This is just a quick story I wrote up for Halloween. Hope you like it!

Night falls. The moon provides meager light, assisted only by some small lamps from the gatehouse. Neither one breaks the fog well; they simply get clouded over, a blurry blip in the air. The whisp of a cold wind shimmers through the air, trying to nip at those caught out in it. But there is nary a one this night.

Apart from me.

They call me Gravekeeper. I know no other name. And I am here, as I am always, doing my duty to the spirits of the departed.

Pokémon are often buried in towers. They are done so in order to provide suitable habitat for Ghost Pokémon, who can never be comfortable while free unless the aura of death is around them. However, many humans are still buried as they always have been - out in the open grounds, with nothing but a stone marker to indicate their presence. And my duty is protecting these particular grounds, ensuring that no harm comes to them.

I may not seem threatening. A Marowak, small, strong but slow, there have been many who believe they can get past me and lay their foul hands on the graves to vandalize them, or worse, dig up the contents beneath them. That same many has learned harsh lessons by my hand. You do not disturb the dead.

Ever.

Many years I have been here, acting as guardian. I know no other life. I arrived when quite young, found by the humans who are employed to watch the graveyard. I watched as they lowered coffins into the ground, erected the stones to commemorate the event of each passing. Each sorrow and silence meant much to me. These humans were meant to lay here, to pass their post-existence underneath this earth. And I felt a desire, a need, to ensure that they encountered no disturbance.

I spend may days and nights as a guardian, but also a keeper. The stones may wear with age, but I try to keep them neat, free of moss and other encroachment, so that those visiting may clearly return the memories of the life and death of those laying here. There is little so sorrowful as a tombstone so weathered and worn that its memories are lost forever. I do not wish to see that happen on my watch.

Often, I imagine what their lives must have been like. If I am lucky, I may observe them once, as they are cast under the soil. Most often, I only see the coffin, or the urn with their ashes. I can only imagine what they must have looked like, what kind of life they must have lived. Perhaps one was a wealthy businessman who stretched himself too far and wore his heart down to nothing. Perhaps one was a thief, brutally killed by his intended victim for trying to take the most precious of objects from them. Perhaps one was a little old lady who cooked human flesh and served it to her unknowing children or grandchildren, never suspected of any crime against the living during her many years. Perhaps one was a child taken too soon by a fall off a cliff into the swirling waters of the ocean. I can only guess. Maybe I will never guess correctly. Most likely I will never know if I do.

I have been at this a long time...how long, I do not remember. Those humans who have been charged with keeping up the graveyard welcome my presence. This is not a job they enjoy, and I make it easier for them. I do the unpleasant duty of perusing the graveyard at night, while their eyes can stay open during the day. Often, one or two remain in the gatehouse, in case there is such a ruckus that necessitates more of a presence than a lone Marowak. That happens infrequently, but not never.

Not tonight. Tonight, no human dares disturb this land.

It is the one night of the year where the spirits become restless. The Eve of the Hallows. When children dress in costumes and entice candy from their neighbors, and adults dress in costumes to entice other sweets from other adults. The night rife with stories of the undead, the supernatural, the frightening and the wondrous.

It is the one night where I am left to my own.

I do not patrol on this night. I have no need to; in all my years, on the night of the hallows, not a single human has ever dared venture near these grounds. Perhaps the fear of the legends of the day diverts their attentions, or perhaps they sense the restlessness and know that no trifles are to occur. Whatever the case, it means I need not concern myself with thieves and vandals as I would on a normal night. Instead, I can watch. And wait.

I know they are coming. They always come.

It is a strange sensation; the wind seems to pick up around me, and yet, outside the grounds, there is only a scarce gentle breeze. That is the first sign, the first herald of their awakening.

I have seen it many times before, and yet it always amazes me. The spectral lights, rising from the ground, passing over and around the stones I so carefully keep. Shapeless, formless, being-less, yet somehow, still distinct. They do not look human, nor do they look Pokémon. They look like nothing. Yet, they still appear.

The spirits have risen on the eve of the hallows.

I can only watch. I dare not do more. No action of mine could bring any harm to any of them. They exist only as the purity of non-being, and the being have no power over them. I can only watch as they begin to jet around, exposed to the larger world for the first time in a year.

There is no question they are aware of me, as far as they are aware of anything. I can feel them in my mind as they swirl around faster, the spectral wind gusting ever faster as the air masses with the ghostly light of the denizens of the spirit world. They pass around me, through me, touching me with their essence.

I can feel every one of them as they pass through. Some bear with them the anger at their untimely passing. Some only contain sorrow, that their lives ended too soon or in a tragic way. Some are confused, not understanding why they are here, why they no longer live. Some are joyous, having welcomed the embrace of death after lives of suffering. Each one leaves a piece of themselves within me, emotion so powerful and so disparate that I cannot respond to them. I am frozen, merely an observer of my own reality.

Yet, I do not fear. They will not harm me. They may only rise once a year, but they are there all the time, and they sense my presence. They know of my protection, not simply of their bodies but of their memories, and this is their way of letting me know that they know. Making me feel like I can never feel in the living world, a small sample of the essence of the end.

Alive, yet suffused with death, yet again uncannily aware of my own existence.

After a time their passage within me tapers off, and they swirl around in the sky, unleashing themselves on the world of the living for the precious few hours they are allowed to be once more. I can only watch as they separate, knowing that before the night ends, they shall make their return.

Each time, I feel like never before. As they ascend, I am left, my body feeling eerily loose and uninhibited. I can move, but it doesn't feel right to, not until my body has been allowed to enjoy this looseness. I cannot explain it. I know the spirits have done something, something beyond simply feeding me the remnants of their emotion. Perhaps they are vitalizing me, rewarding me for my service to them.

Perhaps they take death away from me.

It has gone quiet. The spirits have made their exodus, and I am once again alone. Finally, I let myself move again, returning from the inexplicable to the tangible, restoring my bond with the world of the living. I can spend the night observing the outer world, beyond the graveyard, knowing there will be nothing to worry about tonight. In a few hours the spirits will return, and quickly settle back in. When the sun rises, they will be asleep, as they will be for the next year, until the night once again returns where they may take flight. And I shall return to guarding them.

And so it shall be, until the end of my days.

If indeed, there shall ever be an end.