I've been commissioned as the keeper for the garden of the dead. But strange things were happening.

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Since then, I have buried 3 more without incident. and Still. Each time they watched. Wide, fascinated eyes as I dug. The only difference was how I went about it now. Quiet. Quick. Quit. No longer waiting to bathe in their praises or go down to the pub after for drinks. If I had known that Frank would be the type to turn down a free drink, all those months ago, I would have told myself, "Don't be Frank."

But here I am.

Still the keeper of the kept.

And perhaps in my fear, my isolation would have endured. However, when I began to miss a drink and a face to smile into. I slowly started returning to life back at town. Still, I refrained from the pub ' even when Ronald Atkins croaked and I bore the hole, of free drinks and singing into the night. Instead I chose the relative corners where the people minded their business. The library, the pharmacy, and the company of merry travelers at the edge of town.

It was in the library where I met Sam. She was lovely; if the word could fight for justice. And I had grown quite fond of her. Young, and in love. What a thing to be. Always polite, and bright. The gem in her eye was Nathan Dugunninghem, and from what I seen of sorts. A fine gentleman. He was seldom seen drinking in town. I would know. And he seemed equally as smitten.

So the morning he turned up dead in a radish field with all of his clothes on. And no money stolen from his person. The town was in an uproar. It had caused so much concern, that a young man of Achnought, seemingly in good health, would be found dead. Enough for the Priest to find refuge with me at the cemetery.

"Well liked." He clicked his tongue. "Nothing but good things to say about the boy." He passed me the flask in his hand. "Except..."

"Fine lad."

"-the things they say about him in town." The Priest looked at me, red in the face. "Did you hear about them?"

I wished I lied, "I've heard what they said. But to me it seems normal for a chap to care for his. Normal anywhere else."

"So you knew them? Then you'd know it wernt his. Were it."

I stood up.

The Priest followed, "They called him stupid. Foul names." He took another swig and then nudged it toward me.

"No, I'll be frank. Dangerous to drink anymore and mind the field."

"I mean. What kind of man would care for another man's son? He was asking for it. If not from the boy's father than the ghosts of his ancestors." He grabbed at his foot, "Bloody-." And kicked at the rock, "What the hell is that doing here?"

It was a rather large thing. For I had used quarry stone and some marble, leftover from the burials as markers. Some were larger than a man's back, big thick slabs, I hauled.

"Keeps the gnats at bay."

"W-what?" The Priest looked baffled as he swung wildly in every direction.

I had lined rocks against all of the suspect trees, they ran in a near straight line along the ridge.

"Gnats? I don't see any gnats."

I nodded.

"I think my foot is bleeding."

I was afraid of what the Priest looked about doing. For his boot was off and his sock, too. But before he could ask, a familiar figure ran toward us from my corner cornea. It was Paul McConnelly. He was waxing and waning as he approached. "Fellas," he panted. "I've got," I handed him a handkerchief. "Terrible news. Oh, thank you."

"What is it man," the Priest sounded annoyed, "Spit it out."

"There's trouble. Trouble," he gasped. "At Netter's field." He motioned, "Quick. You need to come Father," he urged the Priest. "It's Alan Netter. He's digging."

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The scene at the farm was solemn when we arrived. The workers were lined up outside the barn. Their faces stern and unflinching. Mrs. Netter was in a fuss. She seemed the only thing moving. "I'm so sorry," she kept apologizing. "For bringing you down here Father."

The Priest nodded, "How long has he been at it?"

"The others found him in the northwestern plot a few hours ago." Mrs. Netter pulled on the Priest's sleeve. "Oh Father. Please help him."

"When was the last time anyone's seen him?"

"This morning, about six. He woke up to check the livestock per usual."

"Frank," the Priest told me. "If I can't coerce him out. I'm going to need you to ' by force."

"What's going on Father," I asked.

"Can you do it?"

