"The Grave Fixer":
I took the night security job at the Kuisebmond Cemetery because it paid steady and didn’t ask much of me beyond showing up and staying alert. At thirty-nine, with a wife and two kids depending on me, that was enough. Work in Walvis Bay wasn’t exactly falling from the sky. The cemetery sat on the edge of town—a wide, wind-swept expanse of sand and stone, dotted with crooked headstones and clusters of acacia trees that whispered when the wind picked up. By midnight, it always felt like the whole world had stopped breathing.
That Friday began like any other. I clocked in just before seven, trading a few tired words with Jonas, my coworker, in the small office near the main gate. “Quiet night ahead,” he said, handing me the flashlight and the ring of keys. “Just the usual rounds. Call if anything comes up.”
He left around ten, leaving behind the smell of instant coffee and the soft hum of the old radio. When the gate clicked shut behind him, the silence seemed to stretch.
I started my first patrol at eleven. My boots crunched over gravel as I followed the familiar paths winding between rows of graves. The beam of my flashlight cut through the dark, catching glints of polished marble and names etched deep into stone. Most of the job was simple—check the fences, make sure no one had broken in, keep an eye out for vandals or worse. You’d be surprised how often people tried to dig up fresh graves for jewelry or keepsakes.
Around midnight, I reached the far edge of the cemetery, where the older graves lay half-forgotten under low, wind-bent trees. That’s when I heard it—a faint scrape, metal against dirt. I stopped walking. The sound came again, sharper this time, deliberate. My first thought was a stray dog, but this didn’t sound like digging for scraps. It sounded like work.
I swung my light in a slow arc. The beam fell on empty ground, weathered stones, a few weeds dancing in the wind. Nothing moved. Still, the scrape came again, closer.
“Jonas, you around?” I said into the radio, but only static answered. He’d long gone home.
I gripped the flashlight tighter and followed the sound to a small cluster of family plots. The noise stopped as I approached. I called out, “Hello? Cemetery’s closed. You need to come out.”
No response.
I stepped off the path, crunching through dry leaves until my light caught a movement—someone crouched low behind a large headstone. My pulse kicked up. I moved closer, beam steady. The figure rose slowly, like something reluctant to leave the earth.
It was a man—tall, gaunt, clothes smeared with dirt. His face was half-hidden under the shadow of a cap. In his hands, he held a shovel.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound firm. “You can’t be here after dark. This is private property.”
He tilted his head, studying me with eyes that didn’t quite focus right. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, like gravel in a dry throat. “Looking for what’s mine,” he said. “They buried it wrong. I need to fix it.”
A cold ripple crawled down my back. “Put the shovel down,” I said. “Walk away now, or I’m calling the police.”
He stepped forward instead. “No police,” he murmured. “Just a minute. I’ll be gone.” His fingers tightened around the handle.
I reached for my radio again. “I said back up.”
That’s when he lunged.
The shovel came swinging out of the dark. I turned, but the edge clipped my arm, sending pain screaming up to my shoulder. My flashlight fell, the beam rolling wildly across the graves.
“Stop!” I shouted, but he came again, silent and quick. The next blow glanced off my forearm, bone jarring, teeth rattling. I grabbed for the shovel’s handle, and we struggled in the dark, grunting, breathing hard. He smelled of earth and something sour, like decay.
“Give it up!” he snarled. “Stay out!”
I shoved him back, scrambled for the flashlight, but he swung again—flat end this time, hard across my ribs. I gasped, the air leaving my lungs. I swung a fist, caught him in the shoulder, but he hardly flinched. Then he tackled me, and we went down together, rolling through the dirt. His hands pinned mine, and the shovel rose high over my face.
“Jonas! Help!” I yelled into the radio, thumb finding the transmit button by instinct.
The man froze for a split second, head cocked as if listening. Then he brought the shovel down. The edge grazed my head—a white flash, then black.
When I woke, there were lights. Jonas knelt over me, voice trembling. “Hey, hey, stay with me. What the hell happened?”
My head throbbed. Blood ran into my eyes. The man was gone, the shovel lying a few feet away, half-buried in loose soil.
The police came fast, their flashlights slicing the night. They took statements, marked off the scene, said all the things cops say when they don’t have much to go on. “Unknown suspect,” one of them muttered. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
At the hospital, they patched me up—stitches on my scalp, cracked rib, bruised arm. I didn’t go back to the cemetery after that. Jonas covered my shifts until they found someone new.
But even now, some nights, when the wind blows against the windows, I swear I hear it again—that slow, scraping sound of metal on earth. And every time, I wonder what he was really digging for… and whether he ever found it.
