Graveyard shift- Flash fiction story

By Cat Smith

Every night I pull weeds from around the cracked stones and leaking crypts of the Necropolis. I trace my fingers over the names and dates carved into them, faded from centuries of wind, rain, neglect. I read them aloud, feel them in my mouth. Robert Tweedy Middleton, died 1891. Euphemia Lennox, died 1835. There is no other light on the hill except from my headlamp. Like a lighthouse on the shore, illuminating the sea of the dead.

I unlock the door, step over the pennies thrown by true believers, silver and copper prayers. They too, have heard her. The first time it was nothing more than a slight rustle, no louder than the wind outside. But I knew, I knew it was her. I have always known it was her. We have spoken every night for months. Tonight, we will see each other for the first time. I remove the engraved stone, lean it gently against the wall. I hear her laugh from inside the casket, high and bright. I slide the lid to one side, my headlamp illuminating the crypt.

I look down. Her blonde hair fans out over the ivory pillow, her delicate hands clasped across her chest, long fingers entwined. She sees me and smiles. Isabella, I’m sorry it took me so long to come to you. I climb over the casket’s edge, careful not to muddy her wedding dress with my boots. I lay next to her, stroke her cool face. She turns to me, laughs again, the sound bouncing off the damp walls. I switch off the lamp, adjust my eyes to the dark. Slowly, with effort, I pull the casket lid closed. I shut my eyes and embrace her, breathe in her scent, sweet and heady. I am where I belong.