I am the only one brave enough, dumb enough, desperate enough to take the night shift. Digging graves at night alone is not an ideal way to spend the night, but it puts food on the table and money is tight right now.

The crisp, wet, earthy smell fills my nose, soaking itself into my clothes and hair. I feel as though I’m inhaling the earth, permanently attaching itself to me. The silence is deafening, making each hit of the shovel on rock, roots and dirt seem like a gun shot going off. I scoop another shovel full when I hear something. It’s not me, this sound is clearly different, rhythmic. I stop to listen. Silence. Then:

Tap

Tap

Tap

I straighten, looking around. Shaking my head, I return to my work. The night is quiet, and when you’re in a place people prefer not to go when it’s light out, it can seem like the world stops. Your mind -— and ears can start to play tricks on you.

Tap

Tap

Tap

That time is distinct, unmistakably not me, and undeniably not a figment of my imagination. The stories that old timers tell about ghosts and spirits pop into my head. My heart drops into my stomach for a split second but I shoved those thoughts from my head. This is ridiculous I’m not even superstitious, but spending so much time in this purgatory being haunted by the remnants of other people’s ghosts makes your mind go to such odd places.

Tap

Tap

Tap

I tried to place the sound, but it seems to be coming from no particular place. It wasn’t fast, or urgent as if someone needs help. Can it be an animal? The wind, maybe? But there was no wind that night and it is such a peculiar sound I don’t know what animal could be making it.

Tap

Tap

Tap

The mausoleum. I can place the sound that time. It came from the direction of the mausoleum just in front of me and off to my right. I crawl from my hole, shovel in hand and creep slowly toward the crypt. It’s ostentatious, imposing design insinuate the importance of whoever is entombed inside. I am just feet from it’s doors and

Tap

Tap

Tap

I try to subdue the fear clutching my chest, my rational brain yells at me to get a grip. The slow tapping has completely stopped now and the only sound that can be heard on this still night is my heavy, labored breathing.

I take a key from the keychain attached to my waist and unlock the large padlock holding the chain that is double wrapped around the filigree handles. I give a pull of the chain and it falls to the concrete stairs with a shrill clank. I grab the handles, take a deep breath, and pull. The door creaks open revealing the inside. It takes my eyes and brain several seconds to register what I’m seeing.

The concrete burial vault which sits in the middle of the mausoleum has it’s heavy concrete lid sitting at its side, and the coffin lay in the burial vault like a morbid Russian nesting doll, but no body lay inside. No one has been in or out of this place since the funeral more then a decade ago, yet a dozen or so lit candles are scattered around the floor and on the edge of the burial vault. There is no animal prints anywhere and no animal. What could have been that tapping noise? I feel a quick pain from behind like someone has tackled me and next thing I know I’m on my back half on the steps of the mausoleum, half in the wet grass. My breath catches in my throat and I hear the blood rushing and roaring in my ears as my neck snaps back with the fall and the back of my head cracks on the top step.

The last thing I see before the world fades to black is the outline of a humanoid figure staring down at me, the large construction lights I use to see in the dark while I dig obscure my view of much detail. The Figure opens it’s mouth wide revealing needle sharp k9s. The Figure pounces and I feel a sharp pain in my neck.

Then

Darkness.