It was a bleak December day, with a dark rain drizzling softly on the freshly turned dirt, and quietly soaking into the dying grass below. The sky overhead was filled with a sea of dark and foreboding clouds, and in the distance, the faint sound of approaching thunder could be heard as it crackled weakly against the empty sky. Even the flowers that lie atop the headstones were of a saddened hue, as if to accommodate the darkened and monochromatic dimness of the day. It was one of those long, dreary days that most are prone to forgetting, and which seem to exist only to provide contrast to the days immediately following. In short, there was nothing to distinguish this day from any other, and it was all too easy to overlook the unfilled grave of Arthur Blackwell.

Blackwell himself had lived a recluse for much of his life, and it was very seldom that he ever ventured out of his one room apartment, on any given occasion. Blackwell was not very well known by any of the residents of his apartment building, this including the landlady. He spent very little time with anyone aside from himself, instead preferring to stay within his room, though, truth be told, no one really knew if he truly preferred living in such a manner at all. He was not a dislikable man by any means, but not overly charismatic either. He lived very poorly, but always managed to pay his rent on time, and without complaint. When residents passed him in the hallway, he always made an effort to be friendly and hospitable, even though he often found these efforts difficult. He was a sickly man, and presumably had been all of his life. Perhaps it was this sickness, or maybe even his isolation that had began his lifelong trend of writing. Arthur, though none knew it at the time, was a poet.

Blackwell represented one of the more grim sides of authorship, that few outside the profession are apt to consider. He was, undeniably, very good. In fact, he may have been among the best, as far as his writing was concerned. He primarily crafted darker works, containing moving depictions of hidden emotion and unseen worlds, and had he not been born at such a late period of time, his works might have rivaled even the coveted Poe. Despite this, however, he was very little known, with only a meager amount of works in circulation. He had attempted to publish some of his works, but, unfortunately, few saw the merits of such an art among the developing world, and employment was scarce. Even when he did publish any type of writing, it was often a work that he deemed lesser than his full capacity, as he was extremely sensitive, and lived in fear of having one of his masterworks rebuked. So, with the stagnant market for fine word craft, and his painfully demure personality, he was only able to find employment as a storekeeper's assistant, and even this was only for so long as he was able keep up the facade of good health, and he knew it to be only a matter of time before this too would be lost.

And so it was, with rapidly deteriorating health, poor living conditions, and a tragically suppressed soul, Blackwell passed away in his room one late evening. He was found a few days later, wrapped in a frayed blanket, in a vain attempt to keep at bay the winter cold. Whether he was in his late twenties or early thirties no one was quite sure, as none were able to locate any of his birth records. He was to be buried in a local cemetery the following day, as none saw the point of postponing it any longer, as he had no friends to speak of, and no remaining relatives. So, the following evening, under the bleak mid morning haze, two men armed with heavy raincoats and dull spades said a quick prayer for the dead poet, and dug what was to be the young author's final resting place, among the withered flowers of a pauper's graveyard.

The men worked diligently, with a somber air that matched their grim task, shovels of dirt and mud steadily being cast from the small pit. The first was an immigrant of British decent, and, like most new immigrants in the city, was too poor to mend the underarm holes on his tattered coat, which had been worn away from years of shoveling. He drove his shovel into the dirt, and took a moment to lean against it, wiping the sweat from his face. "Poor bloke, 'ate ta see 'em go 'ike 'is, no fam'ly n' all." He said solemnly, shaking his head back and forth slowly. "Ut un' ev'n get a preacher." He stood and mused for a while, before adding "All o' em' at least dese've a preacher."

At this, the man picked up his shovel, and resumed his work. The second remained silent, though he paused to consider the previous man's statement for a moment, before sinking his shovel into the hard packed earth. He was a more reserved man, with deep set eyes and a tall, thin frame. Despite being born within the city, he was scarcely better off than his counterpart, and had grown up within the impoverished Third Quarter. He had a habit of thinking over a conversation thoroughly before responding, choosing to do so with as little words as possible. This thought, however, he would never finish.

"Hear that?" The man said suddenly, laying down his spade. The Briton did not have time to respond, as the man had already begun pulling himself out of the hole. "'Ut 'cha you doin', Charles?" The Migrant asked, letting his spade drop from his hands. Charles did not answer, but stood silently before the unopened casket of the man he was to bury. He stood, rain dripping off of his wide-brimmed hat and running across his back, listing intently to some indistinguishable sound. Slowly, his head turned toward the casket, wearing an expression of rapt disbelief.

The second dug his hands into the saturated earth, and pulled himself out of the grave, standing alongside his silent companion. Once again he questioned Charles, concern rising in his voice. He tried to slow his speech, wondering if he had been misheard, pronouncing each word with added emphasis. "What is it Charlie?" Charles still did not answer, staring in disbelief at the casket, before slowly pointing a shaky finger at the rough pine box. Then, both men fell silent, and just audible over the sound of the drizzling rain, there was a faint scratching sound, as something slowly scraped away the wood within the casket.

