The graveyard was haunted.
None had ever seen the famed ghost, but all knew of its prowess. The members of the church choir knew of it too well. Obscene and empty threats had been left after a cold afternoon's rehearsal and, at first, they were ignored—passed off as a jest of some kind. From then on, however, the air grew chilled and people began to act cautiously. When rehearsing, they would practise diligently and when walking home, they would look over their shoulders. But it was never enough. The number of threats grew, objects began to disappear and once, an alter boy was scared senseless when the church organ had begun to play on its own. Hysterical spouses had clung to their loved ones, begging them to remain home with them and, in time, they had obeyed. The comforting walls made for secure prisons and one by one the singers left the choir, leaving their positions open to more willing victims.
And victims they were.
The first body had been found sitting up against the doors to the church, battered and bruised. His collar and part of his sleeve had been torn—there had been a struggle—but what had made most turn away from the corpse was the awful and almost erratic slashing at the throat. A strong stomached butcher had suggested that the gashes looked as though someone had been trying to pry the jugular open.
The second body had been discovered by a pale faced youth. It had been swinging by a rope on the branch of a lonely and sparse tree, its broken neck twisted to the side, its facial expression peaceful. And though no one was in sight, the boy had sworn he had heard a voice calling to him as he ran from the horrific scene.
A voice was also said to have been present at the discovery of the third and fourth bodies.
Yes, the graveyard was indeed haunted.
Like wildfire, the rumours of a vengeful spirit then spread amongst the locals, inflicting fear into their heavy hearts and even caused some troubled souls to refrain from attending mass. None who saw the ghost lived to tell the tale! It spoke to its victims and made them kill themselves! But cynical laughter met distrustful accusations and while the profile of the murderer still remained a mystery, no one now denied the presence of the voice and its hypnotic words.
Those who had heard it were said to have followed it into cold and empty crypts. Disorientated, their glassy eyes would catch flickering shapes, shadows that moved and seemed to sigh. Some wept at the beauty of its song, while others fled before its tones could ensnare their minds.
Sanity survived in the few who escaped. But no one dared to linger in the graveyard after nightfall.
Except one.
Late evening had not yet fallen and though few people cared to remain amongst the departed for long, there were those who braved this damp October night. But the mourners' black visage eventually faded into the approaching fog, as did everything else. A widow's tears finally dried and a child trudged along the ground with a sinful spring to his step as they carefully fled the mist. Wispy and thick, it seemed to dance around the headstones in triumph, for the promise of night brought with it a secret.
After the spectators had dispersed and after the quiet of the night had descended, the graveyard was filled with a seeping cry—melancholy phrases of the ghost's lament. Softly calling, sometimes but a whisper upon the wind, a gentle moan that carried far into the night.
As the voice rang out in the emptiness, despair threading through its song, a lone figure stood waiting at the rusted gates, cloaked, still and listening. Always listening. To it. The voice. The familiar figure would often roam the outskirts of the darkened graveyard, pensive and quiet, never acknowledging the sudden chill which hung about the air. Only listening. Always listening.
In the blackness of the sky, the moon shone brightly, its guiding luminescence watching over the figure as a pale hand rose and pushed open the gate. A languid creak echoed through the tombs but did nothing to disturb the dead, nor the voice. The hood of the cloak was lowered slowly and the young woman with sunlight in her hair entered the graveyard, determination driving her every step.
Afraid for their own lives, the locals did nothing to intervene with her visitations. The girl surely knew of the rumours, of the murders—if she wanted to cross into the fiery pits of Hell, never to be seen again, then that was her choice. They had accepted her fate as quickly as she had. But unlike the others, there was no fear in her heart. Unlike the others, she knew the spirit's name... and she held dominion over it.
Leaning against the cold crypt, her pulse was steady and her ears were open. The ghost's song was faint. Yes, it was fading. But ever watchful, she scoured the shadows and then, chest heaving, she called to it... to him.
"Erik."
His name on her lips was the only thing that could pull him from his melancholy. His wretched being was brought alive by the thrill of hearing her speak and, ever the slave to the force which bound them, he had materialised in the near by shadows. In her presence, he was no longer repulsive for she was his light in this darkness. She was both his saviour and his captive and, for a while, he was no longer a ghost.
"Christine."
And he loved her for it.
With great caution, Erik stepped into the moonlight, the mist swirling and breaking at his feet. The mere sight of her in his world, surrounded by death, had forced a strangled sob from his throat. He did not know whether it was from happiness or sorrow.
