Everyone in town had heard the rumors about the caretaker of the small Marston Cemetery at the edge of town. Most people now had their loved ones interred at the new, larger cemetery in the suburbs.

I hadn’t thought much about them either way, until my diagnosis came back. Stage four cancer, not expected to live more than a few months without chemo, maybe a year with, unless I was really lucky.

Everyone told me to do it, to fight it, that I was only twenty-five and had my whole life ahead, if I beat the odds. I would put on a serious look and tell them I would, but I had no plans to go out that way. After watching my favorite aunt fade away, her body wracked by the drugs and the cancer, I had no desire to endure the same thing.

I was a bit lucky, the growing death would only debilitate during the last week or two. Until then, it was random bouts of excruciating pain, a fit of the runs, or nausea, but it would fade after a few hours.

The caretaker was younger than I would have thought. From the stories, I had figured he’d be an old man. Instead, he was maybe ten or fifteen years older than me. He was tending the flower beds near the entrance when I pulled up in my car.

“Um, hello, um, can I help you?” he said nervously. He glanced at me, then averted his eyes as he waited. His hands brushed futilely at the dirt ground into his worn coveralls.

“I’m looking for,” I paused long enough to look at my phone. “Ivan Marston, the chief caretaker.”

His eyes flicked to me, then back to the ground. “That, that would be me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you would be older.”

His laugh was warm as he said, “The funeral biz, right. Most assume that. How may I help you?”

“I’d like to arrange a plot for, for a family member.” I couldn’t bring myself to say it would be for me. Something about the spring day and the beauty of the flowers stopped me.

“Of, of course. What would the departed like? Some like shade, others like the sun, or near the stream, maybe by the flowers?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. I’ll have to find out.”

“They’re not gone yet?”

“No, cancer, it will take her in a few months, but there’s a bit of time yet. Could you show me around? That way I can describe the possibilities.”

“Of course. Let me grab the plot map and I can show you some of the better spots. They’re, well, some are more expensive than others. Is there a budget?”

“It’s probably enough. Please, show me all of them.”

His nervousness disappeared as he showed me the grounds. His smiles were warm and open as he extolled the virtues of various plots. He’d brush leaves from a stone here, move fallen twigs off another, or pull out a glove and wipe webbing off a monument as we walked.

I learned the cemetery had been in his family for generations, from the founding of the town. It made me wonder what would happen since he seemed to be the last of the family. When I asked, he got nervous again. “I, I’m not sure. I, I need to find someone, though I, I suck at dealing with the living.”

“You’re doing fine right now,” I said, with a warm smile. It seemed to make him more nervous, rather than less.

“You said there was a plot near the stream?”

Turning talk back to the cemetery calmed him and he grew animated once more. “Yes, yes, it’s this way. It is one of the loveliest spots, I think, anyway!”

It was. There was a small copse of trees surrounding a space large enough for a few plots. There was a handful of markers, most of them older, nestled among the trees.

His gaze followed mine and he said, “Mostly family. We love it here, near the stream.”

“I’d, I think she’d like it here. That is, as long as it wouldn’t be an intrusion on your family, that is,” I told him. His eyes had darted to my face at my slip, but his expression didn’t change.

“No, I wouldn’t have shown it to you, if it weren’t available. If you think she’d like it, I will mark a plot as taken. I can always unmark it if, she, changes her mind. You could take a picture or two to show her, if you’d like.”

I blushed as I realized I hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh, as long as you don’t mind,” I added, trying to keep up the deception.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the trees and markers, then turned to take a couple of the stream. The sun hit Ivan in a perfect glowing spotlight. My heart stopped at how beautiful he looked at that moment. I took the picture, then hurried to move the camera so he wouldn’t think I was taking pictures of him.

My hand shook as I put the phone away. “Thank you, I think I have what I need. I shouldn’t take any more of your time.”

“It’s no trouble. The days here are quiet and business has dropped with the new place outside of town. Few come to visit. So many are disturbed by the dead. I should record a few details for the plot before you go, though.”

He turned to lead the way back to the small office. The pain hit suddenly, doubling me over as it ripped through me. I fought not to cry out and alert him as tears blurred my vision. Something alerted him, though. He turned, his eyes darting across me just enough to see how white my face was. He looked away and offered a hand without comment. His hand was warm and dry, his grip firm without being overpowering.

We walked hand in hand and in silence until we reached the small office. He dropped my hand at the door, like he had been burnt. Inside he was back to being nervous. His voice stuttered and hesitated as he asked for my information to hold the plot.

“Will, will you want a, a service? There, there’s a small chapel available.”

“I, I’m not sure. I’ll have to find out. She, she’s not very religious and, well, not much family either,” I slowly replied. He nodded and handed me a card with the office number and hours on it.

