Leigh was born and raised in the beautiful garden county of Wicklow, Ireland. She is the mother and proud protector of two wonderful boys, a black Labrador and a three-legged cat that hates people. She is also the bane of her long-suffering partner James' life. Leigh has always lived in the dark, with a fierce love for all things morbid and macabre. A voracious reader from a young age, she always knew she wanted to write and it made sense to write about the genre she has loved for so long. She cites Ronald Malfi, Kealan Patrick Burke, and of course, Stephen King as her favourite authors and sources of inspiration. She is an advocate for mental health, having struggled with her own demons for many years. They're not quite friends yet but there's definitely some kind of truce in place.
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SHADOWS AMONG THE TOMBSTONES
by
Leigh Kenny
The leaves dance in the dying October light, and I stop what I’m doing to watch.
Oranges and browns, auburns and reds, all caught twisting in an invisible force that carries them up before releasing them to drift among the tombstones.
I wipe my brow and return to my work, shovelling the heavy clumps of dirt and clay into a neat pile. Well, somewhat neat.
The rich earthy smell of the soil fills my nostrils. My nails are grimy and caked with dirt. A testament to the ethic with which I toil.
I’ve been the caretaker at Willow Lake cemetery for many years. My hair is grey now and my teeth crumbling, not unlike the grave markers that surround me here at work.
They’re probably a little better cared for than I am, in fact. They still have loved ones to come by, polishing their surfaces and reverently laying fresh flowers to replace the dried and withered ones that preceded them.
I’m just like those old posies. Dried and withered. Forgotten for the most part.
Sure, the occasional visitor will tip their hat or murmur a gentle greeting should our paths cross, never loud enough to break the silent spell that blankets this old bone yard. But people generally like to be left in peace in a cemetery. And I do leave them in peace.
It’s a lonely life I live. I’ve nobody at home to love me no more. The wife moved on. Moved one town over to live in some fancy assisted living condo with a retired clown. And no, I’m not being bitter. He was an honest-to-god retired clown. Funny thing is, she always hated clowns when we were together. Wouldn’t even bring the kids to the circus when they were small. How things change.
The kids visited on occasion, course they both moved out of state a while back. Nothing beats a visit from the grandkids though. I love those little tikes a helluva lot!
I keep digging. There’s a funeral tomorrow morning and while the grave digging isn’t my favourite task, I still don’t mind it too much. I like the quiet here, even this late in the evening. Although the shadows scare me.
Most of the time I’ll stop and watch them, the way they slither among the tombstones like oil. Like they’re alive.
If I take my eyes off them for too long, they seem to coalesce into something more life-like. Humanoid shapes in my peripheral, long shadowy fingers reaching for me, waiting to pull me into the darkness. The darkness is their kingdom. Its where they reign.
That’s the only off-putting part of working the graveyard shift. Ha! The graveyard shift! Every shift here is a graveyard shift.
A few of the regular visitors to Willow Lake sometimes question my line of work.
“Jim,” they say, “does it frighten you to work in a graveyard?”
I often think about the shadow people that haunt the edges of my vision, but I never mention them. Don’t want to scare people.
“Jim,” they say, “have you seen any ghosts?”
That always gives me a good chuckle before I tell them no.
And it’s the truth.
I’ve been working in this graveyard for over a hundred years now and I have never seen a ghost.