Cemetery Spooks (Original Fiction)

Cold Beans

Sometimes a tin of cold beans could count as a meal. But for 4 nights in a row? Probably not.

They cursed their own hubris as they slurped down cold, slimy, wet spoonful after cold, slimy, wet spoonful. Alas it was the will of the gods that they should eat nothing but cold beans for a week. Literally. They lost a bet to minor deity, but at least she was kind enough to provide the beans, so that was something.

They kicked up their feet onto the bench and leaned back into the metal arm, it dug into their back but they didn't care, because it kept them grounded as they stared into the sky and shovelled beans into their mouth. Dark clouds boiled across the azure expanse from every side, threatening to drench the graveyard and all its inhabitants, the worms and ungrateful cadavers. The clouds were a nudge from a certain someone they had an appointment with in 5 minutes, but it was their place of peace, the friendly ghosts and spirits were family. So simply put, the gods can fuck right off because they aren't moving an inch until they have to. But some gods aren't huge fans of tardiness and prefer it when you turn up to meetings on time. After all, they have busy schedules and won't put everything on hold for a petulant twerp.

The peace was nice while it lasted, before thunder rumbled and rain dashed into them from unnatural angles and stung their skin, a hundred tiny bees with all the rage of a middle aged straight white man when his neighbour has a better lawnmower than he does. Electricity crackled in the clouds and zapped across their underbellies, anxious for release.

They jumped up off the bench, with the half empty bean tin in hand, cursing at the heavens and the storm they had unleashed. "Fine! I'm coming you cruel bastard." The rain lessened as they made their way to the cemetery gates, touching each stone as they passed, recognising some names as ghosts that had sat with them on cold nights, weaving stories of their lives. Most of them were lies of course, no one likes to admit that their life was as boring as it really was, but they were nice stories nonetheless.

A faded and overgrown headstone caught their eye, it was unusual because it was covered in ivy and lichen, and weathered to the point of being unreadable while those around it were pristine, for graves dug two hundred years ago. They leaned in closer and tore a patch of ivy away, squinting to read the name there. "Scrimshaw." They breathed.

A chilling and hacking cough racked from behind them, they turned to see an anaemic looking boy, maybe seventeen, dressed in simple black trousers, white cotton shirt, brown dress shoes (with a matching belt) and with sunken black eyes. His clothes were dirty, not just a little bit dirty but he was just covered in dirt, as if he had recently crawled out of a grave. He grinned toothily and held out an impossibly bony hand. "That's me," his voice was cool but a bit raspy, "and you are?"

They took the boys hand, it was freezing. "Alton."

"Well, Alton, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I'm sure you won't mind if I accompany you to your," here he paused and glanced upwards, theatrically, "appointment."

"I would mind actually, it's a private affair."

"You won't even know I'm there,"

"If you keep coughing like that I will,"

"Apologies, you spend so many years in a coffin underground and the dirt creeps into your lungs."

They glanced down at the earth before the grave and found it to be, in a word, disturbed, as if something had crawled out of it recently. They looked back up to what could only be the graves previous occupant. Thunder rumbled threateningly. They played with the bean can in their hands, thinking. They hissed a little as they cut their finger on a jagged edge, it bled a little. Scrimshaws black eyes darted to the injury, and his fingers twitched and his mouth went taut.

"Right, whatever, but say nothing, and try not to cough up too much dirt, that's nasty."

"I don't take pleasure in it, you know." he frowned.

And so the duo set off, letting the cemetery gates clang shut behind them.

thanks for reading! any guesses as to which god they're visiting?
- Lazarus 🎭🖤

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