connor, their son by birth and Rory, their son by luck. Some people’s counts include John as their third son, some don’t. That never really mattered to him, though. They all spent their youth roaming the backroads of town, not quite causing mischief but always in suspicious proximity. It’s been a good couple years since they’ve all been in the same place. It’ll be good to see them again after so long.
The dirt is starting to melt from the stones, so it’s time for him to get started.
“Heard through the vine that Rory met a lass this past spring,” he gossips as he scrubs. “But, I’ll let him tell you about it himself. I don’t think he’s over that fella from Inverness, what was his name? Hamish? Hamlet? I don’t remember. I never liked him, neither did Caitlyn. And don’t go askin’ me when I plan to settle down. There’s not a girl out there that deserves to get stuck with me.”
He jokes, but he won't deny there’s sadness in it.
“Donna tried to set me up with one of her friends, that went awful. All her friends are far too pretty for me. I think I’ll just keep to myself. After all, someone’s gotta stick around and keep an eye on you lot. Not all of us can run off into the sunset with our true loves like you two did.”
The air is starting to feel humid and the majority of the dirt is gone. After a rinse their stones shine just like the day they were put down. The text is clear, down to the matching inscriptions on the bottoms.
Love does not die with us, on Georgette’s.
It lives through us, on Augustine’s.
“Good catching up,” he says quietly. “Happy birthday, Augie.”
There are raindrops pattering on his back as he walks toward his house, gaining in speed and size. He has just enough time to duck under his porch covering before the downpour starts. He’ll take the cleaner back first thing in the morning, there’s no way he’s walking in this. Rain lashes sideways, soaking him even on the porch. He makes it inside just as a peal of thunder cracks through the air. It goes dark outside in a matter of minutes, night dark even though there’s still a good half hour to sunset. It’s a hell of a thunderstorm, and that’s all he thinks of it for most of his evening. He showers the day away, makes dinner and eats, sits in bed with a book. He’s getting sleepy when an arc of lightning streaks through the sky, thunder booms startlingly close, and his power goes out.
It’s dark and quiet for a beat, just the rain pelting down and the thunder. But the lightning shoots again. And the howling starts. It sounds like wind at first. A hollow whooo whistling in the distance. He would believe that’s all it is, if it weren’t for the uncomfortable feeling sinking into his gut. Against all his better judgment and all the warnings of old he dares a peek out his window around the side of the drapes. There’s not a single point of light. No stars, no moon, not even the lights that line the walkways or the street lamps down the road. Dark as death. Another howl of the wind, but this one makes fear spike into his chest. It isn’t the same hollow whistling. It’s throaty. Mournful.
John’s never jumped back into bed so quickly since he was a child. There’s something wrong about this storm. And somehow it feels like his glimpse into the void raging outside made something aware of him. Something. Why did he think that, and not someone? For the first time since he’s set foot in the cemetery he’s afraid. And for the first time since then he wants nothing more than to lock his door. He can’t force himself out of bed, though. Can’t bring himself to breathe louder than a whisper. God, how he wishes he had closed his bedroom door. It’s so dark he can’t see much, but he can just make out the shape of the doorway. Can’t take his eyes off it, in fact. It’s comforting that he knows the house so well, and what it sounds like when the old floorboards bear weight. They’re silent, so he keeps his calm. But despite how his heart hammers in his chest his eyelids are growing heavy. Abnormally so, like he’d been drugged. He’s cursing himself to high heaven for looking, for doing the one thing he’s always been told would get him into trouble - failing to mind his own business. Fight as hard as he may his head’s going groggy, and he’s slipping under. And the floorboards just on the other side of his doorway creak.