All Part of a Grave Warden's Job
By Andy Morris
Bernie Tacklewise worked alone in the cemetery. He was there every night from sunset to sunrise, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. He’d been the only grave warden for nearly sixty years, and it was high time he retired. The local council were looking for a replacement for him. Sadly, as he was the only qualified grave warden in the country, finding a suitable apprentice was taking a long time. The trouble was no one really knew what the job involved. Everyone at the council knew his work was important, but no one could say 'why' it was so important. The position required a special kind of individual so, the job description needed to encourage the right person to apply. That’s what Bernie had been telling Debbie Lovely, the Apprentice Delivery Coordinator at the council, for the last few months. They had spoken several times. She was very pleasant, but in Bernie's opinion, she was as scatty as a box of frogs! Twice during their last conversation, Bernie had to remind Debbie where he worked. She also spilt her coffee on her desk while looking for her pen, and she referred to him by three different names. Debbie did, however, promise Bernie that she was on the case and that was good enough for him. After all, Bernie reflected, Debbie worked for the council, so she must know what she's doing.
Miss Lovely also said she might pop round on her way home this evening to talk about the job. Bernie was doubtful that she would show but, he was a patient man who prided himself on always seeing the best in people. He wasn’t one to make a fuss, which was just as well because it looked like Debbie had forgotten about him. The sun was going down and, it was time to begin his work.
“Oh well, not to worry,” Bernie shrugged.
The giant hinges squeaked as the heavy iron gates at the West Entrance banged shut. These were the last ones, and now the cemetery was all secure. No one could get in. Or out.
It was the oldest and largest cemetery in the country, covering over six hundred and forty acres. The grounds were all divided into various areas by ancient trees and bushes, which cast long shadows during the early evening. It was down these spooky maze-like paths that Bernie walked, or more like waddled, according to ‘The Current Mrs Tacklewise’. That’s what he affectionately called his dear wife, Gladys when she made fun of his size. Being only four foot eight, Bernie was only an inch or two shorter than her. He wasn't getting any younger either, and he was quite as agile as he used to be. Still, as long as he could carry his three essential supplies, he was more than capable of doing his job.
The first of these items was his supper, which comprised of; a flask of coffee and thick doorstep sandwiches that Gladys packed for him every night. He loved his wife dearly and was looking forward to spending more time with her when he eventually retired. At the moment, the pair were like ships passing in the night. They only got to spend a couple of hours with each other every day. Although Gladys would often pull his leg saying, 'Two hours was more than enough time', and then she’d laugh at his look of pretend-hurt.
As Bernie strolled beneath one of the oak trees that sheltered a row of crumbling headstones, the details of which had long since worn away, he thought he saw a movement to his left. The bushes rustled as if something were creeping through them. The daylight was all but gone now. A half-moon glowed in the starry sky but offered little in the way of illumination.
Bernie stopped but saw nothing.
“Hullo? Anybody there?”
He got no answer from the gathering gloom. It was probably just a bird, or maybe a squirrel, settling down to the night. After all, strange noises were not uncommon here. That's why a lot of people considered the cemetery an eerie and foreboding place at night.
Like all local children, Bernie had grown up listening to older kids talk about the ghosts that haunt the cemetery. There were areas within these high walls where you could tell a great ghost story and scare your audience to pieces, even in the day time. The most common tale was about a boy whose friends’ dared him to climb over the wall one night. Not wanting anyone to think him a coward, the boy scrambled up the wall and dropped down into the graveyard. A few moments later, his friends heard him cry out. They climbed the wall and peered over but saw nothing. The boy had vanished. He never came out of the cemetery and was never seen again. There were different versions of the story shared in the school playgrounds, and Bernie still heard people talking about it nowadays. Despite that story, or maybe because of it, children would sometimes play hide and seek amongst the headstones, but always in the day time. No one, except Bernie, ever came here after dark.
Satisfied that nothing was hiding in the bushes, Bernie continued on his way, whistling a happy tune and swinging his second piece of essential equipment – his lantern.
“Never leave the shed without your lantern, Young Master Tacklewise,” his predecessor, Mr Flitton Honeydew, had taught him. “Not only will it guide your way and stop you tripped over things. It also acts as a warning to trespassers, and it reassures the guests that you are near.”
