In the cemetery across the road lives a boy my age.
I see him all the time, walking the burial grounds in chilling silence. I've not seen him outside the gates, I've never seen him leave, and I've never heard him speak to another person. He's always there—working day and night—but all the same he's much like a hallucination, a trick of a tired mind and too much coffee.
Nevertheless, there he is. Every day.
I'm usually tasked with completing some simple flower arrangements for a regular of ours. She's an old lady, widowed, and visits her late husband's grave weekly. Every time she does, she stops by the little flower-shop across the way for her arrangement. My bench points towards the French windows at the front of the shop, and through it I get a full-view of the main gate.
It was pure luck that gran was given this opportunity. At first—many years ago, when I first learned that she was offered a premise—I was hesitant and even defensive about the sudden change. Moving to a new place meant living someplace else, and above all: this one happened to be right in front of the massive iron gates of the town's largest cemetery—Saint Adela's. Whenever the wind blew its rusty bars rattled and the stones in the ground echoed its song in a haunting melody. I had not been particularly ecstatic about the move, certainly, but it meant better business, and with that—a better life. We were given a small apartment right above the shop where I was given my own room, looking out towards the looming gates. Still, I am happy.
Surely enough, the place started rolling in cash from day one. I guess people were in need of a conveniently close and relatively cheap flower shop with good arrangements for their beloved deceased.
At first, the change was unbearable, and I would wake every night in terror tremors. The nightmares which plagued my mind never gave ease, but eventually even I got used to it. As time went on, they became few and far in-between, and I could once again enjoy life in both waking and slumber.
I even took a curious liking to the place. Every day during break I'd walk along the outskirts of the burial grounds and view the glossy stones from behind the cold iron. On days when the sun hung low in a cloudy sky the midday glow cast delicate shadows on dead and living alike, and where the sun would break through the dew on finely-cut grass it sparkled ever so discreetly among well-cared for memorials in various shapes and sizes. Some went above and beyond and dedicated the delicacy of a winged angel or a saint for a memorial, and those have always been my favorite. They shine so nicely in the dim light, and the expressions on their faces are always graced with flowing shadows, all over smooth marble.
All in all, the cemetery is a beautiful place—if you manage to ignore the horror stories told about it.
Some claim the ghost of a deceased boy wanders the grounds, forever doomed to walk among the dead in the land of the living, locked up behind cold bars and among colder stones; as rooted to the ground he strolls as the winged angels hunched over the dead—incapable of taking flight—that crowd him in all directions.
When I first saw him, I was certain the stories had been true. He's tall and pale with eyes so dark they appear lifeless. His hair, an alcove black, shaggy and hastily cut just enough so he can see. His bangs are shorter, while the back remains longer, and it falls to his shoulders in uneven strings. Always dressed in blacks and greys and darks, and on his skin are countless bruises; marking the canvas in shades of blue and purple.
But further studying, days of walking along the gate on the wrong side, had led me to the conclusion that this was just a very lonely and quiet boy (man?) tending to his duties.
Still, I've never seen him leave the damned place. Not once, and I have first-class view of the gates. Perhaps he knows of some other exit, though my daily walks have proven that, too, to be false. There is no secret exit as far as I can tell—aside from a small emergency opening that leads out into the woods on the other side—and I'm annoyingly curious by nature. Whatever other option there might be does not seem logical to me. Why not just exit though the main gate? Does he, perhaps, live in the middle of the Dead Woods? To further complicate: the mentioned exit on the other end is heavily chained, no longer in usage it seems.
Regardless, it does not matter. He is a sight to behold, truly, whenever one's blessed with a glimpse. I do have duties to tend to, after all, and only get a chance to catch him during my strolls. Gran argues that he looks like an addict or a scavenger most of the time, I say he dresses and holds himself the way he does for a reason. Whatever the reason, I'm determined to find out.
Only too frightened to take a leap of faith.
September 15th, 2017
In a sweet little flower shop
…
"I still don't understand why you don't just go live with your pops downtown."
She sat idly on a high stool next to him, and on her lap she'd positioned her heavily adorned laptop—littered in stickers and markings.
"I can't just leave, Pidge."
"Why not?"
He sighed and closed his eyes against the lowering sun out the window. The flowers before him swayed gently in their plastic vase; put to life by the miniature fan on the table. Pidge's glasses reflected the golden light from the setting sun and its reflections danced across cut off stems and leaves, scattered about on the wooden surface, the remnants of vicious trimming and perfecting of what was to become a vase of forgotten flowers rotting on an equally rotten and forgotten grave.