I was as awkward as he was as I said goodbye and walked back to my car. The drive to my apartment was short, but I sat in my car for a long time, puzzled by the day. If the rumors were true, I should have met a weird, reclusive, ghoul. I had met a shy, nervous, but warm and gentle person.

Pain interrupted my thoughts. When it eased, I hurried into my apartment and the cabinet of meds. Against recommendations, I washed the pain pills down with absynthe.

I woke at six-thirty in the morning, just like I had every day since entering the working world five years ago. It didn’t matter that I had quit after the diagnosis. I tried to go back to sleep, but it worked like it always did, which was not at all.

I rolled out of bed twenty frustrating minutes later and slowly got dressed. My mind returned to the cemetery and the quiet peace of walking among the stones. I wanted to know more about the place and about Ivan.

It felt strange to walk into the Witch’s Attic Coffee Shop after so long an absence. Tanya Andrews had started it right after her foster parents had died six years ago. They had been horrid religious zealots that had made her life miserable. She had taken the money and created an occult looking paradise. The coffee and food were good, too.

We had been good friends in high school, but had drifted apart when I went off to college and into business administration. Her views on the strange and obscure had grown as she aged. Mine had faded in the face of science and normality. The faint incense under the smells of coffee and pastries brought back buried memories.

The woman at the counter looked up as I entered. Her hair was black, with a bright red streak through it. She wore a black gown that would have looked at home in Victorian London. Her nails were black with tiny splashes of silver. Her face transformed into a smile as she rushed from behind the counter to throw her arms around me.

“Tasha! How are you? I haven’t seen you in too long!”

“Uh, Tanya, uh, hi.” I hadn’t expected this. It felt like I had avoided her and let her down by working for the insurance group. I couldn’t escape the feeling of selling out somehow.

“Rissa, take the counter and start a double espresso! You, come with me,” she said as she almost dragged me to a booth in the far, darkest corner.

She stared at me as we settled into the booth. “You’ve lost weight. Are you ok?” It always surprised me how quickly she could come to a point.

I had intended to lie, to not tell her anything while asking about the Marston Cemetery. “I, no, I,” the tears came in a fierce and unexpected way. She moved quickly, sliding in beside me and cradling my head on her shoulder.

Eventually the tears slowed. “I have cancer. It’s terminal. I have a couple of months.”

“Are you going to fight it?” Her voice held no judgment, which brought my eyes to her face.

“No,” I replied quietly.

“Because of your aunt?”

“Yes,” I said almost silently.

“I will miss you, but I understand.” Her arms around me tightened, bringing a new flood of tears.

“Thank you. It helps, not being judged. I hope you never have to understand how much pressure and unintended pain well meaning people cause.”

“I love you, my sister in shadow.” The words cut through years of normalcy, taking me back to the silly little ritual we performed in the Marston Cemetery our sophomore year. My arms wrapped around her and we hugged tightly for several minutes.

A young, perky Goth girl slid a drink on the table, close to me, but far enough that I wouldn’t knock it over. She turned without a sound and returned to the counter.

My hand shook as I reached for the coffee. Tanya put her hand over mine and set it on the table. She took the cup and raised it so I could sip from it. It was a casual, yet very comforting thing.

“I expect you didn’t come in for the coffee.”

I sighed and nodded, “Not just the coffee, no.”

“Do you want to talk here, or upstairs, where it’s more private?”

“Upstairs, please.” She led me up to her tiny apartment. It was a main room with a bed, a micro alcove with two burner stove and mini-fridge. There was a tiny bathroom behind a curtain. She guided me to the bed and set me on the edge.

“Now, what’s going on?”

It boiled out, the weird pains, the tests, the outcome, and how I walked away from work. It helped to talk to her, like it had so many times before, when we were closer.

After a long pause, I said, “Thank you for, well, thank you.” I drew in a long, shaky breath, then asked, “I was thinking of being buried in the Marston Cemetery. What do you know of it?”

“Why?”

“I’ll answer, after you tell me what you know.”

She drew a breath, looked at her hands, stared at the giant oak tree outside the window over her bed, then spoke, “It’s a lovely place. You’ve heard the rumors?” It felt like she was stalling.

“I have, same as everyone else in town.”

“They’re true.” She turned her eyes to stare across the room, but not before I caught a strange look in them.

“Are you sure?”

She drew a long breath, “Yes. It was shortly after you left for business school. I had gone through another bad break-up, this time from Jeff, the ass-hat basketball star. I was high as fuck and needed to walk, in the dark, at night. I know, not the smartest thing, but fuck-all happens in our little town. I ended up at the cemetery, coming out through the forest around it. Ivan had the backhoe out and had dug up Marcia Ann Farsetler’s coffin. He took it back to the caretaker’s house and set it on the porch. There was a hoist rigged so he could lift it and slide it into the back room. Are you sure you want to hear this?”