"The Resurrection Men":
I started my shift at the old city cemetery the same way I had every night for the past six months—unlocking the rusted gate at eleven, the hinges screeching into the empty streets. The office sat just inside the entrance, a squat brick building with one flickering bulb and a coffee pot that hadn’t worked right since summer. It wasn’t glamorous, but the pay was steady. After the mill closed and the layoffs hit half the town, I couldn’t be picky.
All I had to do was patrol every hour, watch for vandals or drunks, and lock up at dawn. Easy money, most nights. The quiet was almost comforting—just the wind through the trees, the hoot of an owl, the distant wail of a freight train crossing the river.
But that one night in late fall—everything changed.
Midnight came cold and still. I set out with my flashlight, its narrow beam cutting across the gravel paths between rows of leaning headstones. The cemetery spread for nearly twenty acres, fenced in by old wrought iron, though gaps had opened over the years. Kids sometimes snuck through, daring each other to spend a night among the dead.
The radio on my belt crackled softly, tied into police dispatch, though the signal was spotty in the back sections. I headed toward the oldest part of the grounds, where the stones were barely legible and the air always seemed heavier. That’s when I heard it—a faint scraping sound. Metal against dirt.
I stopped. Listened.
There it was again. Sharper this time. Coming from behind a row of weathered mausoleums.
“Who’s there?” My voice carried farther than I meant it to. Silence followed. Then, just beneath the wind, I heard something else—low murmurs. Two, maybe three voices. Whispering.
I tightened my grip on the flashlight. Vandals, I thought. Maybe a couple of drunks fooling around. Wouldn’t be the first time. I moved quietly down the path, crunching gravel under my boots. As I rounded a corner, my light caught the edge of a fresh grave—the one from that afternoon. Edward Hayes, sixty-three. The flowers were still bright against the turned soil.
That’s when I saw them.
Two men, crouched beside the mound. One digging, the other pulling something from the ground. They weren’t kids. Both wore dark coats and wide-brimmed hats, faces shadowed. One held a lantern low, its glow trembling across the dirt.
I ducked behind a tombstone, peering out. The stocky one with the shovel grunted as he heaved more earth aside.
“Hurry it up, Frank,” he muttered. “Doctor’s waiting, and he pays extra for ‘em fresh.”
The thinner man—Frank, apparently—glanced around nervously. “This place gives me the creeps, Joe. What if that guard comes by?”
Joe laughed under his breath, a dry, hollow sound. “That fool? Probably asleep in his shack. And if he ain’t—well, we’ll make sure he stays quiet. You got the rope?”
Frank nodded, hand brushing the coil at his side.
My mouth went dry. Grave robbers. Body snatchers. Resurrection men—like something out of the 1800s. I’d heard rumors before, cases in other towns where corpses were stolen for medical study. But here?
I eased back, reaching for the radio. Static hissed in my ear—no signal. The back corner always had dead spots. I shifted to get a better line—and stepped on a dry leaf.
The scraping stopped.
Joe’s head snapped up. “You hear that?”
Frank froze. “Yeah. Over there.”
I held still, breath locked in my chest.
Then Joe’s lantern swung toward me, light slashing across the stones. It found me instantly, blinding and cold.
“Hey!” Joe barked. “Who’s out there?”
I straightened, aiming my flashlight back. “Security. This is private property. You’re trespassing.”
Joe stared at me, then smiled—a slow, unfriendly grin. “Well, look here, Frank. The watchman himself.”
Frank rose, shovel in hand like a weapon. “What now?”
Joe bent to set the lantern down, revealing the grave’s gaping hole—and the cracked coffin beneath. A pale arm hung limply over the edge.
The sight made my stomach twist.
Joe stepped forward, fingers brushing the handle of a knife on his belt. “You should’ve stayed in your little office, friend.”
“I’m calling the police,” I said, thumb on the radio button. “Dispatch, come in—intruders at the Hayes plot, armed—”
Only static.
Joe moved fast, lunging toward me. I swung my flashlight and caught his wrist hard. He cursed, stumbling back.
“Frank! Grab him!”
Frank came at me, shovel raised. I turned and ran. The cemetery unfolded in darkness ahead—paths branching, stones jutting like teeth. My boots pounded the gravel, lungs burning, heart hammering in my ears. Behind me, Joe shouted, “You can’t hide forever!”
I cut toward the mausoleums, ducking between two tall crypts. The air was damp and smelled of moss and earth. I pressed myself against the stone, listening. Their footsteps slowed.
