The Lost Graveyard.

by David Thomas

Aren’t any of you scared by this? It’s all moving too fast. I can’t make sense of it. This is not supposed to happen.”

  She started to beat her fists against her chest “It’s not supposed to happen to me, I’m fat, I’m boring, and I’m just a normal person.”

  She then fell awkwardly to her knees, hiding her face with her arms. Then did something that made us all jump. She screamed at the top of her lungs. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS.” then collapsed onto the floor and cried bitterly to herself.

  Doc rushed over and knelt down besides her, touching her calmly on the head with his palm, “Mary, its ok, its ok.” He said softly.

  I could see a thin grey line starting to appear on the horizon.

  She looked up at him with a face full of tears. “I don’t want to be here. I want to be with my family. I want to go home.”

  “I know, I know. We all do.” He reached out his hands towards her. “Here take my hands, please. The dawning is coming. I’m sorry - we have to go, Mary.”

  I watched as he then pulled her up and walked her back very gently to her grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Mr Kydd put out the last of the fire with his foot. No one else spoke as we each walked back to our own graves with, Mary’s scream echoing in each of our hearts.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS. I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS.”

  The party was over.

  The next night we gathered around glancing nervously at each other, making small talk. Doc didn’t come near us - he just wandered down to the far corner of the graveyard and sat on a gravestone with his back to us. Sam as usual sat under a far tree alone as well.

  With a look of concern on his face, Mr Kydd quietly spoke to me. “What’s wrong with him, Sexton, why doesn’t Doc come over to us?”

  I looked over to, Doc, he looked like he was up to something, but I couldn’t be sure. “I don’t know, Mr Kydd I really don’t know.”

  I turned back and saw, Mary and Scar glancing at each other, but nothing was said. We just kept all the fear and confusion about last night to ourselves.

  After a few hours, Doc walked back over to us. He looked odd.

  “Some of my colleges must have left some papers and a pencil in my jacket. You’re not the only one with considerate friends, Scar. And with them I’ve been doing some maths and chemistry equations.”

  He showed us a handful of complex looking notes; he folded them neatly in half. Then put his hands behind his back and addressed us like the scientist that he was. “I need to speak to you all about this - we need to talk.”

  We were made silent by what he sided. Scar got out her pack of tarot cards and began shuffling them, but kept her eyes locked onto him.

  Doc’s face took on a more serious look. “I think I might know what’s happening here.”

  I could see, Scar shuffling her cards faster. Mary clutched her cross. Mr Kydd pretended to warm his hands by the fire - a strange look of disappointment was on his face. But still no one spoke.

  “Ok let’s look at the facts as we know them to be. One, we all came back from the dead. Two, we all have to go back to our graves when the dawn comes. Three, we cannot leave this graveyard. As you might have guessed, for the last few hours I’ve been trying to bring all these questions together to form an answer and this is what I’ve come up with.

  I’ve noticed from our headstones, we’ve all died at different times. You, George died in 1953, Scar 2004 and myself 1997. What I’m trying to say is this - somehow our bodies I think might have been frozen, like cryogenics. Maybe from that factory up there, do you see?”

  He pointed to a set of dimly lit buildings on a side of a mountain far from the graveyard. Green and orange smoke could just be made out oozing from its pipework. “Somehow their chemical waste up there has gotten into the ground down here and lightning must have hit this ground recently too...”

  Mary stepped closer to him and looked up into his eyes like a hungry puppy. “But we still have souls in us don’t we, Doc, don’t we?”

  He looked flustered at the question and her stare. “Well, maybe the chemicals mixed with our brains and bodies in some sort of way. Like I say cryogenics and all we needed was electricity, say from a recent thunder storm too in a very raw way boot us back up. To wake us back up.”

  George leaned up against his own gravestone towards, him. “Ok, so why are we all afraid of the dawn - of daylight then?”

  “I say it could be too much for us to bear. I think we’d go mad with the reality. Our consciousness I think can only work this out by the fact, that we all know ghost stories and horror films. It’s the only way our minds can relate to this, to the fact we’ve risen from the dead. The mind can only take so much, George.”

  Mary clutched her cross; she looked bewildered by it all. “I just want to find peace, that’s all.”

  “Yes, this is the point I’m getting to. If we could work out the reason why we died or what mistakes we’d made.... I believe psychologically no one dies without some kind of regret, something they needed to get off their chest. It’s one of the tragic things that make us human. We all leave a shadow upon our own lives.

  If we can do that, then that I think could somehow balance our subconscious out, to form some sort of acceptance for our conscious minds, that this is some kind of bizarre chemical accident and we don’t need to think of this as some sort of horror film or some sort of ghostly curse and in turn this could set us free from this frozen mental state that we’re in. So we can...”

  His voice dried up to a pale. “How do I put this the right way?” He glanced nervously around us. “So we can die again. And not ever come back.”

  We all stood there frozen. It was a lot to take in.

  He unfolded his papers and looked through them haphazardly. “I don’t know - the whole thing is just conjecture. I still can’t work out how we breathe down there in the dirt or how we don’t need to eat or go to the bathroom. I don’t even know how long that factory’s been up there or even if it’s leaking.

