art by Agata Maciagowska
by Holly Jennings
A cry echoed through the cemetery.
The ghoul stood in the graveyard, working mechanically, like the crankshafts on a steam train. His shovel cut through soil, digging holes and filling them. So many dead. So very many dead.
He wore a ragged shirt, three sizes too big, covered in dirt and holes the size of baseballs. His pants were too short, ripped off halfway down his calves, he had no shoes. Dressed like this, he worked in the cemetery.
Until he heard the cry.
A living dead grown restless? He looked down the line of graves, fresh mounds of overturned earth. No clawing fingers had broken through the surface in need of a good shovel-smashing--in need of a good convincing to just lie still. Nope. Nothing.
So the ghoul lifted his head, gaze turning to the asylum beyond the graveyard. An enormous edifice of iron gates and barred windows. But it towered silently in the background, glowing against the twilight mist.
The cry came again. Hearing it now, he decided it wasn't the usual insane shriek of the living dead, or even a werewolf's howl.
No. This was something else.