The guests, of course, were the dead in their graves. Most of the time, they were content and happy, and there was little for Bernie to do. Occasionally, though, one of the dead would be up and about, and it was the grave warden’s job to make sure they were okay. If he found a corpse lurking by a mausoleum or climbing up out of the ground, he’d need to find out what they wanted and provide them with whatever they needed. More often than not, it was one of the more recently deceased that he’d find stumbling through the headstones. Sometimes they felt lonely or uncertain of their situation. Bernie supposed being dead must take a bit of getting used to at first. The best way to help these guests was to talk with them and listen to their stories. A grave warden had to be a good listener. He often teased Gladys, saying she could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and so he was well practised at listening. Gladys, in mock disbelief, had a different appraisal of his listening skills. Either way, the dead didn’t seem to mind. There were other occasions when a guest would want news of what was happening in the world of the living. So, Bernie would oblige them with the latest current affairs. There was always a newspaper in his shed to help him stay abreast of developments. Gladys described his job as being like 'a concierge to the deceased', but Bernie didn’t know about those foreign words, so he just thought of himself as a good neighbour.
Spending time with his non-living friends was his favourite bit of the job. They were a well of fascinating information. The dead have no need for secrets. So when it comes to sharing stories, there are no better storytellers than the deceased. They provided a fascinating window into the past. Bernie had boxes of notepads piled up in his shed full of the descriptions, thoughts and ideas that he’d gathered from conversations he’d had with his deceased friends. He'd always fancied himself as a writer but had never had the brains for it at school. One day, Bernie promised himself he would write a book. One day after he retired, perhaps.
A new rustling of leaves caused Bernie to pause once again. It was fully dark now. He turned around, lifting his lantern and expecting to see someone, but there was no one there. It wasn’t a good idea for the dead to be up and about for too long. When he’d addressed their issues, he’d gently lead them back to their grave and help them settle once more. The reason for this was because other things stalked the graveyard at night – quite unpleasant things, and it’s far safer for the dead to remain in their coffins.
Bernie listened to the nocturnal whispers of the cemetery. Aside from the gentle hooting of a distant owl, there were no more sounds. He scanned the nearby headstones. They were military graves, all uniform in size, shape and colour.
"Hullo? Who goes there?" he called out but received no reply. If it were a guest, they would have made themselves known by now. So, perhaps something else had found its way in here? An unwanted visitor could be hiding behind one of those small headstones. Bernie waited, ready and tense, but the sound did not return. Everything remained still. Slowly, he made his way over the grass between the graves, swinging his lantern from left to right. He saw nothing of concern, and when he had assured himself that there was no threat, he continued with his tour, whistling a new happy tune.
Keeping the dead safe was one of the main tasks of a grave warden's job and it was also the reason he carried his third and final piece of essential equipment. His trusty bow and arrows were always strapped to his back in case he encountered any graverobbers. These were the uninvited guests that came after dark. They’re the creatures that sneak into the cemetery and cause all sorts of mischief. Bernie liked to call them Graverobbers. It was best to give them a name like that rather than dwell on what they actually were. Graverobbers imply they're people, but these things are far from human. A more accurate description would be; ghouls. These slavering feral creatures lurk in the gloom, preying on the dead and the living given half a chance. They can be a right nuisance for a grave warden! Their skeletal frames and yellow eyes prowl the cemetery at night. If one of the dead happened to be up, a pack of ghouls would tear them apart, feasting on their remains and causing them to suffer a second death – one that would finish them off forever. There was no returning from a second death.
That’s why the gates were always locked at night – to keep the ghouls out. The walls were too high for any of them to climb over, but they still found their way in by digging. The vile buggers bury themselves and dig tunnels under the walls and into the cemetery. Usually, when he spots them, he's able to chase them off. A loud shout and the light from his lantern can have them scurrying back into their holes. Then he has to quickly fill them in and block them up to prevent them from returning. Other times, he has to be a little firmer. An arrow to the head – and it has to be the head – will do the trick. Hitting them in the body would have no effect. But, shoot one or two in the head, and the others will scarper! Then Bernie would have to dispose of the corpses before morning when the public comes by. He'd had a few close calls over the years, but nothing too troublesome. It was all part of a grave warden’s job, he reflected proudly.
Tonight had been a quiet night, and Bernie spent the early hours tidying his shed. When the sun came up, he unlocked the iron gates and then pottered back to his retreat to finish the decluttering. It was late morning when Bernie put away the last of his newspapers and note pads, which meant he would be late getting home. He rang Gladys to let her know he was safe and on his way. Then he phoned Debbie at the council. She'd be in the office now, and she might have some news about his replacement.
