My employer allowed me to work and live in the sexton house. I slept in the small bedroom next to the office. I never closed my door at night, so everyone could walk inside and find me naked in bed. No one was ever that bold, though, however I always made sure to wake up long before my shift started. Unfortunately, I forgot to set the alarm clock, this way oversleeping and the early visitor catching me by surprise. I jumped out of bed, put on my pants and shirt, and sprinkled some cold water on my face.
In the meantime, she continued to walk back and forth, with each step echoing louder through the room than the previous one, this way telling me she was losing her patience. I could picture her high, sharp heels scraping over the wooden floor, and wondered who that woman could be. Undoubtedly, she wasn't a grieving client or else her footsteps would fade away and die as the light in the eyes of her loved one.
When I walked out of my bedroom into the office, I found out that the noisy guest was the wicked woman from Gabrielle's funeral. I recognised her even without her veil. She wore tight black clothes, accentuating every curve of her slender body. Black tailored gloves covered her hands. The contrast between her black garments and the long blond hair suited her. Her lips were the colour of Gabrielle's tailflower.
Everything about her was extremely seductive and mesmerising. Every move she made was accompanied by the sound of her skirt stretching on her thighs, leaving the spectators gasping for air, waiting in anguish for the textile to split in two. I couldn't help but stare at her hips, waiting for the sudden exposure of her white skin.
"Can I talk to the sexton, please?" asked the woman in a low, velvet voice.
I looked up in her dark eyes and realised she caught me staring at her. But there was not a sign of embarrassment on her face. Why would she be embarrassed? After all, she intended to draw men's attention when she had decided to put on those clothes that morning.
"I am the sexton, Ma'am," I replied in a hoarse voice.
"Oh. I bet you deliberately chose this profession. The name suits you. Sexton. I like that word."
Her lips curled in a smile as she said that. She surveyed me from head to toes. Her eyes were gleaming, and I felt that unpleasant intensity I experienced at Gabrielle's ceremony and couldn't help but shudder.
"It's just a word, Ma'am. I prefer being called a caretaker. Because that's what I do. I take care of the dead and their graves," I said in all honesty.
"That I am sure of. I heard people talk about your dedication to this job. Besides, I saw you in action yesterday at Gabrielle's funeral."
"Yes, Gabrielle. She was so young. How did she die?"
That question escaped my lips sooner than I could refrain my thoughts from it. I felt my face turn red. However, it didn't surprise her.
"The poor baby was always a weak child," she replied boldly, "but after her mother died two years ago, her health let her down completely. She was fading away every day a little bit. Until one morning we couldn't wake her up anymore."
There was not even the slightest sincerity perceptible in her words or genuine sympathy for the loss of a life so young. She spoke as if she repeated a line for a role in a movie that she had learned by heart.
"How sad. Are you the family of Gabrielle?"
"Yes and no. I'm her stepmother," she said absently.
"So, how can I help you, Ma'am?"
"You tell me, caretaker. You spend so much time and energy on taking care of the dead but is there someone who takes care of you?"
She came closer to me, so close I could smell her expensive lipstick. She placed her hand between my legs, slightly squeezing my crotch and smiled.
"There it is. I must confess something. I saw you on two occasions yesterday. At the funeral and later that evening, when you were pleasuring yourself next to Gabrielle's grave …"
Her eyes turned glassy as I saw the black, fathomless pupil getting wider. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and nauseating strawberry chewing gum.
Those were her eyes I felt that night on me!
She saw me!
She knew what I had done!
I can't describe the mortification I felt. I guess that was one of those moments when one wishes to die at the spot, just so to escape the unbearable feeling of shame. In a pathetic attempt to save face I exclaimed:
"What were you doing there? Who gave you the permission to enter the cemetery at night?!"
The wicked woman laughed, releasing more strawberry breath into my red, feverish face.
"Well, that will be our little secret. I won't tell anyone about the things you did at my stepdaughter's grave, and you keep your mouth shut about my nightly adventures."
She pushed me back into my bedroom. I stumbled and fell on my bed when my legs hit the bed frame. The stepmother mounted on top of me, taking off her gloves. She ripped my shirt open, tearing all the buttons out of the black fabric.
"Come on, don't look so shocked at me! I promise, this will be better than getting off on Gabrielle's grave!"
She dug her sharp red polished claws in my chest. I grabbed her hands to stop her from scratching me, but she forcefully released herself from my grip and started to unbutton her blouse.
I suppose she expected a certain reaction from me, like admiration, lust, or impatience to make love to her. Or simple participation. But I just lay there, as if crucified to my bed.
"Oh. So, you want me to do all the work, caretaker?" she whispered teasingly in my ear and playfully pulled my pants off.
I didn't dare to look at her. I felt her confusion and embarrassment in the silence that fell afterwards. Then I heard her laugh. A frustrated laugh. A laugh she forced out of herself with the intent to mock me but instead revealing her deep-rooted anger.
"So, it's true what they say about you. You're impotent! Only the dead turn you on! You're pathetic!"
The burning slap in my face and her sneering constatation were a relief to me, meaning she would soon leave me alone and get out. But before she dashed out of my bedroom with her blouse still unbuttoned, she turned to me and hissed between her teeth repeating that my secret was safe with her as long as I kept my mouth shut.
The first thing I did after I heard the screeching sound of her car wheels leaving the graveyard, was closing the main gate to barricade the way for other cars. But mostly to make sure she wouldn't be able to drive in anymore.
There was a sign at the gate saying that only hearses were allowed to enter the cemetery but for some people rules were simply made to be broken. Especially for ones like Gabrielle's stepmother. I left the door open for the visitors, though, thinking she wouldn't come back.
At least not that day.