The Unrested

There’s been a distinct chill in the air for a number of weeks. Crooked trees empty their branches of leaves, the neighbourhood almost entirely visible except the nooks shrouded by thick evergreens. A new energy hums between residents, one that wasn’t here in the lazy months of summer. I perch on my favourite bench, instinctively hugging my knees to my chest as I gaze out over the distant hills. Sunsets are something I have never tired of. In the millions of years gone by and in the many yet to come, the sun rises and falls without care to the trivial events happening on earth. Amber and gold streak the sky, the most natural work of art in existence. Well, besides flowers. Beautiful blooms are my close second favourite. Thankfully, sunsets and bouquets are plentiful here. I feel my shoulders relax a little. After several months in my new home, I’m finally starting to settle in. 

“Hi, petal” comes a voice from behind me. 

I beam at the elegant young woman. “Hi, Nanna”.

She sits beside me, her long legs crossed under her forties-style polka-dot tea dress. Her porcelain skin glows in the dusk and she tosses me a confident, crimson-lipped smile. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to seeing her in this way. 

“Beautiful one tonight. It’s like the sky is alive, isn’t it”. It’s a comment she makes frequently, but I don’t care. 

“Mhmm” I reply. I’m happy to be here with her. I rest my head on her shoulder and reach to squeeze her hand in mine. It’s peaceful, and perfect. 

“Are you feeling… okay? About, you know, the end of the month?” She tenses a little and I sense her glancing down at me. 

I sit up and frown. Her deep chestnut eyes are filled with unease. 

“What’s happening at the end of the month?” I’m confused. I was just beginning to understand my life - sorry - existence at this place. I don’t even know what month it is, let alone the dates.

“October 31st.” She pauses, then in a hushed voice adds “All Hallows Eve”. 

“Umm. Should I be worried? What happens on Halloween?” I’m bolt upright now, facing her. 

She glances around then leans in closely. “We are able to leave the neighbourhood”

I gasp and leap up from the bench. “Amazing! I can go explore”. I’m giddy. Adventures await! 

She stands suddenly and grasps my shoulders. “You don’t understand. This means that others can enter our neighbourhood.”

This all sounds like good news to me. Maybe I can make some friends?...

“Our home is relatively new. It didn’t open until two thousand and six, meaning the oldest people here were born in nineteen eleven or so. I’ve met some of them - they are pleasant enough but we have some vastly opposing views on certain things” she continues. 

I’m exasperated. “Why does this matter? I love talking to my friend Irene, and we were born seventy years apart!”

She drops her hands from my shoulders and clasps them together. “We are talking about those born two hundred and fifty years ago or more.” 

I fumble for a response. “Well… I’m sure there are some who’d appreciate a good conversation with someone who passed in the year twenty twenty. They must have a lot of questions!”

She bit her lip, thinking for a moment. “Maybe…”

“And” I began. “Why is Halloween ‘scary’ anyway? I’m looking forward to exploring and meeting new people. I’ve met most people here already.”

She stared me straight in the eye. “Not everyone is happy to have passed on.”

I can understand that. Not me, though. I was sick - very sick. It was a relief when I left my life behind and all the pain went away. I was sad at first that I didn’t have longer than eighteen years, but I’m ok now. 

“It’s a horror show” she whispered, her eyes glazing over as the sun dipped below the hills. 

“They are filled with rage. Some want revenge on the living, but they don’t have the ability. Tortured souls with nothing left to lose.” 

I touched her arm. “They can’t do anything to us though, can they?” I said softly. 

A chilly breeze blew between us. I know I can’t feel temperature, but the memory of what weather must feel like on my skin is entrenched so deeply that it seems real. 

“It feels real.” she said, flatly. “The physical brutality some impose. The Unrested are relentless”. My beautiful, confident Nanna grips her elbows and slumps onto the bench, suddenly the small, frail woman I remember passing aged ninety two. 

I go to stroke her perfect chocolate curls. “I’ll protect you, Nanna” I whisper. 

***

I don’t need rest anymore. I spent my last remaining ‘alive’ months stuck in a hospital bed, doing nothing but rest. This is way better. The weirdest thing about joining this new world is how light I feel, how free. I’m no longer consciously aware of individually aching limbs, a knotted gut or unwashed hair. I can’t smell the damp dirt or the wet leaves, or the icy toes I’d have when I’d visit Nanna here as a child. I’m also eleven again. People revert back to their ‘best age’ - the year when they were happiest and healthiest. This part feels normal, except for when I catch my reflection in the lake and my hair is the short and natural blonde style it used to be. I mostly spend my existence playing in the trees and chatting to the others. Most of them are pleasant enough, but we don’t have a lot to talk about. The worst part is seeing real people visit our neighbourhood - well, technically our woodland burial ground. Their faces are full of pain, their aura awash with sadness. They stand at the headstone, crying softly and re-reading the etched words as if they’ll have changed since their last visit. I’ll see their deceased loved one, laughing and dancing nearby, peaceful and happy. But then they’ll spot their living relative, and stop dancing. They’ll run to the headstone, wipe the tears away and give them a hug. Then the sadness takes over, the peacefulness all gone. They can’t talk to their living love, can’t really hug them or take away their tears. It’s the worst part about being dead - you can’t show love to the living. 

