Creepypasta

They can hear you (~part 1)

Hai /.\ okay guys so this is quite a long story so I'm dividing it into different parts /.\ still not sure how many tho :v anyways enjoy!
^---^
(=•w•=)~

Eleven P.M., Monday...

"And that's pretty much the gist of it, you got all that down?"
In the mental notebook that was locked deep within Greg's concentration, he did manage to get it all down. His first night on the shift was going to be a smooth one if he had anything to say about it. Greg wasn't too pleased with the gig, but if it meant getting paid during the time where his college loans had just become his worst debt collector than he wasn't going to screw this up.
Greg Cassidy, a young fletching twenty-three year old anxiously waiting for his chance to prove his worth Having graduated from college only four months ago with a bachelor's in accounting, Greg had hoped his proving would immediately come in the form of filling out people's taxes or heading his own firm. Some might have called him determined; others might have simply called him an idiot. But after multiple denied applications and the sheer financial weight of student loans, Greg couldn't afford to wait around for his big chance.
And so here he was, getting trained on how to operate the graveyard shift in the most ironic of places, a graveyard. After looking through the help wanted section of the paper and finding the night shift at the local grave yard was likely his best bet (due to simplicity and his minimal knowledge in fixing pipes), he applied and got called back within two days. Plus the pay was pretty nice too, fifteen dollars an hour to play night watch for a bunch of corpses. At least it would be a nice money maker until he landed a real job in his field.
"Yes Sir Mr. Foreman," Greg replied. "Got it all up here."
Greg was sitting in the employee's lounge across from the lumbering foreman. A beefy looking gentleman with a deep voice and a beard pulled straight out of Norse mythology. Greg had thought that the man looked right to be in a foreman's position. If anything were to disturb his graveyard, he looked more than capable of dealing with it himself.
"Good to hear," the foreman said. "Now you said your name first name was Greg, is that right Mr. Cassidy?"
"Yes sir," Greg said.
"And how old are you Greg?"
"I'm twenty-three sir, fresh out of college no less."
"Yeah, I noticed that on your resume. Well let me tell ya something Greg. I'm thirty-one, so cut the 'sir' shit. Makes me feel like I need to be in the ground out there with the dead. We go on a first name basis around here; helps lighten up the whole doom and gloom of working a graveyard if you catch my drift. While I may be in charge around here, think of me like one of your close friends and not your boss. And call me Crawford while you're at it."
Greg was aware of doom and gloom, he had read enough ghost stories in college to last him a lifetime. Some of it came from one of his elective courses in gothic horror during his junior year, but most came from a fascination with the arcane. The surge of adrenaline that came with being scared late at night while thinking there is something moving in the darkest corner of his bedroom was fun to Greg. For a brief moment Greg actually got excited for starting work tonight, he figured he would feel right at home.
"Sure thing Crawford," Greg said.
"Good, than I guess that covers all the formalities. I'm going to call Jim back so that you could join him tonight on your watch. In the meantime get your gear from the storage locker in the next room. Once you got the stuff you'll head out and start working. Remember everything that I told you and you'll do fine. It's a pretty simple job when the people you're watching are dead."
He gave Greg a pat on the shoulder and motioned for the door that lead to the storage room. As Greg went inside he could hear Crawford conversing over his walkie talkie, most likely to the guy named Jim that Greg would be spending the rest of the night with. Greg was met with a couple of shelves containing snacks and assorted cleaning supplies and a row of lockers along the wall. Greg's locker was to the left of Jim's whose locker hung slightly open revealing itself to be void of any contents. To the right of Jim's was one belonging to a Ryan, and beyond that a final locker for an Ethan. The last two lockers were shut tight, giving Greg the notion that only he and Jim were going to be out on duty tonight. He was hoping that Jim had some experience in this line of work; not because Greg was frightened by working a graveyard at night, but because he didn't want to be the new guy who messed something up on the first night.
Greg opened his locker accompanied by the creaking wail of the metal hinges of the door. Inside he found a long belt with multiple holsters hanging on a metal hook. On the top shelf he saw a flashlight, a single walkie talkie, a few double A batteries, and a folded map of the cemetery grounds. As he lifted the belt off the hook and lock it around his hips, he began to whistle to the tune of "Pop Goes the Weasel."
Before he could finish the final notes, Crawford called out from the lounge.
"Hey Greg, is that you whistling in there?"
"Yeah it's me," Greg replied. "Sometimes I whistle to pass the time, been doing it since I was a kid."
"I know I didn't mention it before, but don't do that while working your shift. Remember what I said about doom and gloom?"
"Helps lighten up the whole doom and gloom of working a graveyard..." he wasn't too fond of the consideration of having to give up whistling while working on the job. For as long as Greg could remember, he always had a compulsive need to whistle. Odd as it may seem, not only did it help him ease boredom, but it also allowed him to think and focus when his mind wasn't up to the task. He remembered many times in high school and college when he would get in trouble for whistling during an exam. He couldn't comprehend not being allowed to whistle on the job; especially since he had a bachelor's degree to prove whistling didn't lead to total failure.
Still, Crawford had a point when attributing whistling to doom and gloom. Greg recalled a scene in Disney's "The Legend of Sleepy Hallow" where Ichabod Crane whistled during his trek through the dark forest only to be hunted down later by the headless horsemen. Greg figured he could put his vocal chords on hiatus during work, even if he knew it wasn't likely that the headless horseman would ride out and kill him if he did.
Once Greg had all his belongings holstered into his belt, he shut the locker door with a loud clang. It was then that he looked up on the inscription that was centered on the locker. He hadn't noticed before, but behind the metal frame drilled into the door where the locker owner's name would be placed was a small note card with his name scribbled in black sharpie. The other lockers had fancy etchings on their doors, small plaques that signified their own personal quarters. While he wasn't upset he didn't get the royal treatment, Greg figured that the brevity of time between now and being hired didn't allow for Crawford to get a new name plague of his locker. He also deduced that from the creak in the door hinge the locker wasn't placed their just for Greg, it had a previous owner.
Greg made his way back through the lounge and to the front door. He noticed Crawford sitting in a chair watching highlights from the football game with a freshly opened can of Bud Light in his left hand. Before Greg could turn the knob to head outside, curiosity over took him.
"Hey Crawford, was there another guy here before me?"
"Huh? Oh yeah, he had that locker before you. He left the job about two weeks ago, that's why we put the help wanted ad in the paper."
"Why'd he leave?"
Crawford took his gaze off the television, looked to Greg, and gave a smart assed smirk.
"Because he whistled too much. Now get out there and make sure those bodies don't get out of bed."

~/.\ [credit to original author] okay guys so that was the first part I'll try to keep up and post all the next ones as soon as possible :3 night night lovelies