Have Spade Will Travel (standard:horror, 2809 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 09 2002	Views/Reads: 4280/2367	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young gravedigger encounters a murder victim in his graveyard.

With his slicked-back grey hair and his craggy, weather-beaten face,
Father Mulroy looked more like a gangster than a holy man. He sat 
beside me in the pew, the strong odour of furniture polish failing to 
neutralize the awful, cheap aftershave of the blue-eyed, Irish priest. 

St Judes, the ancient parish of my misfortune, was to be the venue for
my confession. I had related to Father Mulroy, that the confession was 
not to be a formal affair, as I was a protestant. However, he agreed to 
my unusual request, his curiosity in need of sating. 

It all began on that awful September day. At twenty-eight years of age,
I enjoyed the pleasantries that all young men bestowed upon themselves. 
Billy Fury, Bentleys, rock'n'roll, Adam Faith, and of course girls. I 
loved the feel of Brylcreem on my hair, my Teddy boy suit, and 
mimicking my hero's on Jukebox Jury. 

Yes, I was almost a normal young man. Almost. What set me out different
from the others, was my macabre occupation, grave digging. My Uncle 
John had set me up in the business, and had left all of his possessions 
and his parish addresses to me. I was probably the only freelance 
gravedigger in the country. 

I was viewing all of the nameless train stations that passed me by when
I travelled to Oakhampton, Devon. Father Mulroy had sent for me. “It 
was urgent,” he had said. “Five graves to dig. Usual rates apply.” 

It was a living I suppose. Not one that I was proud of though, for I
concealed my occupation from the local girls. Who would want to go out 
with a gravedigger? As I passed a schoolyard, I watched the children 
jumping up and down on their pogo sticks and playing marbles. I felt as 
if my childhood had never happened. At the tender age of twelve, I was 
travelling the country, digging graves with my Uncle. “Learning the 
trade,” so he would tell me. 

I hated the journey down to Devon. Eight bloody wasted hours on the
train. If I knew what was to befall me this day, I would have gladly 
abandoned the train at the next station and walked back home to the 
North. 

The tall oak trees swayed in rhythm with the strong breeze, depositing
their brown leaves onto the sodden, consecrated ground. The overcast 
sky, grey and morose, befitted the settings of the tranquil, bleak 
cemetery. I watched as the mourners shuffled towards the exit, after 
paying homage to their loved ones. 

I hate cemeteries and absolutely loathe the services. Funerals only made
people miserable. When I die, I want my friends and family to party; 
bopping to Bill Hailey and the Comets. Now that would be something. A 
rock'n'roll party in a cemetery. 

I peered into the void; a small coffin that occupied the hole in the
ground. This is the part that filled me with sadness; burying the 
children. I preferred to call it, aiding them on their journey to the 
gateway to heaven. 

Henry Keeler, a fellow gravedigger told me once, that as he threw the
dirt onto a coffin, he heard scratching and screaming. After opening 
the coffin, a young man, the victim of the premature burial, struggled 
out of his tomb and ran screaming towards the exit, never to be seen 
again. 

I am not sure if this is a true account, but I have read of such things
happening nationwide, with doctors certifying the victim as dead, only 
for him to wake up later. 

As I covered the small coffin with dirt, I felt the presence of somebody
watching me. I turned around to face a small, unsmiling girl who was 
wearing a bright yellow dress, her hair in pigtails, and her little 
nose upturned. She was sitting on the stump of an old oak tree, her 
eyes swollen and red. She had clearly been crying. 

“Hello, what's your name?” 

“Anna,” she whispered. 



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