Debbie had only just arrived at work, having lost her car keys this morning. She was running late and seemed a little more flustered than usual. As a result, she managed to lock herself out of her computer so she couldn't give him any updates on potential candidates. But, she only called him by the wrong name twice, which was an improvement. Miss Lovely assured Bernie she knew the job was special, and finding a new grave warden was her top priority. If he could wait a little bit longer, she'd have a new apprentice for him soon.
“Okay then,” Bernie sighed quietly. He thanked her for all her hard work and then went trudging home to his dear Gladys. One day he’d be able to retire, he smiled to himself as he passed the council offices, one day.
Miss Lovely also said she might pop round on her way home this evening to talk about the job. Bernie was doubtful that she would show but, he was a patient man who prided himself on always seeing the best in people. He wasn’t one to make a fuss, which was just as well because it looked like Debbie had forgotten about him. The sun was going down and, it was time to begin his work.
“Oh well, not to worry,” Bernie shrugged.
The giant hinges squeaked as the heavy iron gates at the West Entrance banged shut. These were the last ones, and now the cemetery was all secure. No one could get in. Or out.
It was the oldest and largest cemetery in the country, covering over six hundred and forty acres. The grounds were all divided into various areas by ancient trees and bushes, which cast long shadows during the early evening. It was down these spooky maze-like paths that Bernie walked, or more like waddled, according to ‘The Current Mrs Tacklewise’. That’s what he affectionately called his dear wife, Gladys when she made fun of his size. Being only four foot eight, Bernie was only an inch or two shorter than her. He wasn't getting any younger either, and he was quite as agile as he used to be. Still, as long as he could carry his three essential supplies, he was more than capable of doing his job.
The first of these items was his supper, which comprised of; a flask of coffee and thick doorstep sandwiches that Gladys packed for him every night. He loved his wife dearly and was looking forward to spending more time with her when he eventually retired. At the moment, the pair were like ships passing in the night. They only got to spend a couple of hours with each other every day. Although Gladys would often pull his leg saying, 'Two hours was more than enough time', and then she’d laugh at his look of pretend-hurt.
As Bernie strolled beneath one of the oak trees that sheltered a row of crumbling headstones, the details of which had long since worn away, he thought he saw a movement to his left. The bushes rustled as if something were creeping through them. The daylight was all but gone now. A half-moon glowed in the starry sky but offered little in the way of illumination.
Bernie stopped but saw nothing.
“Hullo? Anybody there?”
He got no answer from the gathering gloom. It was probably just a bird, or maybe a squirrel, settling down to the night. After all, strange noises were not uncommon here. That's why a lot of people considered the cemetery an eerie and foreboding place at night.
Like all local children, Bernie had grown up listening to older kids talk about the ghosts that haunt the cemetery. There were areas within these high walls where you could tell a great ghost story and scare your audience to pieces, even in the day time. The most common tale was about a boy whose friends’ dared him to climb over the wall one night. Not wanting anyone to think him a coward, the boy scrambled up the wall and dropped down into the graveyard. A few moments later, his friends heard him cry out. They climbed the wall and peered over but saw nothing. The boy had vanished. He never came out of the cemetery and was never seen again. There were different versions of the story shared in the school playgrounds, and Bernie still heard people talking about it nowadays. Despite that story, or maybe because of it, children would sometimes play hide and seek amongst the headstones, but always in the day time. No one, except Bernie, ever came here after dark.
Satisfied that nothing was hiding in the bushes, Bernie continued on his way, whistling a happy tune and swinging his second piece of essential equipment – his lantern.
“Never leave the shed without your lantern, Young Master Tacklewise,” his predecessor, Mr Flitton Honeydew, had taught him. “Not only will it guide your way and stop you tripped over things. It also acts as a warning to trespassers, and it reassures the guests that you are near.”
The guests, of course, were the dead in their graves. Most of the time, they were content and happy, and there was little for Bernie to do. Occasionally, though, one of the dead would be up and about, and it was the grave warden’s job to make sure they were okay. If he found a corpse lurking by a mausoleum or climbing up out of the ground, he’d need to find out what they wanted and provide them with whatever they needed. More often than not, it was one of the more recently deceased that he’d find stumbling through the headstones. Sometimes they felt lonely or uncertain of their situation. Bernie supposed being dead must take a bit of getting used to at first. The best way to help these guests was to talk with them and listen to their stories. A grave warden had to be a good listener. He often teased Gladys, saying she could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and so he was well practised at listening. Gladys, in mock disbelief, had a different appraisal of his listening skills. Either way, the dead didn’t seem to mind. There were other occasions when a guest would want news of what was happening in the world of the living. So, Bernie would oblige them with the latest current affairs. There was always a newspaper in his shed to help him stay abreast of developments. Gladys described his job as being like 'a concierge to the deceased', but Bernie didn’t know about those foreign words, so he just thought of himself as a good neighbour.
