The Graveyard Shift: Working with the Dead
The Graveyard Shift: Working with the Dead
The cemetery was silent, wrapped in a thick blanket of fog. It was nearly midnight when Marcus stepped through the creaky gates of Hillshade Memorial Park. Most people avoided this place after dark, but Marcus had a job to do—he was the new night caretaker.
"You're sure you want this shift?" the old groundskeeper had asked him earlier that day. "Not everyone lasts."
Marcus had laughed it off. "What, because of ghost stories? I’m not scared of a few headstones."
Now, with the cold wind tugging at his coat and the shadows shifting between the graves, he wasn’t so sure.
His flashlight flickered as he made his first round. The beam caught the names etched in stone—some so old the letters were barely legible. A crow cawed in the distance. Marcus checked his watch. 12:01 a.m.
"Just six hours till sunrise," he muttered.
As he passed by the older section of the cemetery, his radio crackled. "Marcus..." a voice whispered.
He froze. "Who is this?"
Static. Then silence.
"Must be interference," he said, trying to calm his racing heart. But then he heard footsteps—soft, dragging. He swung the flashlight toward the sound. Nothing.
He quickened his pace, heading toward the caretaker’s shed. Inside, he found a dusty logbook. Curious, he opened it. The entries dated back to the 1940s. Many pages mentioned sightings: shadows moving on their own, voices calling out, graves disturbed without explanation.
One entry caught his eye: “Nov 3, 1976 – Spoke to her again. The woman in white. Says she’s looking for her son.”
"This has to be a joke," Marcus said, closing the book. Just then, the lights in the shed blinked out.
Outside, fog had thickened. As Marcus stepped out, he saw her—a woman in a long white dress, standing between two graves.
"Ma’am? Are you okay?" he called out.
She turned slowly. Her face was pale, eyes hollow. "Have you seen my son?"
Marcus backed away. "I—I don’t know who your son is."
She took a step forward. "He’s here. Buried. But I can’t find him."
Lightning flashed, and she vanished.
Marcus ran back to the shed, slamming the door behind him. His hands shook as he picked up the logbook again.
The next pages detailed encounters with “the woman in white” over decades. Always searching. Always crying.
Determined to understand, Marcus decided to investigate. He searched the burial records and found a match: Eleanor Whitmore, died 1898. Her son, Thomas Whitmore, buried in an unmarked grave.
"Maybe if I find his grave... she’ll rest," he whispered.
He grabbed a shovel and headed to the plot number listed in the archive. As he walked, the wind grew louder, howling like voices.
Digging through wet soil, he finally hit wood. A decayed coffin. Carefully, he uncovered the nameplate: Thomas Whitmore.
Behind him, a soft sob echoed. He turned.
She was there again.
"You found him," she whispered.
Marcus nodded. "He’s here. You can rest now."
She smiled sadly and began to fade. As she vanished, the wind died down. Peace settled over the graveyard.
Marcus returned to the shed. The clock read 5:59 a.m. He survived the night—and maybe, just maybe, made a difference.
The following night, Marcus showed up early. He checked the logbook and added a new entry:
“Nov 4, 2025 – Found Thomas Whitmore. The woman in white has finally found peace.”
But just as he closed the book, the radio crackled again.
"Marcus... help me..."
A new voice. A new mystery.
Marcus looked out at the graveyard, fog rolling in once more. The graveyard shift wasn’t just a job. It was a calling.
And the dead were far from done.
The next night, the cemetery felt different. Marcus could almost sense the presence of something new—something heavier. He went about his rounds, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The air was thick with tension.
He passed by an old section of the cemetery he’d never explored before. It was an area marked with graves so old the inscriptions had worn away completely. Some graves were unmarked, with only the shapes of broken headstones indicating where the dead rested.
Curiosity piqued, Marcus moved closer. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the trees, making the air feel colder. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shift between the gravestones.
"Who's there?" Marcus called, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound authoritative.
Nothing.
He stepped closer, and that’s when he saw them—a series of figures, faint and translucent, emerging from the ground. They were like shadows, hunched and twisted, their eyes hollow and their mouths open as if trying to scream.
Marcus stumbled back, heart pounding. The figures began to move toward him, their slow, dragging steps sending chills down his spine.
One figure, larger than the others, stepped forward, its gaze locking with Marcus’s. Its face was a mask of anguish.
"Help us," it whispered.
Marcus’s knees nearly buckled. He had seen the woman in white, but these were different. These were the restless souls, caught between the realms of the living and the dead.
"What do you want?" Marcus stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
"Find the one who did this," the figure rasped, before it crumbled into dust.
The others followed suit, their forms disintegrating into the wind, leaving Marcus alone in the cemetery once again.
His mind raced. Who had done this? Who was responsible for binding these souls to this place? And how could he fix it?
Determined to get answers, Marcus searched the cemetery records once more. The name that kept appearing was Charles Gable, a wealthy landowner who had owned the cemetery land long before it became a memorial park. According to the records, he had mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind only a small grave without a name.
Could Charles Gable be the one responsible for these restless souls? Marcus needed to find out more.
The following night, armed with a sense of urgency, Marcus ventured into the old section of the cemetery again. This time, he headed straight for the unmarked grave of Charles Gable.
The wind howled around him, but Marcus wasn’t afraid. He knew that whatever secrets the cemetery held, he had to uncover them. As he dug into the cold earth, he could feel the presence of something watching him—something waiting.
Finally, his shovel hit something hard. He uncovered an old wooden box, covered in moss and dirt. Inside, there was a collection of strange artifacts—symbols carved into bone, old parchments covered in arcane writing, and a small, tarnished key.
Just as Marcus picked up the key, a cold voice whispered in his ear.
“You’ve awakened me.”
The ground beneath him trembled. He had unknowingly released something far darker than he had imagined.
The graveyard shift was about to become far more dangerous.
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