THE GRAVEYARD

It was both beautiful and terrible, floating between the lines of haunt and mystery. The peeling yellow paint of the church, grimy and faded with time, towered over the otherwise flat horizon. The bleak edges of the sky seemed to hover, watching with an all-seeing gaze, unescapable from the occupants of the town.

Most of the townsfolk avoided the place, which made it Sydney’s perfect hideaway. The inside of the chapel was cold and musty, abandon except for Sunday Mass. Even on Sunday’s, most made their weekly excuses – work to catch up on, places to be – anything to avoid the creepy old church. 

When the weather turned sunnier, the ten-year-old adored visiting the building’s graveyards. It was an atypical place: over-gown with flowers and wildlife, wrapping around headstones like an attempt to pull the names engraved back into the earth. Huge trees overlooked the yards, Spanish moss dangling like dismembered skeletons above the  sleeping souls. Every so often, black benches emerged, inviting loved ones to sit and stay and speak with the dead.

They whole place looked like it was disintegrating, turning wild and chaotic, falling apart. Entropy, her mind supplied her. The graveyard was falling into entropy.

The birds seemed quieter here; the bugs seemed to buzz in hushed unison, privy to some secret humans didn’t share. Something about the ground seemed sacred – lineal, holding a contained power between the lines of life and death.

Sydney felt close to the people here. Like she could hear their presence watching her, but couldn’t quite meet their gazes. She liked to wander, reading names and phrases and imagining who these people were before the world consumed them.

John and Linda Lippit. September 1748. Lovely and pleasant and in their lives, together.

It was a pretty thought. The headstone was embedded into the side of a tree-trunk, and it was hard to tell where the bark ended and the grave began. Maybe they’d met in this very church, so many years ago, when the yellow paint was shining and the graveyard was well-kept and new. That was another pretty thought.

The sun was beginning to descend, but Sydney wasn’t yet ready to leave. Deeper inside she walked, stumbling upon sections unfound before.

She came to single tombstone, so worn the words could no longer be made out, cracked down the center with a single punctured hole, like the occupant had clawed its out and back to civilization. Like an attempt to flee from death she imagined. She continued forward.

Her favorite flowers were the roses, red and inviting, somehow growing – as if by magic – throughout the entire year. They never seemed to wither, in all of Sydney’s visits. No. They were a fixture here, as much as the church or the gates or the century old graves.

That was the grave keeper’s single rule: do not pick the roses. Sydney never understood why the man was so set on enforcing the policy, but had up to this point followed it anyways. After-all, that guy was scary, domineering in stature with mean, cold eyes, always watching. Besides, she didn’t want to risk getting kicked out of her favorite place in the world.

For the first time, though, as she looked at the fantastically red flowers, she was tempted to take one. Maybe the grave-keeper had left the property. The sky was turning ashy, as the last vestiges of light faded into darkness.

It was past Sydney’s curfew, but the orphanage was unlikely to notice her absence. They hardly noticed her while she was there.

She seemed to be the only one in the yards. The church lights were off. Maybe she could stay the night, with the grounds entirely to herself. Suddenly, she grinned.

She had the whole place to herself…She could do whatever she liked! She could have a tea-party or a fairytale ball or – Oh! A wedding, she was going to put on a wedding!

It would be for the Lippit’s, she decided, and it would be a wonderful affair. The engagement rings were to be looped from wild grass; gravel rocks would line the church aisle. As for the guests –

She glanced at the roses. Taking a few surely wouldn’t be a problem?

There were hundreds, across the large yards. One here, one there. No one would notice.

Decided, she began to uproot her flower-guests. She hadn’t noticed the thorns, at first, scratching through her palm just deep enough to draw out a few drops of blood. Trying to ignore the sting, Sydney finished picking the flowers.

One done, she walked inside the church, carefully setting each rose down across the pews. She picked the last three roses and lay them on the altar – those would be Mr. and Mrs. Lippit, along the priest who would marry them. With all in order, the wedding could start.

Sydney turned to face the audience. She could see them there, sitting where she had placed each rose. Clearly as day. Almost like they were real. There was a short, squat man with eyes bugging out of his overly large glasses, a little old lady with grey hair tightly wrapped into a bun. There were a few kids like her, feet too short to reach the floor from the pew.

She looked back at the front. Three people stood – a man in black and woman in white – in front the priest. They looked astounded.

A shocked silence overtook the hall. Then, like a dam, the it broke – everything seemed to happed at once. A joyous scream, while the Lippit’s violently smashed their lips into the other. Children laughing, guests crying and bursting into conversation and the lights were shining so so bright –

And before she knew what was happening, Sydney felt herself being lifted on top of the crowd carried back into the graveyards. She felt like royalty. It was awesome.

