THE UNDERTAKER and other Macabre Tales

THE UNDERTAKER (Part II)

The grave was nearly full now. He filled in the earth with a few final shovelfuls. Then patted it down, packing it in tight.

The moon shone bright in the sky. The Undertaker was used to seeing by moonlight. His eyes were accustomed to it. Most found it difficult, but he had adapted. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

The visitor was here. Now. Kneeling in front of one of the graves, not a hundred yards from where the Undertaker stood. He was writing in that little notebook of his. The Undertaker's heart beat fast in his chest. This was his chance, if ever he was going to have one. This was his chance to find out what the man was writing.

The Undertaker set down the shovel, but a shadow of fear crossed over his mind, and he went back and retrieved it. Better safe than sorry, he thought to himself. Night was when evil rose, when it thrived. It was better to be prepared.

With each footstep, he felt his heart beat faster, louder, he could feel the blood pounding in his head. The man hadn't moved. Hadn't noticed his approach, he was so focused on what he was writing.

The Undertaker was only ten feet away. He stopped walking. He suddenly realized that he didn't know what to do next. He hadn't thought this through, he only knew that he had to speak to this man. Had to get close to him. He watched the visitor for a second, before the man turned, and looked right at him!

But there was no fear in the visitor's eyes, as there were in most when they saw his face. The visitor didn't even look surprised. It was as if the man had anticipated his arrival. It's like he knew he was coming...

"Is there something you want to ask me?" The Visitor inquired. His face was clean shaven, his neck hidden beneath a folded collar of his wool coat. His clothing, his speech, even the way he talked seemed to be from another time.

"Yes." The Undertaker managed to croak. His heart was pounding so fast, he was shocked he even managed to get that out.

"You want to know what it is I'm writing."

The Undertaker felt a chill run down his spine. The Visitor stood, and the Undertaker caught a glimpse of the writing in his notebook. It was not English, but it was not any language the Undertaker had ever seen. "Yes," he managed to say, his voice weak, barely a whisper. His body quivered with excitement "I've seen you before."

"And I've seen you." the Visitor said handsomely. Was it possible for a voice to be handsome? The Undertaker thought so. He thought the man was very charming. And he felt a tinge of jealousy. I wish I could look like that. I wish that was my face.

The Visitor smiled, almost as if he could read the Undertaker's thoughts. He sat down atop one of the gravestones, oddly comfortable here in this yard of bones. The Undertaker thought about telling him to get off, that he shouldn't disrespect the dead, but he wanted to hear the Visitor's answer. He didn't want to scare him away.

"I'm a writer, though I guess you'd gathered as much. I hear stories, and I collect them, here in my book." He tapped the black book proudly.

"What do you do here, then?"

The Visitor smiled. "I must admit, I am no ordinary bard. My stories are unlike any of those you've likely heard. Or told yourself. No, my stories are authentically, and entirely unique," his smile grew wider now, and the Undertaker had the distinct impression that this man was hiding something. "You see, I have a gift. Why do I come here, you've asked me. I can't blame you for being curious, in fact, I welcome it. Seeing me day after day. It must be eating away at you. Well I've come to give you your answer. To scratch your itch. I come here, my good sir, because the dead speak to me. I hear them, as clear as you hear me now. They whisper, they tell me things. Things they want to get out. They have no one else to talk to, you see. But I hear them, and I hear their stories. The dead have some awfully chilling stories. Would you like to hear some?"

The Undertaker didn't know what to make of this man. Scary stories, here, in the middle of the night? It seemed harmless enough. And his itch was not yet scratched. He knew his answer the second the question escaped the Man's lips. "Yes. Go on."

"Good," the Visitor said with a grin "Then you better get comfortable."

He opened the book, and began to read...