There is a murmur in the darkness. A low voice uttering syllables I am unfamiliar with. An echo of this dense whisper blankets my mind. It beckons, it warns. It seduces, it frightens. Most of all, it sounds familiar.

Like a friend that I have long since forgotten.

I notice the voice now saying my name. It seems lonely. It seems livid. It... seems to be getting louder.

"Elyza!"

I startle awake, straightening my spine and spotting the bemused speaker. Mustering a weak grin, I peel the papers from my face. "Dios."

"I know you're bored, my dear, but no one else can keep up with Scribe Elwin's antics 'cept you," Elder Grimkeep Damien says.

His chuckles tell me that he's teasing me as usual. Nine years of being his apprentice and he still tries to get the better of me. I decide not to play along this time as I gather the completed files and forms.

The old man hums. "You really are such dear doing this for Samel and myself. We're getting up there in years and having an influx of clients like that is such a rarity these days."

I sigh, running my fingers through my short, loose hair in a vain attempt to have them stay combed back with my longer locks. "I know, Elder. That's why I came to help."

A skeletal hand, shaking with age, lightly rests atop my youthful one. It's a stark contrast between the years of hard work he's done as the Grimkeep of Burials and my life just blooming into the peak of performance. His skin, sun-aged into warm, tough wrinkles and speckled in scars with years of calluses worn into his palms, reminds me of my maternal grandfather though his temperament reminds me of my father. Elder and I have been mistaken by Hub visitors to be relatives with how close his earned tan is to my natural one. But still, I stare at his scarred hand atop my own, bearing childhood nicks and pricks from aiding my family's trade and newer scars from my years as an apprentice in the Funeral Home and the cemetery.

Have I truly been helping? I'm the youngest and full of the most energy. So why haven't I ever been able to convince Elder and Samel to allow me to dig the plots or move the stone? The elders in my family has always been ashamed that I can't take a share of Damien's physical labor, but no matter how I approach the subject with either Grimkeep they don't budge.

What I do here doesn't seem to have an obvious effect. Aside from my family's trade, the teachings of all Grimkeep haven't needed to come into play. I practice as instructed, but I am unsure if my efforts will be enough to stop an actual threat. Overall, I just feel like a glorified secretary.

"You're helping more than you realize, young one." Elder's gentle voice pulls me from my head as he tilts his head, the evening light peering in from my window glinting across his eclipse blue eyes. "Ah, it seems like only yesterday when I accepted in such a bright child. Like moonlight on a cloudy evening."

I allow a small smile at his compliment. I'm always a form of light for him when it comes to his endearments. I believe him to be exaggerating, but I humbly accept his offerings as always.

"There's that smile to warm this old man's heart."

I shake my head and gather the folders needing to be taken to the Scribe before he closes the House of Records for the evening.

"Don't forget to pick up the forms from Samel before you head to Stockade," Damien warns behind me.

"Oh, right, right!" I chide to myself as I turn on my heel to head for the narrow stairs to descend into cooler air.

This sterile environment is cold and unfeeling, an acrid sting in the nostrils compared to the rich subtitles of the dark wood and stone in the rest of the Funeral Home. This tiled cave is Samel the Grimkeep's territory. He has a way with preserving the cadavers and beautifying them for the Final Showing. His is the only talent I find unsettling.

How he can make the dead seem like they are simply at rest is beyond me. I swear that I could see a few chests move or eyes flutter behind closed lids.

I may have a deep respect for the dead, but I do fear death and the undead.

Swallowing my anxiety at the multitude of tables bearing perfected cadavers, I step to the hunched man positioned at the far side of the morgue as he talks himself through his artful process.

"I see you have a beautiful undertone of blue, so I'll have do this to liven you up... and a dab of this to hide that bit. Perfection, honorary guest."

I lean around his earth-toned frame to see who it is he's working on. It's a shame to see the eldest matriarch of the Beefmaster family laying there. It's still a shock that this tiny, wisp of a lady was able to push around fully grown cattle until death came for her. And Samel has done her up in a way that she never took the time to do for herself while living.

"It still looks like she'll get up and shove you aside," I murmur.