“Where’d he go?” Frank’s voice, closer now.
“Split up,” Joe hissed. “He’s around here somewhere. Find him—and don’t let him yell.”
Their voices drifted apart. I slipped out the other side, careful not to make a sound, and bolted for the office. Just one phone call, one real line out, and I’d be safe.
I rounded a corner—and Frank was there.
He swung the shovel like an axe. I ducked. The blade glanced off a headstone with a metallic shriek. I lunged low, tackling him. We hit the ground hard, rolling through the damp grass. He grabbed my collar, trying to choke me. “Joe! Over here!”
I kicked free, caught him in the jaw, scrambled up, and ran again. The radio on my belt hissed—just enough static to tell me the signal was returning. “Dispatch—this is cemetery security—two intruders—armed—”
Joe’s footsteps thundered behind me. “You’re dead, guard!”
I sprinted for the main path, the gate lights faint ahead. A passing car’s headlights flashed through the trees. I shouted, “Help! Police!”
Joe slammed into me from behind. We went down hard. His knife pressed cold against my back.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “You make another sound, I’ll gut you.”
Frank stumbled up, wiping blood from his mouth. “What now?”
“Kill him?”
Joe looked toward the road—sirens in the distance now. My call must’ve gone through. His face twisted. “No time. Tie him, dump him in the hole. By morning, he’s just another body.”
They dragged me toward the grave. The open coffin waited, the corpse’s eyes half-lidded, mouth slack.
“Please,” I gasped. “Don’t.”
Joe smirked. “You should’ve minded your business.”
Then the sirens grew louder—closer. Red and blue lights flickered against the trees. Joe cursed, grabbed Frank’s arm. “Run!”
They fled through the gap in the fence, vanishing into the dark.
The police reached me minutes later. They found the disturbed grave, the lantern, and the footprints—but Joe and Frank were gone. My story matched reports from other towns—body snatchers moving state to state, selling corpses to desperate medical schools. A week later, they were caught three counties over.
I quit the job soon after. Took a warehouse position on the day shift.
But sometimes, late at night, when the wind rattles my windows, I still hear that scraping sound in my head—metal on dirt—and remember how close I came to ending up in that hole beside Edward Hayes.
"Empty Coffin":
I took the midnight job as the cemetery guard because it paid steady and the hours fit my life. Nights suited me—no boss breathing down my neck, just the slow loop of the paths and the steady thump of my own heart. The cemetery was old and wide, a place that kept its silence like a secret. Rows of headstones marched back a hundred years or more: some leaning like tired old men, their engravings moss-softened, others bright with recent flowers that didn't know how fragile they were. I walked with a lantern in one hand and a heavy stick in the other, the wood thudding against my palm for company. The boss said trouble was rare, but he warned about idiots and thieves—people who thought graves were treasure chests. I tried not to imagine them.
The shift began the way all of them did: I unlocked the main gate at eleven, checked the locks, and settled into my slow circuit. At midnight the air had a hard edge, the kind that made everything feel a degree thinner and louder. My boots crunched gravel; the lantern painted the stones in a small, moving circle of light. The east side held the oldest plots—tall marble markers, family vaults, oaks with roots like sleeping snakes. I stuck to the grass edges, keeping my steps muted, letting the night do its work of making ordinary things foreboding.
Halfway through that round I heard it: a scrape, at first so small I thought it might be wind kissing a branch. Then it found a rhythm—metal on earth, a hollow, persistent sound like somebody raking bones. My stomach tightened. The sound wasn't animal. It was deliberate. I let the lantern dim to a sliver and crept toward it, moving in the low mode that made everything smell sharper—damp leaves, old stone, the faint copper of buried things.
They were behind a great oak by a family vault, humped over a fresh mound. Two men, shoulders bent, breathing hard in the cold. One drove a spade into the earth with slow, practiced strokes; the other clawed at the loose soil with his bare hands. The hole was three feet deep and still yawning, the edge of a wooden box glinting under the dirt like a promise broken. A ribbon of disturbed earth ran from the grave to the back fence, cutting through the neat lines of the lawn.
"Hey!" I called, and my voice sounded too loud, like somebody had turned on a horn inside my chest. I stepped forward, stick up. My voice tried to be solid; inside I felt hollow and small.
They jumped. The taller of the two spun, spade ready. He had a beard that caught the lantern’s light—livid stubble and eyes that darted, hunted. The other was shorter, squat and quick, mud smearing his jaw. "Mind your business, guard," the tall one snarled. His voice scraped like gravel.
"It's my business," I said. "You drop that and come with me. Police will sort this out."
