text: Francis wrapped his fingers around a wrought-iron swirl and winced as he pushed, anticipating the scream that followed. He’d grown used to the shrill greeting, forced to accept it really. No amount of adjusting or lubricating the stubborn gate seemed to matter, and to be quite honest, Francis wasn’t entirely sure he could tell where on the gate the noise was coming from. So, in an effort not to think about it too hard, or perhaps with no effort at all, Francis explained away the gate’s unpleasant outcry as it simply “having a will of its own.” Of course Francis did not arrive at this conclusion on his own, having too many wits about him to arrive at such absurdity. In fact, it was the previous caretaker, the rather jolly fellow that Francis had followed through this graveyard on an early autumn night, who thought up the notion that the gate had a will of its own, and gifted it to Francis, who could now use it to explain away the seemingly unexplainable. Francis hung on every word the caretaker had said that night, as that was to be his first and last day of training. It was only late autumn now, but this season had been long for Francis, and he found himself dismayed at the realization that he’d only been working at the graveyard for just shy of a few months. It felt much, much longer; he dare not even say how much. “Well, here they are,” the caretaker had announced to Francis that first night, flourishing his arm for emphasis, a smile holding up his face. “It looks like he’s introducing people,” thought Francis, “living people.” He must have looked as unsure of how to react as he felt, because the caregiver laughed after looking his way. “You should get to know them,” he’d gone on in earnest. “Everyone thinks about who they want to be when they’re alive, but no one thinks about who they want to be when they’re dead,” he had said, either immediately or not long after. The wind whipped through the graveyard and slammed the gate closed behind Francis, forcing out a screech nearly a full octave higher than one that had welcomed him moments ago. Francis narrowed his eyelids and looked against the wind, surveying the graveyard. It looked the same as it had the previous night, and the night before that, and sounded the same too - the rustling of leaves, turned stale and brittle by October’s cool winds, the sound of the wind winding between headstones, ringing bells like wind chimes in the night. The tarnished bells attached atop each headstone tinkled delicately, promising the interned below the chance to escape should they have been buried, one would hope accidentally, before they were dead, providing welcome relief to those worried about falling victim to such an ugly fate. Francis found their disturbing nature easy to overlook given their cheerful sound, he’d explained over breakfast immediately upon finishing his first official night as the Oak Grove Cemetery Caretaker. “What good are the bells if the wind blows them all day and night?” His sister had laughed curiously. “I would hate to hear those, even now I can’t stand to think of it.” His mother had interjected, her hand gestured that she’d heard enough. “They’re just bells,” Francis had. answered. “They’re just bells,” Francis repeated to himself now. The wind carried his words away. He marched off toward the tool shed. Francis felt as though he were waking from a dream when he realized the clock tower attached to the neighboring church was announcing the time. He wasn’t sure if he’d counted 11 strikes or 12. He reached for his watch to find his breast pocket empty. He let his hand fall, remembering why he’d stopped bringing his watch with him. His watch was torturing him, Francis had concluded. Of course, it wasn’t torturing him on purpose, but it did no one any good to be so preoccupied with time. It would pass one way or the other. Staring at the watch, Francis found, only brought trouble. Sometimes the boredom would creep up on him in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes he would sit, watching the needle of his pocket watch tick away the seconds. Sometimes it would put him in a trance, and the time would slip by, morning arriving in no time at all. And sometimes, one second would take two. Sometimes three. Sometimes more. He would wait, breath baited, for the second hand to tick and find that when it finally did, he would have to gasp, lungs aching for air. He didn’t know exactly how long he could hold his breath, but he knew it was more than one second, or two. Or three. Francis’s cheeks stung from the unrelenting mist slung in from the coast. His rain gear was issued by his employer, and upon inspection Francis had supposed it was of an acceptable quality, but it didn’t matter. The wet air had its ways and when the sun peeped over the edge of the water and changed the beach below from black to blue, his clothes would be soaked anyway. The wind was tenacious, maneuvering ferociously, changing directions, drenching the few exposed parts of his body and leaking under the rainproof layers, sneaking past his coat and trousers and finally clinging to his cotton