  But I can’t really see scientifically, even religiously any other way out of this mess. I know it’s a long shot. But I really can’t see anything else to aim at.”

  George spoke first - his voice was slow and thoughtful. “Ok, what if you’re saying, Doc, is kind of right? You sure as hell did some hard thinking about it and there’s a few fancy words in there I don’t really get. But can you tell me - how do we know it won’t happen again to another bunch of people. That factory will still be up there when we’re gone or how do we know this hasn’t happened before? Why now, why us? What does the lighting mean?”

  Doc breathed a heavy sigh and rubbed his creased brow. “George, maybe it was just the right kind of chemicals, the right kind of time, the right kind of lighting to wake us up. And to me this seems like this hasn’t happened before and won’t happen again. There’s too much that can go wrong, there’s too much balance to get just right. Maybe we were the only ones who responded to the chemicals. Maybe were the only ones who need to say something?”

  George stood up scratching his head. “So what you’re saying in a way is… It’s like when you get drunk and you’re lying on your bed. An all the questions, about all the things you could have done or should not have done coming flying around in your head. And for a moment, for one fleeting glimpse you can work it out, all of it and somewhere deep inside you, you except it, you just let it go.

  I think that’s what you’re trying to say here isn’t it? We need to get some thinking done, find some answers to unravel this thing. Doc, I think you’re on to something. It feels right to me.”

  “Thank you, George.” Doc said with a polite nod.

  Mr Kydd was the strangest one of us - he seemed to except all this mess and confusion without any fuss, even glad for the company. But you could tell just by looking at him, he had some sort of old world wisdom in him. He and Doc hit it straight off when we first arrived, in that bizarre kind of way that some people do.

  “My dear, Do
ctor, how can you say this is some sort of accident.”

  Doc looked at him blankly. “It’s the only logical conclusion I can think of.”

  “No no, I disagree with you my friend. This...” He smiled a deep smile, raised his arms and with his walking stick, pointed it towards each of us.

  We all looked at each other as if some greater mystery was about to be revealed.

  His voice became strong and straight like a stage actor. “This is opera.”

  We all stood back, aghast at what he said, it even made, Sam turnaround from where he sat alone.

  Doc turned sharply towards him, his face dumfounded. “What?”

  “Opera, Doctor. The place where the great clash of emotions sing out.”

  “With respect, Mr Kydd, this is the last place any of us wants to be.”

  “Yes, yes of course, Doctor. But I must say...”

  Scar spoke up - she’d been quietly reading her cards. “I’ve been studying my cards - I keep getting the same answer.”

  “What’s that then my dear?” Mr Kydd said and leaned over closer to her. “What do they say to you?”

  She held up three cards. I couldn’t see what they were. “Kind of like opera.”

  Mr Kydd pointed his walking stick towards her with approval. “Bravo my dear, bravo.”

  Doc waved his papers in the air. “Did any one just listen to me, about cryogenics, about electricity? This is a scientific problem with a psychological answer. If we...”

  Mr Kydd put his hand warmly on, Docs arm. “I’m sorry to be so artistic about all this, but its more, Doctor, everything is always more. The gods have chosen to play with us. Look my friend. I’m not saying you’re wrong - far from it, far from it indeed. I’m just saying, something’s you just can’t put into words, into logic, no matter how hard we try.”

  Doc ran his hand through his hair. “I just don’t know what to say, I really don’t.”

  George stepped forward and raised his hand. “Ok then, Doc - let’s put it to the test. I’ll give your idea a go. I’ll give it a shot.”

  Doc turned to him with a look of frustration. “George, look...”

  “It’s ok, Doc, you don’t have to say anything. I need this, I want too.”

  “George I’m not asking anyone to do anything they don’t want to, it’s just all I can think of.”

  “It’s ok, really, Doc.” George said reassuringly.

  He fumbled once with his tie and forced a nervous cough. He looked round to us all in a somewhat professional manner - as if he had done this many times before and then spoke in a clear voice. “My name is Smirnov, George Chester Smirnov. I’m, well was 47 years old and once married, no children. I used to run a...” he abruptly stopped and began to snigger to himself.

  Doc dropped his papers and put his hands out towards him. “Why don’t we stop there, George? It’s a lot to ask of someone. Just take a deep breath.”

  George waved him away. “It’s ok, Doc. Just had those crazy giggles you get sometimes. Sorry about that. Thing is, I used to own a funeral home. Can you believe that? I was an undertaker, I’ve given eulogies to hundreds of people and now I’m stood here, doing my own.”

  Again he half-giggled to himself at the thought, and then straightened his face out to a more controlled manner. “Well, I used to run a funeral home, had twenty people working for me, biggest in the county. There’s big bucks in death, believe me. And my wife then, Mildred found every reason to spend that money, I worked so hard to get.

  Yet it was never enough with her, she always wanted more. If she wanted clothes, holidays, cars you name it, she got it. Why I did this for her I don’t know. Maybe it was because we never really loved each other, never really shared anything meaningful. We were both just fooling ourselves into living the American dream, whatever that is. I’m really not sure. All I know is I was barely