Thomas had never liked the night shift at the cemetery, but the caretaker paid cash and never asked questions. He was walking the lower path with a rake when the fog rolled in thicker than usual and the temperature dropped hard enough to frost the grass under his boots. He stopped at the bend where the old family plot sat half sunk in the ground. A figure stood among the tilted stones. The robe was black and hung in wet strips that dragged across the markers. The head was a bare skull. The sockets were empty. One skeletal hand gripped a scythe whose blade rested against a headstone. Thomas dropped the rake, the figure turned its head, the skull faced him.
Thomas walked backward until the path curved and the figure disappeared into the fog. He finished the round without looking behind him. He locked the toolshed and left. The next morning the caretaker found the rake still lying on the path. Blood had dried along the handle in a long smear that reached the metal tines. He called Thomas. Thomas said he had dropped it and forgotten it. The caretaker did not believe him.
That night Thomas went back alone. He carried a flashlight and a short-handled shovel. At the family plot the figure was already there. The scythe was raised. The blade was wet. Blood ran from the edge and dripped onto the headstone in steady drops that ran down the carved name and pooled at the base. Thomas stopped. The figure stepped forward. The fog moved with it. The scythe swung in a low arc. The blade caught the shovel and sheared the metal clean. The impact knocked Thomas off his feet. The blade came down again and opened a cut across his forearm. Blood welled and ran down his sleeve. He scrambled up and ran.
He reached the gate and locked it behind him. He drove home with the headlights off. At two he woke to the sound of the scythe dragging across his porch. The blade scraped the boards once and stopped. He stayed inside. In the morning there was blood on the porch in a wide streak. He washed it off with the hose. The boards stayed clean for less than an hour. He did not go back to the cemetery. The caretaker called twice. Thomas did not answer.
On the third day the caretaker drove to Thomas’s house, he found the door open. Thomas was not inside. On the kitchen table the scythe rested with its blade across the wood. Blood had dried along the edge in a thick line. The caretaker lifted it. The handle was cold. He set it down and walked through the rooms. He found Thomas in the bedroom. The scythe had opened him from shoulder to hip. Blood had soaked the sheets and run onto the floor in a wide, dark pool that reached the baseboard. His eyes were open, his mouth was open. The caretaker called the police, they arrived and found no tracks outside, they found no fingerprints on the scythe.
They took the body and the weapon. The caretaker locked the house and left. That night the caretaker sat in his own kitchen with the lights on. At two he heard the scythe drag across his porch. The blade scraped the boards once and stopped. He did not open the door.
In the morning the blood was on the porch in a long streak that reached the threshold. He washed it off. The boards stayed clean. He drove to the cemetery and walked the lower path. At the family plot the figure stood among the stones. The robe was black. The skull was pale. The scythe was in its hand. The blade was wet. Blood ran from the edge and dripped onto the headstone. The caretaker stopped. The figure stepped forward. The fog moved with it. The scythe swung. The blade caught the caretaker across the chest. The cut was deep. Blood welled and ran down his shirt in a wide dark stain.
He turned and walked back to the gate. He locked it. He drove home. He locked the door and sat with the lights on. At two the scythe dragged across the porch again. It stopped at the door. The blade clicked once against the door. He did not open it.
In the morning, the blood was on the porch. He washed it off. The police found the caretaker’s car at the cemetery gate three days later. The keys were in the ignition. The battery was dead. They searched the grounds and found him at the family plot. He lay on his back between the stones. The scythe had opened him from collarbone to hip. Blood had pooled under him and soaked into the grass in a wide dark patch that reached the next row of markers. His eyes were open, his mouth was open. They found no weapon, they found no tracks, they took the body. The cemetery stayed locked. No one walked the lower path after dark.
At night the fog still rolled in thick. At two the sound of the scythe dragging across the gravel could be heard from the road if anyone stopped long enough to listen. No one did. The blood on the headstone never dried. Names carved into the stone stayed wet. The figure stood among the markers when the fog was thick. The scythe rested on the ground. The blade was wet. Blood ran from the edge and dripped onto the stones. No one opened the gate. No one walked the path. The caretaker was never buried, the body stayed in the morgue, the blood never dried.
On the fifth night the scythe dragged across the caretaker’s porch again, the blade scraped the boards once and stopped. In the morning, the blood was on the porch in a long streak. No one washed it off. The boards stayed dark. The figure stood among the stones when the fog was thick. The scythe rested on the ground. The blade was always wet. Blood ran from the edge and dripped onto the headstone. The names carved into the stone stayed wet. No one opened the gate. No one walked the path, the caretaker was never buried, the body stayed in the morgue, the blood never dried.