Tools clatter as Samel shrieks, contesting even the highest of little girl voices. "Stars almighty, girl! Warn a gent, how many times to I have to tell you? I swear, I gotta get you a bell."

I help him gather the fallen makeup brushes and pallets as he sputters to himself, half-smirking and peering at him through my lashes. "You've had ample opportunity to gift me a bell..." Give him a little flutter and an innocent tilt to my grin.

"And find out exactly how often my privacy is disturbed, I should think not. I don't need you reminding me of my cat." He stamps his booted foot, facing me fully with twinkling green eyes. "Would it kill you to make some kind of noise when you sneak up on people?"

"I don't sneak, Samel," I chuckle. "Not internationally, anyway."

He sighs, throwing up his hands and stalking to his desk. Making quick work of penning his signature on any remaining forms, he thrusts a stack of papers in my face.

"Here, child. Now go before I decide to truly think of you as my mischievous cat and throw a boot at you."

Gingerly slipping the papers inside a folder, I give a goodbye and ascend the stairs. Bypassing my "office" and stepping out into the ground floor, waving bye at Damien while he sweeps the grand hall. I do take a moment to wince at the daylight once I pass through the double doors, making me wish that at the next Moon Meeting, my family will bring me sunglasses from an advanced Hub further West from Stockade.

While most of Stockade's buildings are within the wooded walls of our humble Hub, the Funeral Home and cemetery is a twenty minute stroll away. A majority of the trees surrounding the dirt trail closest to the walls have been cut back and tamed. Though, as the trail leads to the Home, the same effort hasn't been applied to the woods, but the cemetery lays in a clearing so the trees naturally thin out anyway. It is this stroll that I most enjoy no matter the time of day; except on a new moon during the time of year when the lightening bugs are most active.

As it stands, the evening angle of the sun casts long shadows across the trail as a golden hue paints the world, brightening the varying planty greens and glittering against the gritty, sandy path. The dull thrumming of insect songs is accompanied by sharp, shrill calls of birds or an occasional scurry of forest creatures as they flee my presence. Nature is my home. We are all born to it and we will all die to it. We live and breathe or decay and rot by it.

Taking this stroll always humbles my mind which is why I enjoy this time to myself, else I forget who I am and where I'm going. To never forget my delicate, mortal position in this world.

By the time I see the walls of Stockade, I pick up the faint, shouting voices of the guards on this side of the Hub. As I approach, the smaller section of the gate opens for me to continue my pace without pause. I give my customary nod of acknowledgement to both the guards currently on duty, recognizing one but not the other.

"New chico, Frid?"

"Aye," the stout, armoured man grins. "My nephew on my wife's side. Doesn't think he's cut out for glassmaking."

This news has me turning on my heel to face them while I now walk backwards. "Well then, let's see how he'll fare after your treacherous pranks. If he has the guts for those, guarding should be a breeze." I gift the teen a half-smile. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Only four kids died of fright. Or was it five? Dios, I can't remember."

I spin around, chuckling lowly though as I hear a concerned voice call for his uncle and demand explanations as to what I meant, I have to bite my lips to avoid guffawing with pure wicked delight. Frid's wild cackling makes up for my restraint, luckily.

Within minutes, I step up to the House of Records and individually slide all these files in the deposit drawer next to the front doors, taking care to angle each folder so that the papers won't fly out as it settles in the Scribe's In-basket. It'd be easier to step in and set the pile down all at once, but Elwin has his moments of... irrational fears.

One day, it was flying snakes. Another, there were too many people coughing. My favorite moment was when he claimed to be hiding from the clouds on a clear day. But he's the best when it comes to record keeping. It makes the annual visits of the Census move along very quickly, so we forgive his moments- as long as we can still use building if necessary and he provides a sound excuse with logical reasoning.

"Last one," I speak to the frosted glass in case he's sitting right there.

"Thank you, hun." His voice, when not freaking out, is soft and high and he really doesn't speak often.

I hum in the affirmative and make my way back to the gate, smiling as the teen is still worrying himself to death as his uncle lets me pass. My path now has grown darker with longer shadows and a deeper wash of amber now colors the world.

My favorite time of day approaches.

