This Town - 3
The Graveyard
James stepped through the rusted gates of the cemetery, their iron scrollwork bent in places, but still standing like sentinels. The arch above him -- cracked white stone, engraved with ivy and Latin he couldn't read -- cast a long shadow over the path. His boots crunched over gravel as he entered.
It was nothing like the rest of the town.
While storefronts sagged and streets whispered decay, this place... stood tall. Grand. Obsessively maintained in a way that didn't make sense. As if half the town's soul -- and all its money -- had been poured into the dirt here.
Marble fountains, dry but still elegant, flanked the entry path. A pair of weeping angel statues loomed nearby, their eyes worn smooth, their wings cracked at the tips. Trees arched over the walkways like natural cathedrals, their gnarled limbs stretched toward the sky as if asking for mercy.
Crypts and vaults stood like homes -- stone doors sealed shut, names etched in gold leaf long faded to ghost-smears. Mausoleums loomed across the hills, clustered like tiny chapels, each one unique, ornate. Some had stained glass. Some had steps that led underground.
There were graves everywhere. Too many. Rows upon rows, winding between manicured hedges and sculpted memorial gardens -- ancient headstones leaning with time, others so polished they caught the dying light like mirrors.
James moved in deeper, uneasy. Not from fear, but from the weight of it all. Like the place watched him.
There was no wind, but the trees creaked. No people, but the silence felt occupied.
This wasn't just a burial ground.
It was a monument to something unspoken.
And somewhere, beneath it all -- beneath the stone, the memory, the carved prayers -- something still breathed.
Off the main path, a single plot caught his eye -- dirt mounded up, uneven, still damp and dark with fresh earth. There were no flowers, no name carved into the waiting stone. Just a rectangular wound in the ground, hastily bandaged.
He stepped closer.
The air smelled different here. Not just soil and moss, but something sweeter -- faint, almost floral. He crouched, letting his fingers trail across the dirt. It was warm.
He pulled back quickly. Heart ticking harder.
The trees thickened as he moved, branches woven overhead like ribs in a stone throat. Shadows shifted more than they should have. He told himself it was just nerves.
He paused near a narrow row of graves, older and simpler than the rest. Just weather-worn slabs, tilting from decades of rain. One caught his attention -- pale gray, the letters almost gone.
But they were still there.
JAMES, carved in deep.
No last name. No dates.
He stared at it.
It didn't feel like coincidence. The grave before the stone, open, freshly dug -- dark, loose soil piled high off to one side, the hole wide and clean. Six feet deep, easy. You could bet on it.
***
Angela, mid-twenties, moved like a ghost -- slow, delicate, as if the air itself might bruise her. Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the fog, and her long dark hair clung to her face in damp strands. Her dress, thin and worn, hugged her frame like it was never meant to be taken off -- clinging to her chest, her hips, the curve of her thighs with every trembling step. Her eyes, wide and glassy, held something broken behind their beauty -- the kind of sadness that made her seem both older and younger than she was. Her lips were soft, parted, as if caught mid-confession, and her bare legs were streaked with dirt and grass, as though the earth itself had tried to claim her on the way in.
Angela went from stone to stone, searching the dated markers as if she knew someone buried in this ancient place. The cemetery stretched endlessly around her -- a sprawling sea of crooked tombstones, statues with weeping eyes, and gnarled trees that leaned like old men whispering secrets to the dirt. The ground was uneven, softened by time and rot, and every step felt like it might sink her into the bones beneath. Her long dress dragged through the weeds and wild grass, catching on the twisted hedges that lined the forgotten paths -- all of it likely fertilized by the long dead.
The air was thick with fog and memory. Moss clung to the stone angels, their wings clipped, their faces eroded into hollow warnings. Iron fences encased family plots, rusted and bent, as if clawed at from the inside. There was no sound but the crunch of her steps and the distant groan of wind through the bare trees. She paused at each grave, fingers trailing across faded names and cracked marble, eyes flicking with recognition -- or longing.
She moved like someone searching for more than a person. Like someone looking for penance. Her long cotton dress caught the weeds, the wild grass, the hedges.
The fog clung low, curling around her calves like it wanted to pull her under. Her fingers traced the names carved in stone, soft and careful -- like she feared waking someone. She knelt at one grave, head tilted, brows pinched as if trying to remember something. Or someone.
Her dress shifted with the breeze, clinging to her thighs, her hips. She didn't notice. Or maybe she didn't care. The dead didn't watch -- but someone did.
She looked up. Slowly, lips parted.
"I... I'm sorry," she whispered, though no one had spoken. "I'm... lost."
Her hands trembled as she sat back on her heels, dirt brushing the hem of her dress. The fog thickened behind her, swallowing the path she'd taken, and for a moment it felt like the world had vanished -- leaving her alone with the graves, and her guilt.
She pressed her palms into her lap, clutching them tightly as if trying to hold herself together. A soft sound escaped her throat -- not quite a sob, more like the ghost of one. Her hair clung to the side of her face, damp with mist.
The silence was unbearable. Not peaceful. Heavy.
"I didn't mean to do it," she said softly, voice cracking. "I didn't... I didn't want to hurt anyone."
A breeze passed, cold and slow, rustling the grass.
The tombstones didn't answer.
But someone listened.
When the tall man's hands met hers, she startled -- jumped and screamed, but his understanding glance calmed her. He didn't speak. Just knelt beside her, his long fingers wrapping around hers like he'd done it before. Like he belonged there. His touch was cold, but not cruel.
She blinked at him, trembling. "I didn't see you..."
He tilted his head, his expression soft but unreadable. The fog behind him swirled as if it had carried him in.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, not knowing why. Her lips quivered.
His thumb brushed across her knuckles -- slow, deliberate -- and her breath caught.
"I didn't mean to... be here."
He looked at her, deeper now, his eyes searching. And when he finally did speak, his voice was quiet, close.
"But you are here."
His gaze lingered. She waited for him to speak, to explain, to say something. But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned closer -- slow, soundless -- until his breath touched her neck. She stiffened. His hand moved to her thigh, firm, insistent. No hesitation. No ask.
Her mouth opened to protest -- or plead -- but nothing came out.
His palm slid beneath her dress. Up. Higher. Fingers cold, rough, uninvited but unstoppable. She gasped as he pushed her back against the grave. The stone felt warm. Or maybe she was burning.
Her legs parted like they knew the script. His fingers found the damp heat between them -- no gentleness now. Just slow, deep strokes that made her thighs shake.
Still, he said nothing. Just watched her come undone.
And the dead kept silent.
He knelt without a word. The fog moved with him. She barely had time to catch her breath before he turned her body, pressed her chest to the cold stone. Her hands braced against the grave, dirt under her nails, heart pounding.
She heard the sound -- the sharp, clean slide of a zipper.
Then his hand gripped her ass, yanked her hips back hard, and she felt the head of his cock press against her slit -- thick, unyielding. She wasn't ready, not fully. Her body tensed, tight and trembling. But he didn't wait. He forced himself in -- slow at first, then harder, grinding through her resistance.
She whimpered, nails scraping the stone.
