Cemetery Boys

A silence settles over the countryside, even the roads are empty. The Sun hangs low over the pale blue sky of early evening, trees casting ghastly shadows. All is still, save for the yellowing leaves swirling just above the ground and the gentle sway of crops in the large, golden fields. Not far from this quaint scene, the rhythmic patter of footsteps can be heard.

They're going to the cemetery again.

It's the same every week, and it has been for an incredibly long time. They go through the open countryside, past the golden fields and long twisting roads. They enter through the ornate iron gates, which are never closed. They walk past rows and rows of graves, which become more scattered and worn the further they go. Sometimes they pass the groundskeeper, who would nod and tip his hat at the pair. Soon they pass the last of the crumbling stones and ascend up the hill. There, they stop, sitting underneath the tree, beside the lone grave of a Sir Henry Parish. They watch the sunset, as the sky fades from blues and purples to a soft orange, and in the tranquillity of the evening the pair are happy.

That is, until the sunset fades to darkness.

Raven, despite his dark, morbid name, is terrified of the night. As soon as the sky darkens, he clings to Chris, asking if they can leave.

Chris, of course, denies this request, and instead mumbles soothing words to the fragile boy with his name like death and hair like silver and freckles like stardust. He tells him stories, none of which make very much sense, yet they still help, and so the weekly night in the graveyard begins.

They walk, reading the names on the graves, mapping out fictional lives for each and every person.

For example, there's Camilla Craine, Raven thinks she was a witch. She died young though, public hanging, he guesses. They found another, a boy by the name of Alexander Craine. He was the witches son, although he never knew his mother. At the young, tender age of eight, he was accused of sorcery and burned at the stake.

This goes on, for hours and hours, until the noises begin. Chris claims he cannot hear them, and Raven buries his face in his shirt, clinging onto him as though his life depends on it.

"Chris they're coming closer. Chris we have to leave." Raven whispers, trying to convince him to leave.

Chris never wants to leave, he would live in the cemetery if he could. He used to try to soothe Raven, but after years of trying, he gave up. He'd give into the heavy breathing and panicky whispers and silent tears of the terrified boy. Then he would walk him home, make him a cup of tea, and put him to bed. It's always the same, nothing changes.

At least, not until that night.

Raven was hearing the sounds again, holding onto Chris, whispering as tears slipped down his cheeks. But, for some reason, Chris would not leave.

"Raven, look, I think I've found Camilla Craine's husband." He had said, pretending everything was fine.

"Not so loud!" Raven whispered, his eyes darting around nervously. "They might hear us."

"Jesus Raven, calm it down with the delusions--" Chris said rolling his eyes. As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He knew Raven couldn't help it, but he just wanted to spend more time in the cemetery. It was only on these trips to the cemetery that he could leave his own life behind. He looked at Raven, to see an expression of hurt on his face.

He apologised, and put an arm around the small, sobbing boy.

"Take me home." Raven whispered, avoiding eye contact with Chris.

"Raven, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, really, I--"

"Shh. They know we're here, Chris, take me home." Raven interrupted, eyes focused on an open space between a small mausoleum and a statue of an angel.

Chris nodded and they made to leave, Raven still trembling whilst tears fell down his freckled cheeks, as he strained to keep quiet.

They were at the gate, about to leave, when Chris realised he had dropped his phone. Raven, who was eager to leave, tried to pull him away, but Chris stayed put.

And that's when it happened.

It arrived quickly, as though It had appeared out of nowhere, which perhaps, It had. It was difficult for Raven to tell what had happened, for as soon as It arrived, with that putrid smell of decay, he tried to hide his face in the back of Chris' shirt, only to find Chris yanked from his grasp. He did not see It, but he did see what It was doing. He saw as Chris was sliced open from his gut to his chin, he saw as the blood ran and his organs spilled out with that sloppy sound, he saw the look of agony on his face before his life was brutally snatched from him. And so, feeling more terrified than he had ever been before, Raven turned and ran, as far away as he could get.

A month later, the fragile boy sits on a bed in a bare room, in a small mental hospital. He gazes out of his window, watching the sunset, admiring the pale orange sky and the rose tinted clouds. If only he could watch it from the hill.

His door opens and a nurse enters. She wears a saccharine smile on her face, although, if one were to see her everyday wearing that very same smile, just as Raven had; they would probably start to see it more as a malicious grin.

"How are you feeling today, Raven?" She asks him, sitting down next to him.

"I'm feeling quite alright." He replies, still gazing out the window.

"What happened at the old cemetery, Raven?" She asks, that smile still plastered on her face.

"I hit my head and had a concussion. I dreamed a boy was killed there, but that didn't really happen." Raven responds, trying his very hardest to make himself sound genuine.

The nurse hands him pills and a cup of water, and gets up to leave.

"You're getting much better, Raven. I think we can let you go home soon." She says cheerfully, and leaves Raven alone in his bare room, with only foggy memories and questionable events for company.

A silence settles over the countryside, even the roads are empty. The Sun hangs low over the pale blue sky of early evening, trees casting ghastly shadows. All is still, save for the yellowing leaves swirling just above the ground and the gentle sway of crops in the large, golden fields. Not far from this quaint scene, the rhythmic patter of footsteps can be heard.

He's going to the cemetery again.

It's the same every week, and it has been for an incredibly long time. He goes through the open countryside, past the golden fields and the long twisting roads. He enters through the ornate iron gates, which are never closed. He walk past rows and rows of graves, which become more scattered and worn the further he goes. He passes the groundskeeper, who nods and tip his hat in his direction. Soon he passes the last of the crumbling stones and ascends up the hill. There, he stops, sitting underneath the tree, beside the lone grave of a Sir Henry Parish, where he meets the confident boy, with his dark hair and tanned skin, and they watch the sunset, telling tales of all kinds to one another.

Nothing has really changed, and it seems, that nothing ever will.