Not ten minutes after do I hear the chugging of the Grimkeep vehicle bearing both men coming down the trail. On good days, the four-wheeled mechanism runs on the sun. On bad days, they have to rely on the steam engine attachment. They brake next to me, heat radiating off the sputtering engine. The smell of hot, dirty metal brings tears to just one eye, annoyingly enough.

"Everything is closed up except your door and we shouldn't expect anyone until well after your shift is over, so you'll see me in the morning," the elder informs, aged and dusky blue eyes catching my gaze.

"Aye, sir."

"And you know the drill if any of my beautiful cadavers gets up," Samel leans over with gusto, making Damien lose his breath.

I echo the vibrant man's timber and cadence as we say "Tell them if even one hair is out of place before their Final Debut, I will be very cross!"

I chuckle and give him a promise to do as he asks before waving the duo off as they head home to their respective families and continue down the trail for my shift at the Home.

My actual job, like Madame Halu before me, is to watch over the cemetery during the dark hours. Aside from the occasional Night Guard and wildlife, I have this clearing to myself for twelve hours and in comparison to my tight-knit, yet ever-growing family, I like having the wide space and silence. There's something beautiful in the quiet eeriness of the clearing at night.

The long shadows have now consumed the world by the time I see the wrought iron gate marking the entrance to the cemetery and Home. The metalwork, ancient by our standards, spooks many a man, woman, and child who gaze upon it's twisted curves and rusting prongs; its hinges unusable so the gate is always welcoming souls just as Death is. I am always struck in awe by the craft each time I approach and this moment is no different from the others. I am a sacrificial lamb stepping boldly into a gaping maw of metal fangs and the promise of eternal sleep.

The night songs of insects continue, the chirpy melody missing from the orchestra as the birds bed down while I cross the clearing to get to the Home. I need my equipment, after all, in case the songs go silent.

Bypassing the front doors, I plod down the decline towards the back of the building. As promised, Elder left my door unlocked so I step in and turn on my desk lamp and my home-away-from-home illuminates in a soft white light. Though, not wanting to waste the charge of the Collectors, I pick up- by pure muscle memory- my trusty light-torch dubbed SunStick, prayer scarf, belt of pouches filled with whatever plant-life, minerals, or creature parts I would need to protect myself and, ultimately, Stockade. I also snatch up my set of keys from its designated hook by my lamp before I turn the device off and step out into the cool, evening air.

I shove the butt end of the SunStick in my mouth as I deftly fold and wrap my scarf around my waist and clasp the belt over it, knotting them together. Giving a couple hops to ensure it's set in place, I hook SunStick on my belt and give a quick glance at the cemetery within the clearing.

Picking a random direction -straight back from my door-, I take a stroll to the perimeter and catalogue anything different or strange. This area of the clearing is full of newer plots, including freshly dug ones for those who are waiting inside the Home. Peeking down the lanes left and right of me as I follow a main path, I count ten open plots by the time I reach the dilapidated stone wall of the Funeral Home's original border.

Ten holes for ten cadavers, just as planned.

I hop over the most ruined portion of the wall to patrol the addition we're having to make. After taking the time to fix the Home itself after... the incident... nine years ago, the need for expansion has been a growing issue until recently. Some trees have already been felled, stumps and roots pulled up, holes filled and left to rest before the ground could be put to use. Whatever wasn't taken by Stockade's families has been left here until the next Moon Meeting. Mainly, it's a couple stacks of cleaned up logs while we wait for the return of the Carpentry family from Citadel which is a week north from Stockade if I remember correctly.

No animals have tried to make a home amongst the logs yet, though there are burrows here and there by grub-hunters. If we're not careful, that could attract spiders and rodents very quickly which could be then followed by snakes. Could, if left too long, which I highly doubt. This wood is very good and commissions have already been planned at the last Moon Meeting.

What's most desired is the stack of acebo pulled out from the entire addition. The pure whiteness of the wood is a beauty of nature and is used in a lot of Stockade's practical and aesthetic decorations and protections. My family's word for the wood reminds me the least of the nightmares I have attached to the common name for it.