Had the men not been so shook by this, they might have reasoned that a small animal might have managed to crawl inside the casket. They might have even pried back the lid of the casket, to see what lie within for themselves. Perhaps it had been the weather that had drove them to it. Maybe, in their occupation, it had simply been inevitable. Whatever the reason, each man left their spades where they lie, and fled the graveyard, without stopping to so much as glance behind them, even to see what had become of the other; for each man knew fully well that the casket held much more than the lifeless body of the late Arthur Blackwell, and whatever was in that casket, did not want to be buried.

Within the Third Quarter, word of mouth travels at a speed that most never having been would most likely find impossible. The usual stuff of gossip mainly involved various crimes, scandals, and exactly which individuals were known to have been in, or currently partaking in an affair. While many of the residents within the poverty stricken district found this an enjoyable form of entertainment, such conversations always had a certain predictability that made it a rather mundane aspect for a great many of the population. Given this, it was only a matter of time before the fear-crazed ramblings of the two gravediggers found their way into the local circuit. This offered a new excitement to a great many, and most residents of the Third Quarter where familiar with the story by the following day. What could not have been predicted at the time, however, was how the story continued to spread. It ate through the city, spreading like wildfire through the crowded streets. Within days, even the most affluent neighborhoods knew of the incident, and public intrigue began to hit a climax.

This was why, at the urgent request of the mayor, the local police force launched an official investigation into the matter. Though they did so primarily to appease the general public, it is to their credit that they conducted a thorough investigation nonetheless. First, they attempted to question the two gravediggers from which the story had originated. Despite their most valiant efforts, however, they could find no trace of either of the men. Perhaps it was due to their humble and independent lifestyles, or the men may have simply shared the same general distrust for law enforcement so prevalent within the Third Quarter. Whatever the reason, the police was unable to locate either man, and no information as to their whereabouts was offered. It was as if they had simply vanished.

Despite this, however, information was offered as to the whereabouts of where the deceased Arthur Blackwell was to be lain to rest, though the source of this information remained unknown to all but the individual responsible. The individual told police, via a small scrawled note under a doorway, that they had seen the two gravediggers fleeing from a small graveyard a good ways away from the crowded city, known as Jenkins Corner. With this key information, a small group of officers were dispatched to investigate the area, and find what had become of the late Arthur Blackwell. What they found did very little to calm the public.

"Would ya' spit it out?" Growled the city police commissioner, cigar in hand. "Did you find him or not?" He demanded angrily, cigar smoke spilling through his clenched teeth and clouding around his pockmarked face. He wore a thick black overcoat over his large frame, with a hastily knotted tie, which he had a habit of readjusting when he spoke. With his free hand, he tapped his steel lighter against his desk, in a rapid, angry motion. He had a serious face, marked with worry lines, and a stare that seemed to bore through any unfortunate enough to earn it.

Before him stood two police officers, dressed in their formal attire. They had taken the hats off of their heads, and were wringing them anxiously. Both were understandably nervous, each finding various discrete ways to wipe away the sweat pooling on their foreheads, as it streaked down their faces, and into their pressed white collars. The one on the right spoke first.

"We found- something, sir." He stammered, the second nodding in over pronounced exaggeration. "It's just not really the kind of thing we were expecting." He said, nervous fear making his voice rise and fall at odd intervals. He opened his mouth to say something else, but met the unwavering gaze of the commissioner, and lost the ability to speak, his mouth moving silently up and down, before pressing tightly together. The second filled in. "We found the grave, sir. And the casket too. It's just-" Her voice trailed off as well.

"What?" The commissioner's voice had now turned from a fierce bark to a low snarl, making it painfully clear his temper was failing him. The first officer spoke up again, apparently finding his voice. "It's empty. Sir. The casket was empty." At this, the commissioner lounged back in his chair, his temper cooling as his interest mounted. He took the cigar out of his mouth and held it before him, rotating it in his hand, as if noticing it for the first time. He did this whenever he deemed a thought more important than his smoking habit, which was exceedingly rare. "So someone opened it." He said, still staring intently his cigar.

At this the second officer chimed in, her apprehension slowly dissolving. "There's something else. We found scratches, all along the lid, on the inside. We thought they were nothing at first, but we looked at them a little closer, and they started to look like..." She faltered then, and paused to draw breath. The commissioner said nothing, still tapping his lighter against the desk, looking at her expectantly. Nothing in the room moved, and it seemed even the commissioner's cigar smoke had stopped rising, and it became evident that she was shaking. She coughed into her hat, and looked up again, but could not meet the commissioner's eyes. She glanced at her partner, who nodded in return, fear evident on his face. She turned back to tile floor, staring at it as if it might swallow her whole, all while still wringing her hat.

"Writing, sir." She said, without looking up from the floor. She took another moment to breath, but still could not lift her gaze from the cold tiles below her. Her partner remained still, his mouth half open, frozen in mid sentence. 

"And it matches Blackwell's."