"Because my gran needs me." He tried explaining, "I can't just walk off." He took a deep breath, "She wouldn't stop me, but—"
"Well, then?"
"Let me finish!"
His brows furrowed in the most intense scowl, though he tried to tone down the sudden harshness of his tone. It's not her fault, he tried reminding his rising temperament. As the day wore on, he felt more and more disassociated from his surroundings. Something heavy loomed above his head, he could feel it prickling his skin.
"Like I was about to say—before I was rudely interrupted" He started with a huff and a narrowed look thrown her way, "She would never stop me because she's stubborn and suffers through her shit alone rather than asking for help."
"Sounds like someone I know."
He ignored her sly comment and continued:
"And that's why I can't leave."
Adjusting the lilies that had moved out of place as he spoke helped calm his restless mind. He turned off the fan to prevent further complications. The sun was slowly descending, though it remained high enough to cast warm light over the gravestones in the distance. He took a deep breath.
"And besides…" his voice wavered as he took in the sight before him, the expanse of cold memorials which contrasted the warm light and stood as both a threat and a bittersweet reminder of how fleeting everything is, every feeling and thought.
"It's almost… beautiful…" he whispered to the gate outside.
She was watching him steadily, so much he could tell, though his gaze remained transfixed on the open view.
After a moment, she spoke up:
"It's not the graveyard you find beautiful, it's the cryptid boy that wanders its grounds." She stated with a smirk and a smugness reserved for every time she knew she was right.
He gawked at her and sputtered in response.
"We all know it's true—"
"No! No, no, nope! Not true!" he tried defending himself, "Nuh, uh. Never!"
Puffing his chest out he pouted in indignance, abandoned lilies stood in a vase on the table as his arms were suddenly very occupied with crossing each other for emphasis. Pidge just hopped off her stool with a bounce in her step and shoved the laptop under her arm before she ambled over to where a bowl of outdated candy stood on the counter, mostly for the unfortunate kids that are forcefully dragged through what to a child can only be described as absolute hell. She reached up and grabbed a handful before walking around and leaving her laptop in the drawers, clapping her hand to rid them of invisible dust.
"Alright. Let's do this." She commanded and put both hands on her hips as she made a b-line for his workbench.
"Do what?" he echoed.
An impressive eyeroll accompanied a very rehearsed heave of her chest and a very sour twist of her delicate lips.
"Let's go find your cryptid boyfriend. Duh!" she clarified with uncanny annoyance.
"Wait, what?"
"You said you haven't actually ever met him or seen him up close, no?" she asked, "So let's go find him, properly, and see what he's all about."
His expression remained blank, eyes practically bugging out of his head where they flicked from side to side, his brain pushing its limits to find a logical pattern in their conversation.
"I—" his mouth moved, "I-I can't just walk up to him! Are you insane?!"
Nimble fingers worked open the stubborn sweet, and as it disappeared into her mouth with an audible 'plop', she quirked an eyebrow—eyes slanted.
"So, what do you suggest instead?" she mumbled around the sticky caramel, "Continue watching him through the gates of a haunted cemetery until you eventually wilt and rot like the flowers you so ungraciously tend to on a daily?"
With her friend successfully stumped, she took the initiative; with shoulders straight, and a huff of finality, she turned on her heel and walked towards the glass entrance.
"Now, then." She said, "Care to join? Or should I steal him for myself?"
Septemper 15th, 2017
Somewhere in a cemetery
…
"It's getting dark, Pidge." He whined for the millionth time, "And cold."
A shudder accompanied the statement—albeit somewhat exaggerated for effect. She didn't hook.
"Quit crying like an infant and use all that excessive energy on finding your prince charming instead."
"Why are you so insistent on finding him for me? I never thought of you as very interested in my lovelife—or lack thereof." He muttered sourly.
Her head snapped back towards him for a second, long enough to throw him a dirty glare behind the flare in her glasses, only to then turn back to the golden road before them. The sun was well on its way down, now lurking between the looming silhouettes of the trees and memorials around them. The gravel road they walked upon drowned in sunny rays, and the leaves which littered it were painting a spectacular picture of early fall.
Still, he felt the unease of the day crawl closer and closer, until the skin below his fingernails itched and the twitching of his eyelids gave way to the prickle of tears.
"We should really be heading back now, Pidge-podge."
"Call me that one more time and this cemetery will have one more gravestone to its name."
Despite the threat, he gulped for all different reasons, because as terrifying as his companion was, nothing frightened him more than his current proximity to the mythical apparition of the graveyard-boy.
