A Collection of Gothic Short Stories.

The Grave Tender

Merging an assortment of dull grays and smoky whites created the amalgam sky, the air smelt of a storm. Coating the grass was an undisturbed dew, drab greens and light browns shined weakly from rays of a suffocated sun. Clouds, heavy with water, sent a thick breeze, rustling shrubs and disturbing trees as it passed; a wind that pierces clothes and stabs spines, making men hold themselves for warmth. There was seldom peace about earth at this place; creatures didn't stir, flowers didn't bloom, and trees never gave fruit. There was no action, no reason to. In fact, nothing dared to move; at chance it would shatter the invisible force of peace that encapsulated this place.

Suddenly, as if a glass dropped, peace broke into a million pieces and dissipated into the nothingness from whence it came. Owing to the footsteps of the burdened man that annihilated it. His slow, irregular walk, like a fading heartbeat, crunched and sloshed with the dew coated grass. Even though he was well beyond the age of wandering, he trudged on at his pace. For fear of future destruction of peace, nature did not welcome him, winds seeped into the thick cracks of his weathered face and in between the feeble stitching of his clothes. With eyes filled with water from the breeze, his wrinkled visage distorted in bitterness; before the man was a clearing of times prior. Spreading a synthetic field was a mess of dilapidated structures.

Long before , man came to disembowel the land, pulling everything from its roots; the land molded and terraformed to fit their needs, a verdant forest transformed into a plain of shrubs. Taking claim over this place, mankind dug in it's roots like weeds and suckled the land of life. Even though their roots were deep, like the trees before them, men ripped from the ground, abandoned the land and left it to it's healing. Overtaken by weeds, shrubs, and grasses, the path of towns past faded, barely even rendering itself known save for a slight valley where the path met other foliage. Lumbering along the path, vegetation snagged his ankles and ripped at his clothes and flesh. Peering from building to building as he limped, his chest tightened at the sight of familiar buildings in foreign conditions. Ensnaring every home was an abundance of thorny brambles and poison ivy as though nature itself corrupted and distorted about this place. In the process of approaching his predetermined destination, nature grew more wild; vines clung to limbs and winds tested balance. With the weighty breeze, his pace slowed to a crawl.

The next minutes we spent in agony. But even so, he would not yield. Fighting for each step, every one a victory in battle. Before him was his destination, hidden behind this arduous path. Realizing his goal, a new-found vigor consumed him and lurched forward to overcome. Giving his life as a passion filled him, his face burned red of both pumping vitality and blistering winds. Boiling blood and chilling gale collided as he endeavored. In the event that any man observed his struggle, an epic birthed of the man who challenged the land with all his being; every action a labor, his chest quivering as it struggled to draw in breath, every step shook the earth, vines trampled and slaughtered mercilessly beneath his feet, and his valor was wrung, squeezed of every last bit of life like an orange drained for juice. At last, nature had conceded, a moment before himself. The path ahead surrendered and his destination drew near. During the time of his approach, the grass shifted below his feet, mutating from thick dark green strands to short, murky and dead-looking. What is more, no plant would venture near his destination, as though something about it was insidious in nature. Approaching his destination, the setting became clear, he flinched as a familiar sight tickled his weary eyes, a somber sentiment diluted the air and weighed on the chest.

A drizzle started, drops of cool water kissed the man's cheeks and consoled his restless soul. At the center of the field, where the melancholy radiated from, a cemetery stood isolated and in disrepair. Among the rubble of cracking marble tombstones that mark the skeletons of men long forgotten, a sight beamed of pure light. Laying on a bright slab of pearly stone, a lady of fair skin and gold hair sleep peacefully. Her chest rose and fell softly in her deep yet gentle sleep. Among the ruined scenery of a decayed matter, she laid in her perpetual sleep, never changing; her gold hair always blew gently in the wind, her shining supple white skin always bounced back from the rain. She is the pinnacle of beauty, no matter the circumstances surrounding, always glowing; a consistent beauty that persisted, as the town, life, and fellow graves faded into oblivion, she remained, gleaming, fair, and graceful.

Next to her angelic figure, a knight was prostrating before it. On a sword, all his weight was placed delicately, every haggard breath creaking the devastated breast plate atop it. Even though the knight was in such poor condition, the spectacle was dazzling. In the gray rain showers, in armor, covered in rust, mud, holes, and dents, in grim conditions, arms straining to grip the blade, legs quivering in weakness, chest heaving in raspy pants, old blood soaking through rotten clothes. And still, he was marvelous, loyalty overflowed within the broken decaying armor, the form shuddered in fatigue yet there was so much strength in overwhelmed muscles, so much love in the prostration that never minded circumstance; the truest love the old man would ever see. For a moment, the world stood still, the genuine unburden loved broke the causality of time, the old man could only think and watch.

Not long after, the moment passed and the knight rose to unsteady feet, swaying to and fro like a dandelion in the wind; in a slow and solid motion knight met eyes with the old man. The power held in weakness, the strength in solitude, the liberation in love; it was a spectacle, the most beautiful thing to ever behold. He served only his heart, the master of his mind; it was loyalty of the most selfish kind, he remained beside that angelic woman, in her defense, of his own will and love. No man or being could ever be as free as him, the crumbling armor was weightless, wounds never burdened their master, weakness wept from pores and open wounds, even still and always, the strength of his devotion overcame. All the old man could feel was awe and envy, he saw the chains and shackles that caged him to the earth; he was not here for his own reasons. Clutching his heart, he screamed at the knight, words spat with venom.

"You crazed, wicked lot! Vile and selfish is he who looketh down upon the earth as thine and self as lone of kin!" A brief pause followed, as the old man waited for a response of any kind, none came.

"You make of yourself a fine fool, to fathom that adoration triumph all of God's flock! We are damned and cursed by Eve and Adam of foolish choices as these! Must we recount gaffes and overflow of sin?" The knight would not hear his words and rage boiled within him.

"Fool! We of honest heart suffer at her hands! Her presence consumes the life of ours as a leech! Wheat scant yield save for weeds, babes have no milk to suckle from the teat, our cows present ribs and a browned milk! Knight! Nay Jester! If ye shall not yield, blood of the righteous will spill!"

The waves of wraith crashed against the unwavering cliffside, words would not falter him. Both knew what had to happen, and both knew the outcome. Drawing a knife from his hip, he rushed for the knight, the immovable tower of selfish servitude, almost immortal. It was hubris to think he could challenge such a strong soul, his ruin was here. With an impartial movement, the knight pierced his chest with his decayed sword. Immediately, he felt weak and his knees buckled like a newborn calf. As he fell, the old man lamented himself, of his failure, he changed nothing, people would still starve and crops would still die.

The ground was cold and damp on his back and soft raindrops rapped against his skin, in his fleeting life he thought much. Blood flowed outward and knowledge flooded to take its place; even though there was failure, life would carry on, there would be more seeds and there would be another spring, his body would join the earth and his soul with heaven. There would be another to challenge the knight, his great purpose was to die here. Peacefully, death came.

Shoveling through dirt and mud, the knight dug a hole suitable to house a body. He laid the man to his rest and return to the woman's side, prostrating once more. In the ebb and flow of time, there was one place that distorted reality; peace in death, life with indescribable purpose, and immortality of virtuous love. Forever this place would be, outside of time and space, yet directly connected to it; fueled by the boundless love of a single soul, the Grave Tender. Here, in his grave yard, there are only three things: life, death, and love.