My questions were halted as we rounded the barn and in swift sweeping synchronization our feets came to a stop in front of the stone wall that came up to my waist. Out in the field, the sun coming down behind him, a hellish red kiss, cast the dark figure of Alan Netter, shoveling at the dirt. He pulled back the handle and plunged it into the ground. The manic way in his arms. And his lips that kept gibbering. I could see the dirt fly but no hole. The sight made me tense in my bones. Afraid to stir Farmer Netter. That he would notice me standing out here in this open field with nothing in my hands.

"Alan," the Priest called out.

Netter's head shot to the sky as if smelling the air. And then resumed digging.

The Priest motioned for the three of us to circle him. Paul was to my right as we made good to surround.

"Alan," the Priest spoke gently. "You're going to need to stop now."

Paul spooked easily next to me when Alan jerked violently from the ground. We stood rooted until he resumed digging. Now, I'd known shovels all my life, handled them well. Familiar with their shape and use until it was no more different than a pencil. But now all I could remember were how heavy they could be. The thick cast iron tip, raised and porous head that would tear even the sun hardened skin of a worker.

The Priest was now close enough to put a hand on Alan's shoulder. It was a big mistake. I saw the lunge start from his feet. It twisted into his midsection, as his shoulder arched the shovel over his head. We scattered like ants.

"Someone grab him," the Priest shouted.

Only to come swarming back in like bees.

Paul rushed in and I heard the sound crack against his head. His body stiff as it fell over. The Priest took the chance and grabbed an arm. Tucking an elbow deep into his chest, screaming, bloody screaming for me to subdue angry Alan.

I froze.

"Someone help!"

It was Mrs. Netter screaming. But the workers lined outside the barn didn't move a finger. They only watched. I could see the fire from the torches light their faces.

"Someone," the lady begged.

I was surprised as any, when I saw Paul get from his knees toward Alan. The shovel swinging in the air. And Paul clung to that raving stark figure. His eyes were closed. So I shut my eyes too and yelled as I rushed in. I felt us tumble to the ground. Taste the dirt in my mouth as I scrambled to my feet. Alan dived onto the Priest's chest. I tried to pull him off. But there was an unexpected strength behind the older man's frame.

"Put him down!" The Priest gasped for air between the blows raining down on him. "Put. Him. down."

But I was already shaking so hard, that I couldn't think of what to do. And my next surprise came when the daintier Mrs. Netter grabbed the shovel from the upturned ground and kicked it into her husband's thigh. He howled violently, as he turned to stare her in the eyes.

She met his anger with another blow from the shovel. And then another. He twitched. And then one other.

Alan collapsed above the Priest. And it took us a few moments to pull up the pair. I had the Priest under one arm, and Paul was practically carrying Alan Netter.

"Back to the house," the Priest spit onto the ground. There was blood in it. "Where's his hole?"

"What," I asked.

"His hole, Mrs. Netter," he shouted. "Where is it?"

"In the main house," she told him.

The Priest nodded, and she led the way.

When we drew close, the workers slowly started coming closer. Their eyes still dark in the firelight. But not once did they help us. Only watched. Their eyes followed us up the steps, and inside the pastel yellow house with a wrapped porch in darkened walnut.

The entire floor was bare. All the tables and chairs. The sofa. Stood in the dirt. The bright yellow light over the dining table ' swinging back and forth, mimicking the scream I wanted to emit as we drew deeper inside. The hallways narrowed and the dirt floor was kicked up from our tussling boots. I coughed as the door creaked into the last room at the end.

It looked like any other room. Except for the barren floors. It had a dresser. Some books. A writing table. A lamp on that writing table. Except. Except there was no bed. Instead in its place were two deep holes. Behind them, what looked to be pencil shavings in hay sized bales.

"Put him in there," the Priest directed.

"No," Mrs. Netter suddenly objected.

"What? Why," Paul huffed. I could see the sweat had resorted to a pour upon his forehead. Smell him.

"That's my hole," she claimed.

"Put him in his then," the Priest groaned. "Just hurry Paul."

When we finally placed Alan Netter into the hole. The Priest gathered the shavings from behind, and began packing the unconscious man in good. The Priest motioned for us to help. And even with the 3 of us. It took nearly an hour to finally finish.

