Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 8 | 6 YEARS AGO

"Lost years of my life in a heartbeat, I tell ya. Right there, behind that big tomb, I heard a groan. And it's two o'clock in the morning, so I'm like, 'Calm down, it's just your imagination.' Nuh-uh! No, sir. I wasn't imagining nothing." The gravedigger turned his head and spat the last of his tobacco to the ground. "A shadowy figure moved in the dark, creeping on the ground and slowly getting on its feet. It's a man! He didn't walk but wobbled the same way a drunk person would do. Could not believe my eyes! The dusty suit, no shoes, the pale face... Almost turned my blue jeans brown, if you know what I mean. Then, he raised a stiff arm, and I thought this is how I die. It was like in a fucking horror movie. Can you guess what happened next?"

"No," said the older man in the black shirt and pants. Without a flashlight in his hand, he was nothing more than a dark outline against the faint moonlight, and yet, not even the near absence of light could conceal his disinterest in the story.

"The zombie asked me where he was!" A distant rattling interrupted the gravedigger's chuckle. Despite the late hour, someone was shaking the main gate of the graveyard, trying to open it. Shrugging it off, the gravedigger decided it was most likely another homeless person trying to get in, which was better than the other two options: drug addicts hoping to snatch sparkly valuables from the deceased, or Santeria worshippers looking for bones to steal.

"What's that noise?" the man in black asked. "Won't you do something about it?"

"Nah. The gates might be a hundred years old, but the chain and the heavy padlock are newish. It will hold. Anyway, with fear grabbing me by the balls, I couldn't do anything but stare at the drunk zombie. Then, he said his wife would kill him and left the cemetery, got in a cab and—"

"Stop talking," the man in black told him. "Don't have time for this."

"I thought you'd want to hear the stories."

"Why? What does that have to do with this?"

"Well..." The gravedigger took a moment before speaking again as if to let the breeze whisper something ominous across the forest of crosses surrounding them. Then, he pointed his flashlight towards the ghastly scene in front of them: a desecrated grave, a broken coffin lid, a missing body. "It's not the first time I've feared there's undead activity here."

"Don't be stupid. The dead don't come back to life."

The gravedigger scratched his neck, and as he did all the different rings on his fingers clicked and clattered. "Isn't your religion based on Jesus coming back from the dead and whatnot?"

"My religion? Thought you were a Catholic, too."

"Not so sure anymore, Father. Since they declared this place a museum, the paychecks I get from the government pay the rent, but they lack zeros to the right."

When the gravedigger accepted this job, he was ecstatic. He'd neither have to dig graves (although he still told everyone he was a gravedigger because, according to him, that job title was more glamorous than that of cemetery caretaker) nor would he have to deal with the gloomy relatives of the dead like his colleague from the day shift. His sole responsibility was keeping, from dusk till dawn, the sordid world of the living from entering this sacred ground, which most nights meant preventing the local hobos from sleeping in the mausoleums, or making sure the town junkies didn't get too comfortable in the unfinished chapel that had been claimed by the tall, wild grass.

Easy money. Just not enough.

At first, as the gravedigger made the rounds, he had fun reading the memorial plaques, or finding joy in discovering the most unlikely neighbors: poets buried next to politicians, the rich lying next to the poor. After a while, on those nights when not even the crickets sang, he busied himself sketching the unusual architecture of the place in a small notebook. There was a haunting beauty in this labyrinth of narrow paths beset by headstones, crosses, and statues. Then, when that didn't keep him busy anymore, he realized his line of work allowed for more lucrative pastimes, if he was willing to leave his Catholic guilt at home and get his hands dirty.

He loved it there, but his own personal gold mine was bound to run dry sooner rather than later. It was time to find a new job.

"What does money have to do with faith?" the man in black asked, stroking his walrus mustache. "Your problem is with the government, not the Church."

"Sure?" The gravedigger shrugged. "Crisis or not, I don't see many evangelical pastors struggling to make ends meet regardless of who's president."

"I don't follow. You want to be a pastor?"

"Could be." The gravedigger twisted the golden rings on his fingers in sequence. Some of them were too big for him, others too small and feminine. "Maybe I should start my own religion. There's bound to be cash there. By the way, speaking of money..." Rubbing his index finger and his thumb together, the gravedigger leaned on his shovel.

The man in black produced a wad of cash. "No one else knows about this?"

"Not a soul."

"Let's keep it that way."

After the cash exchanged hands, the gravedigger smiled. "Hold on. I said I'd fill in the grave again, but keeping secrets buried in San Isidro is not easy... or cheap. You know what they say, 'small town, big hell.'"

The man in black clenched his jaw. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Yeah. And I know who the missing corpse was. There were some unsavory rumors about your relationship with him. That's why I called you, that's why we're here."

Despite finding himself on the receiving end of a glare capable of chilling blood, the gravedigger managed another smile.

"Don't suppose you accept checks," said the man in black.

"Credit cards neither."

"Well, I have no more money on me."

The gravedigger raised his eyebrows as he always did when a clever idea sprung to life in his mind. "Hey! Perhaps you should start your own religion, too."

"I'll consider it."

"Now, since you lack the funds tonight, how about if you propose something else?" The gravedigger wiggled his fingers, and the multitude of rings on them, shining as his hand crossed the flashlight's beam, conveyed his message loud and clear. "I'm a man of fancy taste, and I like your bling."

The gravedigger had pawned enough jewelry by now to know quality when he saw it. A round amethyst, 14k gold, magnificent finish, he thought. Handmade in Europe for sure. Don't care for the religious theme on it, but I bet that makes it even more expensive.

"My ring?" The man in black looked at the third finger of his right hand. "All that chewing tobacco has rotten your brain. The pope himself gave me this."

"The Nazi?" He knitted his brows for the instant it took him to remember that grave robbers can't be choosers. "I don't mind."

"This ring belongs to the Church!"

"Not anymore. Do we have a deal?"

"No."

"Sorry?"

Unable to decide what to do next, the gravedigger held his breath as the man in black moved closer to him. The eerie shadows cast across his face by the flashlight grew larger.

"Do you know who I work for?"

His mind blanked, his tongue tied in a knot. "The pope?"

"Wrong. My boss..." The man in black smiled under his walrus mustache and pointed towards the sky. "He can be vengeful, unforgiving. Want me to call down the power of God on you?"

That question sent a chill down the gravedigger's spine, and he became as pale as his dark skin allowed him. Although the man in black had not raised it, his voice still echoed throughout the graveyard, loud enough to scare away any ghost.

"N-no."

"No, what?"

"I don't want you to call down the power of God on me."

"You better keep your mouth shut then," the man in black said. "Oh, and I agree. You should find a new religion."