under layers, ensuring a grounding and pervasive chill, that sometimes wouldn’t leave ‘til noon. A freezing gust sent dust and rust colored leaves dancing into the spotlights of moonlight that fell between the bare and barely leaf-feathered oak branches. The gust brought with it fine mist, and Francis could feel the skin of his neck wick the moisture past the tightened collar of his hood, his treasonous body betraying him. He looked back down at his boots and walked. Francis had probably seen each headstone about 200 times now, some he’d seen more, if they were near the tool shed, or along the perimeter that he patrolled, or at the highest point of the yard, where Francis liked to stand and watch the town. Not watch, stare at. He thought about the caretaker’s advice to get to know the headstones. The people, maybe. Whatever he had meant, Francis thought he’d tried, but it was challenging, getting to know people with so little information. Nevertheless, Francis did develop a favorite headstone. Person. Peter White 1855-1876 “Fisherman” That was all there was to this headstone that Francis found himself in front of night after night. Francis was just a baby when this stranger was buried here. Some nights he found this headstone to be the saddest of them all, imagining this young man, the same age as himself, all alone, with no one to write anything more on his headstone than “fisherman.” He imagined Peter waking up to the cold at the bunkhouse, climbing into still-wet clothes and heading out into the cold and wind to the harbor, with no hot barley and no one to see him off, or care if he returns. Other nights, Francis smiled as he read the inscription, imagining a young man, not lonely but free, a fisherman who spent his days at sea, laughing with the other men,, the gulls, and the tide, spending his nights and hard earned pay on Wendover Street, drinking drafts and flirting with Ms. Taylor, who, even though she’s nearly old enough to be Francis’s mother, has made her appearance in most or all of Francis’s daydreams. Francis tried to imagine what she would have looked like to Peter, serving ale as dark and rich as her braided hair. The streaks of gray that decorated her braid didn’t bother Francis, but he sometimes wondered what she looked like before them. Tonight, Francis imagined this second scenario, the happy scenario. The wind had let up significantly in the time since Francis had been staring at Peter's headstone. How long was that? He wasn’t sure, but it was probably long enough, he decided. Now that the wind had died down he might try to rake up the leaves and debris the wind shook into the yard. He began to step away, when the clock tower tolled dully. He waited, listening to see if the clock would strike again, prepared for 12 strokes instead of one. It didn’t. Francis sighed, grateful. He moved toward the tool shed, listening to the crunching, snapping of leaves and sticks as he went. The sound filled Francis’s ears, a visceral sound, each step deafeningly loud, conjuring violent images in Francis’ mind. Francis found a sick feeling brewing in his stomach as he listened. He slowed. One footstep crunched after the next, unease simmered. Something didn’t sound right. He eyed his feet suspiciously. He stopped. Moonlight bathed Francis where he stood, staring at the pool of it at his feet. He heard nothing. No wind, no rustling of the leaves in the trees, not a single bell in the graveyard rang. He wiggled his toes in his boots and listened to the twigs beneath them snap like bones. Francis felt a chill undulate from his neck to his fingertips and back. The bell tolled again. Was it two already? Francis listened, waiting for the second toll. Silence. “Fisherman” Francis read the word. He listened again for the second toll. When did he come back to the headstone? The night was still and so was Francis. He tried to regain control of his breathing, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The smell of hops and sweat and gardenias filled his nose, settling inside him. His unease, and the memory of it, vanished. Thoughts of bells tolling or tinkling, of cold, lonely nights and naked oaks disappeared, replaced by the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the warm breath on his neck. Francis dared not move, but stood there, breathing, swaying in the dark, unwilling to be removed from the fantasy that filled his senses. How long did it take for the scent of gardenias to grow faint, replaced with the briny aroma of the sea, dried seaweed and the sweat of men? The waves grew louder. Francis felt panic rising in him yet again. The delusion released its grip, Francis’s eyes snapped open. Why had the bell tolled one again? Francis thought about his pocket watch. Was it happening? It was one thing for it to happen with his pocket watch, but with the clock tower too? What had he been about to do? “Rake!” He exclaimed to no one. The bell tolled again. Francis turned and stared at the clock tower, looking as offended by the tower’s bizarre behavior as he felt. The moonlight landed on it in no particular way, and try as he