When we were done the Priest leaned back against the table and proclaimed, "He'll be good in the morning."

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For most parts of the way back to the cemetery. We walked in silence. When the town neared, Paul said something and with a nod he drifted off a road, down. I kept walking. My body sore from my ordeal. The Priest never stopped either. Not even when we passed the Church. Nor when the last lights of town ebbed. I knew he was coming with me back to the cemetery.

"Did you want to talk," he asked. "I suppose it's time you know." He scratched at his head. "Did you see the hole? The one Alan was digging in the field."

I didn't say a word.

"I don't know when it began. Some say it was when we took the native land from its people. When we first built Achnought. Some say it's older. That we brought it here from across the pond. No one knows the specifics. We just know that every few years. The digging stops. Stops getting as deep. It starts off alright. Perhaps as far as a man could want it to go. In the beginning. But as the days stretch on. The years. The hole gets less deep. We dig it. And throw it away. But it starts to fill itself. That's what happened to Nathan Dugunninghem. Shame. Good lad. Young. Even if. Well you know."

I still hadn't spoken a word. Unsure of what to make of it.

"You should have seen it. When we found Nathan in the field. He had cleared nearly a quarter acre of topsoil. And he never got more than 2 inches deep. The place looked like a war field. Scarred. All over the land." The Priest looked at me uncertainly, "Come on Frank. I need you to say something."

I had been watching him carefully this entire time. His hands had been irregular beneath his clothing. I was afraid he would hurt me if I didn't go along, "Why do you need me?"

The Priest smiled, a tired crinkling. "Somewhere in the years. A rumor that an Achnoughtian only has a few number of digs in his life. An invisible counter if you'd believe it." He laughed just thinking, "It's why all the field hands are from Murieta. As the townsfolk won't do any digging themselves. If they can help it."

"Why not get someone from Murieta then?"

"They won't do it. We've tried. Not anymore."

We had finally reached the cemetery. I took a right turn. I wanted to avoid taking him back to the house with me. So we climbed the ridge. Moonlight danced among the trees. "What happened to the last groundskeeper?"

"He left. Hey. Honest to God's truth." He held up his hands. The first time I could see them clearly. "Someone in town came one day and reported that the place had been emptied. Jack Portas, the man was. He up and left."

"Why was Mamie Strue sitting above her grave?"

The Priest chuckled, "I don't know. Mamie was one of the good ones. I fully expected her to be kept. But they spit her out. Or." He paused. "She broke out."

"Her husband," I recalled.

"What? Donald?"

"Yeah. When I put her in the mausoleum. I saw her get up, and go stand next to him."

"She always did love that...no good. No good speaking ill of the dead." He patted his face. Sweating.

"What about the trees?"

"What? What about them?"

"There's something funny with the trees." I turned and looked him in the eye. "They're moving."

We were now at the peak of the ridge. Surrounded by the tall white birch.

"The trees? No. There's nothing wrong with the trees. Frank. It's the cemetery," he spread his arms below us. "Shit." Then he laughed, a hollow sound. "Nearly scared the life out of me."

I turned my attention below us.

A small figure stood in the graveyard. I've seen those wobbly knees before. Knew every row by heart. Knew the grave. It was Sam's little boy. He had come to stand before Nathan Dugunninghem's grave. Afraid to come during the burial. Afraid of what the townsfolk would say. The boy stood there now with tears streaming down his face.

"I didn't say anything. Not really," the Priest murmured. "At Nathan's service." He clicked his tongue, "I regret that now." He turned to me, "I'm quite envious, you know? I didn't expect Nathan to be accepted by the dirt. Especially not when I learned that he lost his depth so early. Shame. Just when I thought I had it all figured. It throws in another wrench."

"He was a good man," I answered.

The Priest nodded and pulled the flask from his pocket. Raising it. "Here's to a better man than me. For many have called him foolish. But to one child he was love. And that means more than that which is born from hate."

"Amen."

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