It looked as though a stray cat had attacked me.
My rejection infuriated Gabrielle's stepmother. She was a woman who always got what she wanted, wielding her body like a weapon. When that failed, her only defence was to wound my masculinity. Her words stung far less than the bloody scratches she had left across my chest.
I couldn't deny my attraction to the dead. It was the reason people avoided me. I didn't see it as a sick fantasy; I simply preferred stillness and silence. I had never crossed the line, though the thought had often tempted me. Women like the stepmother held no real interest for me. I could admire their beauty from a distance, but it was tranquillity, secrecy, and the soft sighs of surrender that stirred me. Rough, vulgar aggression repelled me. Gabrielle, on the other hand, stirred something deep inside. Perhaps it was because she was dead.
The confrontation with her stepmother didn't trouble me much. If she spread rumours, they would only darken my already sinister reputation. What did concern me was her presence in the cemetery that night. I doubted she had come to grieve. A nagging unease told me Gabrielle was still in danger, even in death. I decided to check on her grave and was relieved to find several more tailflowers blooming at its foot. She rested undisturbed.
I stood there for a long while, fighting the urge to repeat the sin of the previous night. Thankfully, it was broad daylight and other visitors were present. Had I been alone, I doubt I could have controlled myself. The thought of returning after dark brought a nervous smile to my lips. As I turned to leave, I thought I heard a faint whimper, but I dismissed it as nothing more than my own fevered imagination.
Though I loved my work, that day dragged unbearably. Digging graves and completing paperwork brought none of the usual satisfaction. All I wanted was for the living to leave so I could be alone with Gabrielle. By evening I was exhausted and allowed myself a brief rest before going to her. That light doze slipped into a deep, comatose sleep.
In my dream, Gabrielle was alive.
She ran barefoot through a dark forest, wearing a thin white nightgown that clung to her skin. Her hair was the colour of ash. Something was chasing her.
Meanwhile, I was digging a grave deep among the trees — a broad pit meant for me one day, hidden beneath the moonlight. When I heard her cries for help, I dropped my shovel and clambered out. Thorny branches tore at my skin as I ran towards her. We collided with desperate force; she fell onto her back, eyes wide with terror, chest heaving.
I dropped to my knees. "What happened?"
It was the first time I had heard her voice. Angelic and trembling, it pierced the night.
"Someone wants to kill me," she whispered, tears glistening on her lips. "Please… save me."
Without hesitation, I lifted her. She was light, fragile, trembling like an autumn leaf. I carried her to my hidden grave and told her no one would find us there. At first, she hesitated, but the sound of approaching footsteps made her descend with me.
We lay at the bottom; her body pressed against mine. Her white hair smelled of lavender. While she listened fearfully to the noises above, I slowly pulled her closer. When my fingers brushed her thigh and lifted the hem of her nightgown, she pushed me away. But her resistance was half-hearted. I took her small, blistered feet in my hands, warming them with my breath, then massaged them tenderly, moving slowly up her ankles and calves to her inner thighs. Her breathing grew shallow and ragged.
When my lips brushed against her panties, she gasped, "Stop…" Yet the flush on her cheeks told a different story. She was afraid, but she didn't truly want me to stop. I reassured her she was safe. Finally, she surrendered. I unbuttoned her nightgown and covered her pale skin with hot kisses.
We tried to stay quiet, terrified her pursuers would hear us, but as I entered her, soft cries escaped us both. Then came the howls. At first, I thought they came from the forest. Soon I realised the trees had vanished. The earthen walls of the grave were collapsing, burying us alive and dragging Gabrielle deeper into the darkness. I reached for her, but she slipped from my grasp.
I woke screaming, the bedsheet twisted around my neck like a noose. Gasping for air, I tore it loose, choking not only on the fabric but on the terror of losing her — even if it had only been a dream.
It was midnight. I heard men shouting outside. In my exhaustion I had forgotten to lock the gates. I rushed out and saw three figures in black clothes and balaclavas fleeing the cemetery as though pursued by demons. One had lost his mask. I recognised him — Mario, a local troublemaker I had once fought outside a bar.
I blocked his path. In a frenzy, he kicked and screamed, "Let me go, caretaker! Save yourself! THE DEAD ARE RISING FROM THEIR GRAVES!"
He shoved me to the ground and ran, still howling the same words as he disappeared down the street.
My heart clenched with dread. I knew something terrible had happened to Gabrielle.
Her grave had been desecrated. The flowers were trampled, her tombstone split in two where it had fallen against the iron fence. Shovels and burglary tools lay abandoned beside the open pit.
The ravaged grave looked like a wound in the earth. I fell to my knees, helpless. I knew I should call the police, but morbid curiosity pulled me forward. I crawled to the edge and looked down.
Gabrielle's eyes were open, staring straight up at me.