The short one laughed—low and bitter. "He thinks he's tough, Bill. What do we do with him?"
Bill—tall, spade-clenched—stepped forward. "We can't let him blab. Grab him, Joe."
My heart kicked against my ribs. For a second I imagined calling it off, letting them go, letting myself off the hook. But then Joe lunged. He moved like someone who had spent a life crawling through the dark—fast, without ceremony. He grabbed my arm. I twisted, let the stick come down hard across his shoulder. He howled and crumpled, but Bill swung. The spade sliced the air and caught my coat, ripping fabric and skin; pain bloomed along my ribs like a red sun.
I staggered, the world tilting, and stumbled into a headstone. Pain sharpened everything—breath, sound, the metallic taste at the back of my tongue. I scrambled for the gatehouse, for the whistle I kept under the counter like a small, useless prayer. Their footsteps thudded close behind me, panic hot and stupid in my ears. "Stop him!" Bill barked.
I dashed between graves, the lantern swinging so the light made crazy faces of the stones. Roots threatened to snag my feet; once I nearly went down, fingers clinging to damp earth. Joe caught me where the ground sagged, tackling me to the mud. His hands were at my throat and the smell of him—sour, sweaty—filled my head. "You shouldn't have come snooping," he hissed.
I fought with a sort of stupid, animal stubbornness. I kneed him in the gut, grabbed the stick, swung until wood cracked against bone. He fell back, gasping. Bill came at me with the spade raised to finish whatever plan they had—whatever it was they thought a grave could give them. I hit his arm. He dropped the spade and cursed, a rough, ragged sound that might as well have been a plea.
For a moment, everything hung on that thinness of time: the ragged breathing, the dark rubbing at the edges, the knowledge that we were three people alone among a hundred dead. I pointed the stick at them like a ridiculous spear and barked, "Leave, now. Or I'll make sure you both end up in one of these holes permanent."
They measured me with narrow eyes. Joe reached for Bill, helped him up, and they moved as if their decision had been made in a single look. "This ain't over," Joe spat. "We'll be back."
They fled toward the back fence, tools slapping against their boots, swallowed by the dark beyond the trees. I watched them go, every muscle taut, breath ragged and raw. When they were gone the night seemed to exhale.
I went back to the open grave. The coffin lay cracked, its lid splintered and thrown aside like a discarded thought, empty as a promise. The earth around it held the impression of hands—human and hurried. Whoever had been beneath was gone. My mind flicked through criminal possibilities: a grave raided for valuables, a body taken for some grotesque trade, a cadaver sold to a backroom medical shop. But the detail that stayed with me was the way the soil had been upended in a hurry, the way the hands had dug with panic as much as purpose.
I blew the whistle until my lungs hurt. The sound peeled over the stones and into the town like an accusation. Someone came by morning—police with gloves and cameras, earnest faces that made a show of being comforted by procedure. They marked tape around the plot and took notes; they asked questions that scraped at the edges of what had happened. The men were gone. The oak smelled the same. The flowers on neighboring graves nodded as if nothing had happened.
I quit that job before the week was out. Maybe I quit to keep my skin, or maybe because I had seen with my eyes that the dark could be practical and patient, that it had accomplices who worked with tools and timing. Nights later, I would still feel the scrape of a spade in my dreams, the angry, brittle sound of it in the earth—proof that some things in the dark were not merely stories to frighten children, but business, cold and human, and entirely capable of bankruptcy of conscience.
"Disturbed Earth":
I started my shift at the cemetery the same way I always did—checking the locks on the main gate, testing the fence line, and making sure no one had slipped in after hours. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid decent, and after leaving the army, I needed something steady. Most nights were quiet. I’d walk the gravel paths with my flashlight, listening to the wind slide through the cypress trees and the distant hum of trucks on the highway. Peaceful, in its own strange way. But that one night in late summer—everything changed.
I carried the usual gear: a radio on my belt, a heavy Maglite in my hand, and a ring of keys that jingled with every step. The cemetery was sprawling—twenty acres of sloping ground, headstones leaning from age, some polished and new, others so weatherworn the names were almost gone. I knew it like a second home by then. The family plots were near the front under the yellow glow of the streetlights; the older sections were deeper in, where the trees grew thick and the air always felt a few degrees colder.
My routine was simple: a patrol every hour, checking for vandals or kids sneaking in to prove their courage. Most people thought cemeteries were eerie. To me, it was quiet ground—somewhere I could think.