might, Francis could find nothing to look at to satisfy his indignation. He turned back toward the headstone. “I’m going to rake this up now,” Francis declared. To his surprise, the wind had not yet returned and he hoped it wouldn’t until he was done. He gathered his sensibilities and took a determined step toward the tool shed. His foot met the earth with another stroke of the clock. Francis felt dirt beneath his fingertips and blades of grass on his lips. Was he laying down? He pushed, bringing himself up and tucked his knees beneath him. Peter’s headstone filled his vision. Francis moved slowly, cautiously. There was no explanation he could come up with for what was going on, but for once, he didn’t care. No, it didn’t have to make sense for him to believe it, he decided. So what if people thought him crazy! Maybe he was crazy, but it was better to be crazy than dead, or worse, he thought, unsure what would constitute worse. Francis made up his mind. Once on his feet, he turned toward the willful gate and sprinted with all his might. A bell sounded behind him. Not the dreaded tolling of the clock tower this time, but a different, more delicate sound, from a single bell perched atop a headstone. Not just any headstone, Francis reluctantly noticed, but Peter’s headstone. The bell jingled gently, but the sound met Francis’s ears like tidal waves, crashing over him and filling him panic. His mouth was dry as he peeled his tongue from its roof and let out a wail of sorts - a noise that could only be interpreted by anyone who heard it as a desperate cry for help. The clock tower tolled again. Francis stood, dazed, staring at the gravestone before him. Peter White Peter White. Peter. White. Francis thought. The name was so familiar. “Of course you know that name,” Francis said to himself. “You stare at it every night.” The bell jingled before him, a cheerful sound, thought Francis. It reminded him of something, a laugh. Her laugh. He could hear her laughing now, throwing her head back, the sound of bells rising from her throat. She was so close, touching him, her weight across his lap, her finger wrapped around a curl of his hair. He reached his arm around her waist and squeezed. She felt damp, and cold, and no matter how he squeezed, he could not feel her soft flesh give. Where she had been, Francis now caressed stone. “Fisherman” Francis felt sick. Vertigo overwhelmed him as he rose, stumbling, to his feet. He needed to get out. Once again the church bell tolled. Francis lay near the headstone, tears filling his eyes. He counted, taking stock of how many times he had tried to escape, of how many times the bell had tolled. He thought, trying to quiet the deafening sound of the bell atop Peter’s headstone and waves crashing along the shore. It didn’t matter how long he stared at the headstone, as soon as he stepped away or tried for the gate, the bell tolled. He’d even tried climbing the fence nearest him now, only to find himself back here, staring at the same headstone. His mind felt fractured, gripped with fear one second and overcome with joy the next, unable to keep these visions at bay. Thoughts of Ms. Taylor filled his mind, he could smell her, feel her, hear her laugh. They were so real, they felt more like memories than delusions. But they couldn’t be, Francis knew that. She’d never smiled at him like that, or wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest. He cursed his body, betraying him once again. Now was not the time. Francis closed his eyes and counted. Eleven. That’s how many strokes he’d heard. The bell above Peter’s headstone was ringing frantically now, a dizzying and disorienting sound. Francis covered his ears to try to think. The noise of the bell was not dampened. He clamped his hands tighter at the sides of his head, his jaw clenched. He could not quiet the noise. Francis tried to think, he needed silence! He opened his mouth and tried to scream but it was no use, he could not produce a sound louder than the bell. He rolled, hands still gripping the sides of his head, trying to find relief. He moved slowly, inching his way away, unable to concentrate on anything but the dryness in his mouth, the smell of gardenias in his nose, and the god-damned ringing of this bell. He inched away, cautiously, knowing that this would be the last stroke of midnight, dreading what that might mean. He had one more chance, before, well, he didn’t know before what. Dread filled him. A twig snapped beneath his writhing body. The bell struck twelve. Francis stood up and brushed himself off. He reached his hands into his pockets and pulled a knife from the left one, inspected it briefly, and muttered approvingly. He cut the cord attached to the bell atop Peter’s headstone. He reached his hands into his pockets again, the back ones this time, and procured a billfold. He opened it, studying the inside. “Thanks Francis,” he said, patting the crest of the headstone. Francis put his knife back in his pocket and made his way to the front gate. He swung it open noiselessly and closed it behind him. “Now,” he smiled. “Time for a drink.