But the word choice still doesn't fully remove the terror of gazing upon the tangle of clean branches and dirt-pack roots as its mass sits in the darkness of a simple lean-to. Years later and I still cannot look at raw acebo wood without a deep knot gestating in my gut as my mind creates movement in the shadows where I know there wouldn't be, that the twisting limbs gnarl into fingers that reach for me. Just like it did almost a decade ago.

A decade... and I swear I can still hear that agitated, bassy voice echo those foreign syllables, only louder and clearer in my head than when I first heard it.

A decade... and I still think that the darkest of corners behold a wriggling mass or the brightest of glares is actually the visage of the inhuman creature.

A decade... and I still feel like a frighten child when I gaze upon the pure wood as if it alone is the very essence of that being.

I dare not even think of his name and I shake my head- as if my childish fear is nothing more than pesky insects, I try to tell myself- and make quick work of my patrol in this area so that I can move on.

My path tonight follows along the eastern side of the clearing. I make note of each and every disturbance in the stone wall as weeds or animals shift the delicate balance of hard earth. I've witnessed two collapses in my time here so far, and any efforts to restore the walls fall flat often making the holes larger. There are a few other points of interest that I silent wager will also collapse before I am laid to rest.

I scan the lines of plots for any fresh dirt where it shouldn't be and marvel at the ancient plot markers though many of them are withered beyond recognition. Some markers are believed to be pieces of nearby ones as time tore into the flaws and finally cracked the bits apart. Many of the words on these older markers are ineligible and in languages long lost to us.

What parting wisdom or well wishes were etched on these stones? How short or long were the people's lives? What were their names?

With silent reverence, I pass the great Iron Gate and continue my patrol along the western walls, noting more future collapses and finding nothing else of interest. Not even an imp to spook off or omen to reverse. Just the woods full of ignorant wildlife and their nightly sounds as my company.

I stroll back to the Home, entering my door and locking it behind me, before I stalk to my little stove for my ritualistic habit of making the inaugural cup of tea of the shift.

I am blessed to have been gifted raw herbs, sugars, and honeys from successful trades with different Farmer families. It's like I can taste that part of the world where the plants are grown; my substitute for being unable to travel. A good, or bad, cup usually spells out how my shift goes.

While waiting for the water to boil, I prepare my cup though I see my own handwriting on a carelessly tossed bit of paper. I am reminded of what I was working on after I finished filling out the Records and before I passed out. My scrawled words speak of possible uses of combined symbols and the placement of letters and words as a whole. Research I need to perform before I start my prototype shrouds in order to protect our dead from anything other than natural decomposition. As an extension, a living prayer shawl for myself.

On the little paper, however, is the seal of two combined ancient runes that I have held near to my heart since I stitched it in the scarf currently around my waist. Other than the drawing and the threading, I have not made another. Not one. Not as long as I fear it was the cause of Madame Halu's death do I dare make its mark again.

But looking at it now... it's so simple to make. Six strokes is all it takes to make it. Completed, it promises good relationships and strength from familial knowledge.

It promises that, but I lost someone the first time I wear it. I lost a well of wisdom and advice. All because I just had to experiment.

My fingers pet along the softened fibers of the embroidered scarf mindlessly, a quiet comfort when I find myself swimming the depths of my thoughts. It's so dear to me now when I once swore to never wear it again after the incident. I had managed to forget about it entirely as it gathered dust under my bed, too. Of course it saves my life months after.

The phantom pain in my ankle twinges, flooding my absent head of panicked, stolen glances of the poised lion and bloodied, pained memories of making it inside the Home, but being ensnared by teeth. My only hope had been to blindly reach for anything. I could never get out the stains of my fingerprints on the scarf after I grabbed it and channeled my pleas for help. The blood loss and shock took my head, but when I awoke, I was alive and alone. Though my ankle wasn't torn to shreds as it felt like it had; all that pained me was no more than a sprain. The blood surrounding it had confirmed my original trauma memory, however.

The larger blood stain that coated my threshold also told me that something came to my aid and made quick work of the lion.

Good or bad, I've kept the scarf as a staple whenever I am on shift.

The water screams at me, pulling out of my reverie with a startle. With practiced ease, I make my cup and replace the kettle when I notice what I had done while dazed. Shallows grooves in the soft wood of the old desk, made with hard nails, is the seal I was pondering about.

