The Cemetery Diaries
The Third Cemetery
The third cemetery is where they didn’t bury me. My coffin went down with the sunset, but I never made it into the cool, calm earth. I was lingering on the outskirts of the glade, by the perfect knolls of rolling green, hiding behind a mausoleum that gave away more of the macabre than anyone intended. A crawling tide of beetles clung to its stone, a mineral the exact same shade as bleached bone. I was all alone, of course. Death is the loneliest thing you ever do.
I watched as my empty casket sank into the yawning pit. They buried me under a carpet of emeralds, or so they thought. My mother cried, black hat and black bag clutched in her white hands, and I stood solitary as a shadow, waving phantom-like in the breeze, because I knew with pain in my heart that I would never speak to her again. It wouldn’t do to come back as a spectre, or to enlighten her about horrors worse than death. It was enough for me to know that, if I was entombed beneath earth and stone, her scars might fade. She had my sister to be her company and her solace. In time, she would forget about me, and my memory would dwindle to something the exact size and proportions of a faded photograph. In time, I would be nothing at all to anyone.
For a few more decades, I lived on the outskirts of society, circling my family in their affairs. I was a ghost at reunions, a shifting of curtains or an apex in the breeze. I was the haunted attic, and the door that banged in the night. I learned to move fast, so that I was never seen. For three generations, I stayed. It was only when my last relative, my great-niece, passed away that I became truly invisible, a man without a reflection, without a past, without a future, without a story. It was only then that, freed from the bonds of humanity, I fully became a monster.
I still come back sometimes, to the place where a tombstone bears my name, but not because I have roots here any longer. The presence of engravings that signify a person I used to be is merely a coincidence. I simply like the peace and quiet afforded to the dead, and the solitary romance of the temples built for them. I like the glazed stares of serene marble angels, their skins as still and untainted as milk, their hymns and prayers mute. I like the winding paths and trails of dates. I like the way everything ends up in the graveyard, eventually. The cemetery is the perfect place to bring like minds, as well as an ideal spot for finding prey.
There is a particular flavour I like in victims. I think you know what it is, because you pander to it, my cunning prey. I like young men and women who are fascinated with death. I feel like I do them less of a disservice with my finishing blows. They already belong at the end of life. It is like going home for them, or so I like to think. There is also a certain satisfaction to being known as a villain, as a creature of the night, and embraced by the self-proclaimed denizens of that darkness, even when they are just silly foals in black stockings, wobbling uneasily in heels and batted lashes. They have a sense of what’s coming to them. They know it’s natural, something they’ve brought on themselves.
But you’re not like that, are you? My dear third victim in this era where I count, you’re something else. In those eyes like drowning pools I know that you know what I am. You’ve come here not for your end, but for me. You were searching, putting the clues together, for who knows how long. You tell me that I can offer you a new beginning. Can I really? Do you think I have that power? You seem so convinced. Well then, let’s give it a try. I always wanted company, but only ever found foolish vessels. If you think you can withstand it, I’ll let you bleed, if you insist. You’ll bleed until you know.
No going back now. You’re fainter than the moonlight, but the clouds are parting, her veil lifting. She waxes, as you are made from wax, melting colourless. Your breath is but a whisper, a promise to yourself that this is what you wanted all along. There’s crimson on your pants, a kind of fitted cargo, made for hunting. It stains your cheek, the curve of your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You’re barely alive, barely finished, a mere doll, and then you animate. There is thirst in your eyes, become bright red, the doe-like tones of humanity gone. They flicker open momentarily, before your eyelids flutter, and you sleep.
Death is the loneliest thing you’ll ever do, but you’re sure it is your calling, somehow.
I watched as my empty casket sank into the yawning pit. They buried me under a carpet of emeralds, or so they thought. My mother cried, black hat and black bag clutched in her white hands, and I stood solitary as a shadow, waving phantom-like in the breeze, because I knew with pain in my heart that I would never speak to her again. It wouldn’t do to come back as a spectre, or to enlighten her about horrors worse than death. It was enough for me to know that, if I was entombed beneath earth and stone, her scars might fade. She had my sister to be her company and her solace. In time, she would forget about me, and my memory would dwindle to something the exact size and proportions of a faded photograph. In time, I would be nothing at all to anyone.
For a few more decades, I lived on the outskirts of society, circling my family in their affairs. I was a ghost at reunions, a shifting of curtains or an apex in the breeze. I was the haunted attic, and the door that banged in the night. I learned to move fast, so that I was never seen. For three generations, I stayed. It was only when my last relative, my great-niece, passed away that I became truly invisible, a man without a reflection, without a past, without a future, without a story. It was only then that, freed from the bonds of humanity, I fully became a monster.
I still come back sometimes, to the place where a tombstone bears my name, but not because I have roots here any longer. The presence of engravings that signify a person I used to be is merely a coincidence. I simply like the peace and quiet afforded to the dead, and the solitary romance of the temples built for them. I like the glazed stares of serene marble angels, their skins as still and untainted as milk, their hymns and prayers mute. I like the winding paths and trails of dates. I like the way everything ends up in the graveyard, eventually. The cemetery is the perfect place to bring like minds, as well as an ideal spot for finding prey.
There is a particular flavour I like in victims. I think you know what it is, because you pander to it, my cunning prey. I like young men and women who are fascinated with death. I feel like I do them less of a disservice with my finishing blows. They already belong at the end of life. It is like going home for them, or so I like to think. There is also a certain satisfaction to being known as a villain, as a creature of the night, and embraced by the self-proclaimed denizens of that darkness, even when they are just silly foals in black stockings, wobbling uneasily in heels and batted lashes. They have a sense of what’s coming to them. They know it’s natural, something they’ve brought on themselves.
But you’re not like that, are you? My dear third victim in this era where I count, you’re something else. In those eyes like drowning pools I know that you know what I am. You’ve come here not for your end, but for me. You were searching, putting the clues together, for who knows how long. You tell me that I can offer you a new beginning. Can I really? Do you think I have that power? You seem so convinced. Well then, let’s give it a try. I always wanted company, but only ever found foolish vessels. If you think you can withstand it, I’ll let you bleed, if you insist. You’ll bleed until you know.
No going back now. You’re fainter than the moonlight, but the clouds are parting, her veil lifting. She waxes, as you are made from wax, melting colourless. Your breath is but a whisper, a promise to yourself that this is what you wanted all along. There’s crimson on your pants, a kind of fitted cargo, made for hunting. It stains your cheek, the curve of your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You’re barely alive, barely finished, a mere doll, and then you animate. There is thirst in your eyes, become bright red, the doe-like tones of humanity gone. They flicker open momentarily, before your eyelids flutter, and you sleep.
Death is the loneliest thing you’ll ever do, but you’re sure it is your calling, somehow.