He was turned towards the duo, with his eyes squinting against the sunset and a hand on his forehead to get a proper look at the visitors. In his left hand he held a wooden rake, and at his feet was a pile of freshly raked leaves. His long limbs were clad in all-black, down the tips of his fingers; encased in leather gloves. The alcove black of his hair had been tied up loosely in a short ponytail. Stray strands twirled and danced in the wind—some wrapped delicately around high cheekbones and a long, pale neck.
He gulped again.
"Aren't you the flower-boy?" the grave-boy asked, to which Pidge turned sharply, but only to witness her friend's desperate fumbling.
"He is." She shouted back to him.
"What are you two doing here?" he asked, seemingly annoyed by their sudden presence, "If you're here for some childish challenge or something you better fuck off, no ghosts here." He barked and then turned back to the task at hand, a frown on his lips.
"Talk to him!" came a whisper by his side, accompanied by a pinch to his waist. He yelped in surprise and jumped forward, only to be pushed further—closer to the black-clad worker.
His sudden proximity made the boy raise his head once more, only this time he had a clearer image—a closer look. He was surprisingly… beautiful. His eyes, which seemed black and all-consuming before, were now a swirling galaxy of lavender. It was like gazing into the dawn of day, so vibrantly purple it seemed imaginary. But it wasn't. The boy before him was very much real, and very much displeased with his sudden closeness.
"What do you want?" he spit out, "Looking for the Cryptid of Adela's?" he asked, venom between each bite of a vicious tongue, "I'm afraid there's nothing neither interesting nor cryptid about me." he finished.
He could do nothing but stare, stare and stare at the expanse of pale, pale skin—graced with a few beauty marks in the most unexpected places, like one right below his left eye. Though despite his skin's shine and perfection, a single scar rippled across its surface—a rich, muddy-pink color. It rose from the sharp edge of his jaw and narrowed out into a fine tip just below his right eye.
"No, we, uh—" another gulp, "We-we were just on…a walk." He barely pushed out, "Yeah. A walk." He added, as if to convince himself that that was, in fact, his honest truth.
All he got in return was a stern look of displeasure, and a deepening of thick brows.
"Suit yourself." He hissed and turned back to his leaves.
Lance, however, was no quitter.
He cleared his throat, perhaps a little too loudly, and then tapped the sufficiently annoyed worker on the shoulder. He stopped mid-rake and stared off into the distance—towards the gate—for a second, as if contemplating whether wrapping those long, slim fingers around Lance's tan throat was the best course of action.
Luckily for the nervous Cuban, he seemed to think better of it, and instead stood up straight once more to meet his eye. His lips twisted up into a painfully professional, twitchy smile.
"What." He drew out in a breath between clenched teeth.
"Could you tell me your name?" he asked, hands fiddling with the hem of his jacket.
"'And why do you wanna know my name?"
"Uh…"
Somewhere behind him, a loud slap on firm skin indicated that Pidge quite possibly just face-palmed herself into a severe concussion. A very muffled and yet a very loud "How eloquent." Followed. Lance ignored it and swallowed thickly, dumbly.
"Well, uh—"
"What? Are you retarded? Mute?"
"No, I—"
"Then spit it out!" he hissed, eyes dangerous slits, "I ain't got all day! Some of us have work to tend to!" he yelled and swung his arms out towards the heap of leaves still at their feet.
Then, something ugly boiled hot in the pit of his gut.
"What the hell is your problem?!" he yelled back, hands now on his hips, "I was just gonna ask for your name, but I guess I better not! Maybe I should start calling you the the Ghost of Adela's like everyone else, freak!"
A heavy silence fell atop them, and from somewhere behind him he could hear the shuffling of Pidge's boots against the fine-graveled road. The wind whistled between treetops and gravestones, and the sun shone its last rays over the land where dead and living roam. Lance desperately wanted to swallow his words—or have the ground below his feet swallow him and add him to its collection. Either worked.
In the silence, the boy spoke:
"Keith." He whispered, but to his ears it sounded more like a shout, "It's Keith. And if you ever, ever, call me anything other than that again I'll cut your fucking cock off and shove it down your throat, flowerboy."
As its warm rays finally gave way, and the cemetery fell into darkness, and the streetlamps around them lit up in a dim glow, the dark-clad boy turned and walked away with the weight of threat in each step. As he did, he flung the heavy rake to the side and it landed with a loud 'clank' against the fine marble of someone's memorial.
A looming feeling of dread crept up his spine.