"Dios," I hiss to myself, flicking my long nails at my stupidity.

And to match the growing foul mood, my first cup of tea does not taste fulfilling. Each sip is upsetting, bitter and weak when I know that the leaves I used are light and flavorful. With the cup forced down and a darkened cloud overcasting my mind, I grit my teeth and step out of the Home for my next nightly task.

And into still silence I step.

I've never before been swallowed by the stuffiness that comes when life between the trees falls quiet. Not having at least a low buzzing hum to break the silent rigidity of barked plants nor even the whisper of a breeze to shake their great limbs shifts my body into an unsteady stance. I never take my eyes from the edges of the clearing, hoping that the sounds will be return and I can relax. But as the silence grows longer my head feels lighter, my heart racing like a horse.

My hands shake as they inch to my belt, ready to move just as practiced. Depending on what shows its face.

They flinch when I spot movement, thrashing and stumbling between the trees just in front of me, coming from the addition. I recognize the leaps and shape of the animal, but why is a buck acting like that? It's falling over roots and itself, rolling madly whenever it falls until it finds its feet again and staggers about, wildly throwing its head with wide eyes and an open mouth. It tumbles over the ruined wall where it spins in circles on its side, tearing up the grass and bleating loudly. It's body tenses, head raised high as the sound dies in its throat.

With a sudden finality, the great head of a seemingly healthy buck falls limp to the ground.

I wait, unmoving from my stance. Was it being chased? Was it poisoned? Is it diseased? Is it even dead? Will it be undead?

I've never seen this before and nothing like this has been mentioned in any of my teachings. I'm not prepared. There's something unknown... I can't fight what I'm not prepared for.

My fingers twitch, touching the soft scarf if only briefly, but it is enough to steady my hands. Without taking my eyes from the deer, I open my door and reach past the threshold to curl my fingers around my staff. Feeling a little better, I slowly step out of the shadow of the Home and into the moonlight. My ears burn with how hard I focus on the silence surrounding the clearing, tensing for the moment I hear anything suspicious. But my gaze never falters from the fallen creature as I inch down the beaten path.

I never saw movement.

Not a single wave of branches or a scurry of some nocturnal animal.

Nothing.

But I do notice something that wasn't there before.

A decade old fear returns as my gaze shifts to the darkened canopy of the woods, a featureless entity of white clothed in shadows unmistakable for mere imagination. My hands quiver, gripping my scarf with tight uncertainty.

I do not want to look away, but I haven't blinked since I saw the deer fall. My heart bruises my ribs as I have to close my eyes.

Please, I silently beg.

For what, I am unsure. To live another day? To at least have a fast death? When it comes to the will of some entities, one's best hope is a quick demise.

I scan the tree line for the being, but he's not there anymore.

Did I really see him?

I wait again, staff held in front of me as I hold my stance still. The woods is still stifling, so he has to be nearby. My body is poised for reaction, but my brain is pulling up questions- as if I really need the distractions.

What did he do to the deer? It's never been known that he's done such a thing? If not him, then what else caused the buck to go mad and plausibly die? Could I stop it? Will I die if I try? Many could die if I don't.

After minutes of nothing else, I slowly inch to the buck finding that its eyes are milky in appearance and blood dribbling from all its orifices. I see no foam around the mouth nor do I see any old or new injuries that could have caused infection. Stockade's Physician would know more, but the best I can do is confirm it is dead. With a hesitate prod of my staff, I disturb the hulk.

It doesn't move.

I glance at the trees to see if I am still alone when I, instead, see a crawling mass of dark fog obscure the environment. All manner of life try to leave and stay ahead of the black cloud, but they also act erratic until falling still themselves. Even if I were to run now and make it to the Home, would I still be safe from this fog? How long would I have to run to stay ahead of it until it finally stops? IF it stops!

Running is the only thing I can do!

I turn, intending to bolt straight back down the path, up the incline past the Funeral Home, through the Iron Gates, and on until necessary or I die. But I run into something cold and firm... when nothing is supposed to be there except an empty path.

Stuck between certain death and what stands before me, my mind goes white.

Then dark.

What do you think so far?