“Free!” Shouted an old man in tatty clothes, “We’re finally free!” The other people were just as verbal in appreciation.

“thank you, thank you, thank you thankyougoodchildthankyou –“ a thirty or so women kept repeating like a broken recording.

“What did you say your name was –” one of the young guests asked. “Sydney,” she replied. Then they were all chanting her name - Sydney! Sydney! Sydney! – and she was on top of the world. This was her best fantasy yet.

She could hear music, in the distance – a wondrous sound like the call of whispering dreams. The crowd put her down, and everyone was dancing, laughing, smiling. Everyone was happy. Sydney joined in dancing, too.

It was all good fun, but after as time ticked later into the night, Sydney felt her eyes beginning to droop. It was getting late, she was tired, and it was past her bedtime. Yeah, she would collect the roses to avoid trouble, and then she could home and to bed. 

She circled the crowd, who seemed to stay enthralled with the music. No roses on the ground. None in the church. She looked up, puzzled, until she noticed. All the guests were holding a stem – not a single red rose left unattended. She would have to ask the party-goers for them back.

She walked up to a little blond girl, first. “Excuse me –” she started, but the youth was already running, fast and far away. Oh, well, she thought. On-to to the next person.

She went around asking, tried to explain the situation – she didn’t mean to interrupt, please, could they hand those flowers back – but people kept giving her nasty looks, clinging even tighter to the petals. No one would give her them back. Sydney didn’t want to get into trouble – she just needed them so she could go to sleep in peace. Why couldn’t they understand that?

Frustrated, her eyes watered. She sat on one of the black benches and began to cry. Eventually, the priest noticed. He walked over slowly, stopping at metal bench beside her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He closed it. 

The sky had fully descended into darkness - Sydney could see the patterns of stars in it. There was one spot where three stars fell in straight line - that was Orion's belt. She remembered reading about it, in a tattered book at orphanage.

Eventually, the aging man broke the silence. “I’m sorry” he started, leaning forward like he was deciding whether to sit down. “Poor kid.”

The crowd continued to dance around decaying graves, holding onto their roses and avoiding ones still rooted in the ground.

“I just want to go home,” Sydney sniffed. The elder man seemed to take that as a que to join her on the bench. He looked tired, under the damp lamplight of the grounds. Like he could fall asleep at any second.

Instead, his eyes opened wider, piercing into her own. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like the words would make a difference.

Sydney could see the church gate, and as time passed she began considering just leaving without the roses. She’d get yelled at in the morning, most likely. She’d probably be banned from the premise. That would suck. Staying here would suck more. She stood and turned toward the exit.

The priest attempted to say something. Sydney didn’t hear it. She paced toward the gate – but the farther she walked, the farther the gate seemed to get. It was the strangest thing; like the path to leave had elongated. Anxious, she quickened her pace, continuing to walk and walk. Minutes passed, and she wasn’t getting any closer to leaving.

Sydney felt her palms begin to shake, as a bead of sweat dripped from her forehead. Panicked now, she took off sprinting – running as fast as her legs could carry her toward the exit – trying to make her way farther and farther, but the gate was getting farther too and what was going on? Her feet felt like they were sinking in piles of sand and the wind picked up, blowing harshly against her, keeping her stuck in place. Frustrated, she stopped to let out a scream.

Her lungs pounded, and her breath came heavy through her chest. She noticed the sky beginning to lighten. Hours had passed in no time at all. 

Sydney heard someone shouting, “Sunrise! Sunrise is coming!”

She turned toward the voice, realizing with a jolt that the occupants of her once dreamed wedding still stood in the yards. The music had stopped, and no one left was dancing. In fact, they seemed to be making their way toward the exit, still holding her roses.

The little girl watched, half curious and half terrified, but no one leaving seemed to face her struggle. They left like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. Why couldn’t she leave too?

She attempted to grab one of the almost glowing red roses still rooted in the ground beside her, thinking maybe that was the key. All the guests had left with one in hand. The rose burned as she tried to touch it, and with a yelp, Sydney drew her hand back.

The graveyard was almost empty now. The people continued to exit, until only Sydney and the priest remained. He’d been waiting in line with the rest of them, the last person to depart.

With a final glance, she heard his whisper. “I’m sorry.” Only, he didn’t appear to be looking at her. She followed his line of sight toward the Lippit’s grave. Except, it no longer spelled their names. She approached the tree entwined headstone, until with a sense dread, she could read the new engraving.

Sydney Morrison, September 1748. Lovely and pleasant in her short life.

Oh God. What had she done?