text: It was late at night and Mark was awoken by the screech of his phone ringtone. He liked having an unconventional ringtone as it drew attention to him when his phone rang; it was the only way he could simulate being the centre of attention, for he was pushed to the back and forgotten about for most of his life. “Hello”, Mark answered. “Mark”, a serious, but sleepy voice replied, “this is Sharon. There’s been an incident down at the County Cemetery, please could you go and make it safe”. Sharon was the lead cemetery caretaker and Mark was second in command. “I can’t. I’ve been drinking”, Sharon offered as her reasoning. It was more than likely, though, as Sharon had become quite a secret alcoholic as of late. Mark had raised his concerns about her with her manager, but they had been brushed off. Nobody listened to him at the best of times - having little in the way of evidence made this more challenging to discuss. “Yes, Sharon”, Mark replied. He didn’t have much choice, but knew he’d get a time bonus for the late-night work. “I’m on my way”, he continued. Alone in his one bedroom flat, Mark got himself dressed in his workman trousers, a fleece to take the edge of the chill of the summer night and his high-visibility clothing, then put on his boots. They weren’t too good to drive in, but he knew he didn’t have time to waste. The County Cemetery had big thick iron gates at its front, with the letter ‘C’ from each word interlocking as a way of showing the county was together. “Huh. That’s odd, these gates shouldn’t be open”, Mark announced to himself. It was Mark’s job to open the gates at eight in the morning and close them at eight in the evening, during the summer. He was sure that he had closed them this evening, though he was distracted by the football playing on his van’s radio. Mark drove straight in, his van headlights the only form of illumination in the pitch-dark graveyard. The bright, white wide-beam of his LEDs shone over the rows of headstones. It was ordered quite distinctly; the left represented the affluent west of the county, while the right represented the poorer east of the county. The left was usually a little more well-kept, with tasteful keepsakes besides the headstones; Mark spent most of his time on the right, tidying it and ensuring the headstones were kept respectfully, though had been working on the left earlier today. He was a spiritual man and often took a moment to reflect on each headstone as he attended to it; Mark was six months into his job and felt those that had been neglected deserved some love, so often came back on his days off to clean them. Parking his van in his favourite bay, Mark turned off his headlights to find himself in total darkness. He reached over to the glovebox and grabbed his torch guided by his interior van light, then got out, his interior light fading as he did so. There was a noise - a rustle came from near the trees of the west area. There was no wind; it was a still night. Still fumbling with his torch, Mark had forgotten where the on switch was. Seconds later, Mark let out: “Aha! Found it!” as his torch lit. He shone his torch on the tree he thought he heard the rustle come from. There was nothing there, but he noticed something was odd. Several headstones laid broken on the ground; the gaps in the rows evident from the distance his was stood. Mark ventured over to the nearest broken headstone. There, he discovered the headstone lying flat on the ground. It wasn’t damaged, which meant it could be reinstalled. Mark paused and lit it up with his torch. it said: ‘Mark Longbottom, loved father, grand-father and great-grand-father’. He took a moment for respect. “Stay back”, a voice shouted. “Hello?”, Mark asked nervously. He hadn’t been to the cemetery at night before, and, although spiritual, had never seen a ghost before either. His call was met with no response. Mark continued to shine his torch around, looking for the next broken headstone he could see from his van moments ago. It was a little further away, so he made his way over, walking carefully to avoid interfering with the ground. He arrived. He lit this headstone. It said: ‘Mark Wigglesworth, gone too soon’. Mark paused for a little longer than last time. Any wording such as ‘gone too soon’ really struck a chord with him. He lost his uncle, who was like a father to him, at the age of ten; his only role model, gone too soon. Noting that so far both had shared his name, he let out an audible statement, as he thought to himself: “Huh, that’s odd”. “Go home”, the same voice as before echoed. “Who’s there?”, Mark asked. This time, he knew he had heard something and was a little concerned about the unlikely coincidence of both headstones sharing the same name. Mark stood and assessed the situation; both were within proximity and both had his name. It’s an unlikely accident; he had a small incline it was done intentionally. Nervous, Mark shone his torch around again, looking for further flat headstones. He found one. As Mark went a little further into the west area of the cemetery, he discovered another headstone that shared his name: ‘Mark Johannsson, found his home here’. This hit a certain note with Mark; he was at home in the cemetery, though not normally in the dark. He had taken the statement a little too literal. “Do not go any further”, the earlier voice stated. Mark was concerned: “What’s going on?”. The voice this time was strong and intense, as if it was a severe warning from someone. Taking his torch again, Mark shone across the west area. There was another headstone flattened. This was near where he was working only earlier today; he was digging out a grave for a funeral tomorrow. As this was closer to the entrance than the others, he thought this might shed some information on what has happened. Mark was now about sixteen foot away from the iron gates, shining his torch on to the flattened headstone: ‘Mark Parker’. There was no statement. This was a little more unsettling - Parker was Mark’s last name, too. He paused, taking a moment to reflect, though understandably uneasy. To reassure himself, Mark shone his torch on the nearby grave had dug, telling himself he would be back at work tomorrow. He walked over to check everything was as he left it. It was; his spade, the debris from the ground and his wooden markers, untouched from earlier. Then, out of nowhere, Mark was pushed. He dropped his torch in shock. He fell. He was in total darkness. His right leg took most of the impact from the fall. He then realised where he had fallen; he was in the grave he had dug. “Help!”, Mark shouted, hopelessly, thinking that if there was someone there with him, they’d come to his rescue. “Help!”, he repeated. Of course, there was no response. He tried to reach for his phone. With a struggle, he did, he managed to pull it out of his right trouser pocket. But it was broken. The impact from his fall had smashed its screen and it wasn’t responding to his touch. Mark looked up. He noticed the dirt was coming at him. “Help! Stop! Hello!”, he shouted, panicking. The dirt continued to fall on him, getting faster each time. Mark tries to reason: “No, please, help me!”. There was no response. Large quantities of dry, heavy dirt began to hit Mark on the head. It knocked him unconscious. The dirt continued to fill the grave until Mark was buried.