It was just after one in the morning when I heard it—a faint, metallic scraping, like metal biting into earth. I froze. The sound came again: steady, deliberate, too rhythmic to be an animal. I switched off my flashlight and crouched behind a tall monument, letting my eyes adjust to the faint glow of the moon. The sound was coming from beyond a row of old mausoleums, fifty yards or so away.
I keyed my radio. “Base, this is Post 3. I’ve got activity near the west section—possible trespassers.”
Static. Then the dispatcher’s drowsy voice crackled through. “Probably raccoons. Check it out and report back.”
I muttered a curse and moved closer, keeping low between the stones. The scraping grew louder—accompanied now by low voices. Two of them. Male. One spoke sharply; the other chuckled under his breath. I eased around a bush and finally saw them.
Two figures hunched over a fresh grave. The dirt was piled high beside them, and a lantern burned low on the ground, throwing a dim orange halo across their faces. One wore a dark hoodie, the other a tattered brown jacket. They were working a shovel into the soil with grim focus. Grave robbers.
I’d heard rumors from the day staff—stories about thieves stealing jewelry, even brass nameplates to sell for scrap. But seeing it in front of me made my chest tighten.
I stepped out, raising my flashlight. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? This place is closed.”
The one in the hoodie jolted upright, dropping his shovel. He was younger—early twenties maybe—with jittery, nervous movements. “Easy, man,” he stammered. “We’re just visiting family.”
“Family doesn’t visit at one in the morning with tools.”
The older one straightened slowly, brushing dirt from his hands. He had a scar that ran from his temple down his cheek, and a smile that didn’t match his eyes. “No need to get worked up, guard. We’re almost done here. How about you look the other way? We can make it worth your while. There’s gold in this one—old lady, buried with her rings.”
I shook my head. “Leave now, or I call the cops.”
He sighed, that crooked smile never fading. “You sure about that?”
I thumbed the radio. “Base, I’ve got two intruders at section G, digging up a grave. Send police.”
The younger one’s face twisted. “You shouldn’t have done that.” He lunged forward, grabbing the shovel. I barely dodged, but the edge clipped my shoulder hard enough to send pain flashing down my arm. I stumbled, dropped the flashlight. It rolled, casting dizzying arcs of light across the gravestones.
The older man came at me fast. I caught the faint scent of sweat and sour breath before his fist slammed into my ribs. The air shot out of me. I swung wildly, connecting just enough to make him grunt. We grappled in the dirt, boots slipping, our breathing ragged. I felt his hand grab for my radio—snatched it before he could pull it free.
“Walk away,” he hissed. “You didn’t see anything.”
“Not a chance,” I spat, shoving him back.
The younger man swung the shovel again. I caught the handle mid-swing and wrenched it free. He lunged at me, clawing at my jacket. I kicked his knee, and he went down hard, crying out. But before I could get my balance, the older one tackled me from behind. We went down together, rolling through the soft soil. My flashlight beam danced over the open grave, showing the gleam of the coffin lid beneath the dirt. They were nearly done.
I got my knee into his chest and managed to hold him there for a moment. “Why?” I demanded, breathless. “Why rob the dead?”
“For the living,” he snarled. “You think anyone misses what’s buried with them?”
His nephew—the younger one—grabbed a rock from the dirt pile. His shadow loomed over us. I saw the rock lift, the moon glinting off its edge. Instinct took over—I rolled just as it came down. It slammed into the ground inches from my head.
Adrenaline roared through me. I swung the flashlight up, connecting with the kid’s arm. He screamed, dropped the rock.
“Run!” the older one barked, dragging him up. They sprinted toward the tree line, disappearing into the dark, leaving their tools scattered around the half-dug grave.
I leaned against a headstone, gasping for air, every muscle shaking. “Base,” I rasped into the radio. “Intruders fleeing east side. I’m injured. Send backup now.”
The wail of sirens cut through the night a few minutes later, red and blue lights flashing across the graves like restless spirits. The officers found the disturbed plot, the shovel marks biting deep into the coffin lid. They hadn’t opened it yet, but they were close.
I got patched up—bruised ribs, a split lip, nothing permanent. The cops took my statement. Two days later, they caught the pair trying to pawn off rings from another cemetery upstate. The older one had a long rap sheet; the younger was his nephew, barely twenty, desperate for cash. They both went away for a long time.
I kept the job for another year, but I never looked at the place the same again. The silence that once felt peaceful now had weight to it. Every creak of a branch, every whisper of wind between the stones—it all carried a memory of that night.
People think cemeteries are haunted by the dead. But they’re wrong. The real danger walks on two legs—greedy, desperate, and willing to dig through the dirt for anything worth taking.