Spending time with his non-living friends was his favourite bit of the job. They were a well of fascinating information. The dead have no need for secrets. So when it comes to sharing stories, there are no better storytellers than the deceased. They provided a fascinating window into the past. Bernie had boxes of notepads piled up in his shed full of the descriptions, thoughts and ideas that he’d gathered from conversations he’d had with his deceased friends. He'd always fancied himself as a writer but had never had the brains for it at school. One day, Bernie promised himself he would write a book. One day after he retired, perhaps.
A new rustling of leaves caused Bernie to pause once again. It was fully dark now. He turned around, lifting his lantern and expecting to see someone, but there was no one there. It wasn’t a good idea for the dead to be up and about for too long. When he’d addressed their issues, he’d gently lead them back to their grave and help them settle once more. The reason for this was because other things stalked the graveyard at night – quite unpleasant things, and it’s far safer for the dead to remain in their coffins.
Bernie listened to the nocturnal whispers of the cemetery. Aside from the gentle hooting of a distant owl, there were no more sounds. He scanned the nearby headstones. They were military graves, all uniform in size, shape and colour.
"Hullo? Who goes there?" he called out but received no reply. If it were a guest, they would have made themselves known by now. So, perhaps something else had found its way in here? An unwanted visitor could be hiding behind one of those small headstones. Bernie waited, ready and tense, but the sound did not return. Everything remained still. Slowly, he made his way over the grass between the graves, swinging his lantern from left to right. He saw nothing of concern, and when he had assured himself that there was no threat, he continued with his tour, whistling a new happy tune.
Keeping the dead safe was one of the main tasks of a grave warden's job and it was also the reason he carried his third and final piece of essential equipment. His trusty bow and arrows were always strapped to his back in case he encountered any graverobbers. These were the uninvited guests that came after dark. They’re the creatures that sneak into the cemetery and cause all sorts of mischief. Bernie liked to call them Graverobbers. It was best to give them a name like that rather than dwell on what they actually were. Graverobbers imply they're people, but these things are far from human. A more accurate description would be; ghouls. These slavering feral creatures lurk in the gloom, preying on the dead and the living given half a chance. They can be a right nuisance for a grave warden! Their skeletal frames and yellow eyes prowl the cemetery at night. If one of the dead happened to be up, a pack of ghouls would tear them apart, feasting on their remains and causing them to suffer a second death – one that would finish them off forever. There was no returning from a second death.
That’s why the gates were always locked at night – to keep the ghouls out. The walls were too high for any of them to climb over, but they still found their way in by digging. The vile buggers bury themselves and dig tunnels under the walls and into the cemetery. Usually, when he spots them, he's able to chase them off. A loud shout and the light from his lantern can have them scurrying back into their holes. Then he has to quickly fill them in and block them up to prevent them from returning. Other times, he has to be a little firmer. An arrow to the head – and it has to be the head – will do the trick. Hitting them in the body would have no effect. But, shoot one or two in the head, and the others will scarper! Then Bernie would have to dispose of the corpses before morning when the public comes by. He'd had a few close calls over the years, but nothing too troublesome. It was all part of a grave warden’s job, he reflected proudly.
Tonight had been a quiet night, and Bernie spent the early hours tidying his shed. When the sun came up, he unlocked the iron gates and then pottered back to his retreat to finish the decluttering. It was late morning when Bernie put away the last of his newspapers and note pads, which meant he would be late getting home. He rang Gladys to let her know he was safe and on his way. Then he phoned Debbie at the council. She'd be in the office now, and she might have some news about his replacement.
Debbie had only just arrived at work, having lost her car keys this morning. She was running late and seemed a little more flustered than usual. As a result, she managed to lock herself out of her computer so she couldn't give him any updates on potential candidates. But, she only called him by the wrong name twice, which was an improvement. Miss Lovely assured Bernie she knew the job was special, and finding a new grave warden was her top priority. If he could wait a little bit longer, she'd have a new apprentice for him soon.
“Okay then,” Bernie sighed quietly. He thanked her for all her hard work and then went trudging home to his dear Gladys. One day he’d be able to retire, he smiled to himself as he passed the council offices, one day.