Tentatively, Christine walked towards him, this figure cloaked in death, until she was a tantalising breath away. Disdain coursed through her as she peered into the hood and saw that the black mask was in place. His glowing eyes were the only part of him that she could see in the accursed darkness—the eyes that stared at her, those two wilted sunflowers which longed for daylight's touch.
How he wanted to be lost to this moment, to solidify himself in the world of the living, to reach out and touch—no, no, he mustn't. But he could watch and he could listen and that was enough for now.
"Have you an answer?" he asked her, hope pouring into his bleak heart. He did not know how many times he had asked her this, but he was still filled with hope. Until she said otherwise, he would still be filled with hope. Whether she knew it or not, she had the power to destroy him with one small word.
Christine shuffled on the spot, coyly biting her lip before looking into his eyes of gold. "Have you an answer?" he repeated, careful not to let her hear the tremble in his voice. "I must know, I must. Your silence is torture, Christine. Torture! I would wait a lifetime for you and I have, but I must know your answer. How much longer would you have me wait? I... I cannot wait much longer. I beg of you, have mercy, tell me your answer."
Their separation had been lethargic agony and though her body and mind were in one place, it felt as if her soul had been elsewhere, with him, and Christine had fought against it with all her might. How tainted those hands must be, she thought as she gazed down at them, those long and skeletal fingers. How much blood had they shed? No. Her mind stopped herself from travelling down that dangerous path. She feared she would never stop otherwise.
Tonight, she would not make peace with the murderer, nor the ghost. Tonight, she would make peace with Erik, the man.
"I..." she began, her cheeks rosy from the night air. "I accept."
As Erik's glowing eyes grew wide and an unintelligible sound left the back of his throat, Christine could feel the air leave her lungs as he fell to his knees before her, his bony hands clutching at her cloak, her arms, any part of her that she allowed. Shamelessly, he wept against her and pressed his head to her stomach. A dampness hung about air and it was cold, so very cold, but she was warm.
His words were muffled from both his barriers and his sobs and his words were so soft, oh-so quiet. Even in the stillness of the graveyard, Christine had to bend down to hear him whisper, "No more murders, no more murders."
Staring down at his cloaked head, she leaned into his weak embrace and dared to ask, "Is that a promise?"
"Yes, yes!" he cried. "Erik promises. He promises. He shall be good. With you by his side, he shall be so very good!"
"Then I am yours," she murmured, scarcely able to contain her heart from bursting out of her chest.
His wet eyes found hers and a shudder ran through both of their souls. "My love."
Gently, she peeled back his hood, her fingers lowering to trace his tense shoulder blades and she felt him convulse under her touch. Her hands then slid to his neck, tilting his sharp chin up, her kind eyes boring into his as she leaned down and kissed the mask's lips.
Somewhere in the distance a rumble echoed through the sky and suddenly the wind began to pick up. Darkness soon descended upon them as seeping clouds crept in overhead, raking their dark claws across the moon. But even so, her yellow hair still shone like sunlight as it billowed about her.
In the midst of the aggressive winds, the two figures clung to each other, without fear, only devotion. Hushed words in velvet tones were exchanged and Christine pulled back to see a ring had been placed on her finger.
"We must say goodbye to one world, my love," Erik told her, keeping her close lest she be taken from his arms. "Either I must join the living or you must join the dead. We cannot exist in both worlds. Do you understand this?"
With one finger she stroked his masked cheek, her blue eyes gleaming as she whispered, "I do."
His grip on her tightened and he stood to his full height, the wind melding their cloaks together as one. "I will follow you, my love."
A flash of something passed over her mouth—a smile!—and her hands shakily took his, her thumbs running over his dry knuckles. If there had been one hundred people crowding them, each one shouting at the top of their lungs, he still would have heard her soft plea. "Make us disappear, Erik. Lord, let us disappear!"
Garish lightning pierced the sky and with a flurry of black, they had vanished.
After daylight had scared away the remnants of the night and the mourners had returned to their solemn dwelling, nothing remained of the cloaked figures. Nothing except a full faced mask which had been laid to rest beside a crypt.
And there were no more murders; there was only music.
People said the graveyard was still haunted, but after golden light had reached into the darkness, two voices could now be heard in the night air. Two voices, blending harmoniously, perfectly balanced, singing a requiem for the living. Two voices—the ghost and his lady.