Mr McCormack doesn’t ever feel sad though - when his sons visit his spot they bring whiskey and share funny memories. 

“I love to see my wee boys all grown up and happy” he says, his eyes twinkling. “They always tell the same jokes and stories about me, but I love it”. 

He chuckles and strokes his big ginger beard, then pats me on the head and wanders off. I always feel a pang of envy. It’s horrible when my parents visit. I want so badly to tell them I’m okay and that I feel better now I’m here. 

I shake my head to stop the thoughts, and spot Nanna approaching the tree I’m sat in. Her red heels perfectly match her lips. She looks up at me, a grave look on her face.

“It’s almost nightfall. Come with me. It’s beginning.”

*** 

We head to our usual haunt (ha!). The groundskeepers lodge is like a large shed, nestled among the evergreens lining the woodland. As well as all the tools, there’s a comfy chair and a stack of books, plus a frequently warm kettle. You can just tell that it’s warm and cosy. It’s a nice place to be. The groundskeeper is a kind-looking man who says sweet things to his wife on the phone. Sometimes he stays late into the evening, lost in a book and sipping on tea. Mr McCormack usually pops in and blows out the candle he’s using as a reading light, just to remind him he’s keeping his wife waiting. The man always jumps a little, then laughs a big booming laugh and thanks his ‘ghostly friends’ out loud for the friendly nudge. 

Several familiar faces greet us inside. The toddler with pigtails sits on the floor, giggling as she plays with dust particles. I blush as I spot the dark-haired soldier in his early twenties sat on the armchair flicking through a novel. A few others stand murmuring in the far end. The soldier glances up at us both then quickly stands, lifting his hat toward Nanna. I give a small wave to the little girl. Everyone is respectful to one another here, and generally very kind. We must understand and remember reality, respecting the facts of the headstones. The soldier is a man who passed at age seventy, a loving husband and father. The toddler was a forty-five year old woman. Still, my eighteen year old alive-human self still enjoys the sight of a young man in uniform!

“I’m not sure this will exactly suffice as a hiding spot”, Nanna announces. “But I’d rather stay here than risk finding somewhere in another neighbourhood”.

She was referring, presumably, to Brookwood Cemetery. A vast, ancient resting place a short distance down the road. I specifically asked not to end up there. 

“Agreed. We can move between here and the treeline from tonight until dawn, avoiding them where we can” said the soldier in an authoritative tone. 

The attendees muttered in a chorus of agreement. I feel irritation rising within me. 

“Look, I know that this is my first Halloween here and I don’t know what to expect, but is this any way to spend an eternity? Hiding? Fear should end when life does.” I’m raising my voice and can feel all eyes on me. 

Ignoring the slight waver in my vocal chords, I press on. 

“I’m not going to hide. I’m going to move freely where I want, and I won’t let fear take hold of me. I’m going to explore, to meet new friends. And I’ll deal with The Unrested if I need to.” 

Nanna folded her arms and looked at me sternly, opening her mouth to speak.

I stared back boldly. “I’ll see you in the morning, Nanna” 

***

I moved between the headstones, nodding to my neighbours as I picked my way towards the furthest edge of the land. I came to the boggy bottom, near to the road. It’s the least pleasant area and I almost never come here. The people are friendly, but rowdy. I enjoy my quiet bench, sunsets and fruit trees too much. Plus, I know my parents paid more in order to get me a nice plot - it seems ungrateful to frequently wander into the worse part of the grounds. 

“Evening, Dana!” Ed shouts to me. He’s sprawled on the floor with his buddy, Billy. They are knocking back swigs of spiced rum straight from the bottle that someone left one of them. I grin at them both. I know they are imagining the smell and taste so clearly that to them, it’s real. They might even feel hungover in the morning. 

“Happy Hallows night!” Billy crows, holding up the bottle and nodding in my direction. 

They aren’t worried. There’s no need for me to be either. I take a deep breath and push through the trees until I’m at the edge of the road. I beam to myself at the excitement of it all and begin to run. Without a functioning set of lungs there’s nothing holding me back. I don’t realise where I’m heading until I reach the gates of Brookwood. I pause, suddenly cautious. It’s absolutely swarming with people, and noisy. Most look like they are celebrating. I push through and begin picking my way through the headstones. Some are unbelievably ornate, their residents lounging proudly against them as if to show off the wealth of their families. A woman dressed in a huge gown sings opera in front of a growing crowd, and a small man recites Shakespeare for everyone who’ll listen. There’s a buzz, a thrill, and I wonder for a moment if I should’ve elected for a life in the serenity of the woodland. I don’t notice the noise has dimmed until my eyes rest on a huge, crumbling tomb. A woman shrieks, her gaunt face darting past my own. She’s wearing a Victorian nightgown. An old man limps from the shadows, raising a crooked finger at me as he gazes at my clothing.

“Witch!” he spits, shaking in fury.

“No, no, I’m not!” I cry, stumbling as I edge away from him. 

A hand curls around my throat from behind. 

“How did you escape the poor house?” a man snarls, his breath grazing the nape of my neck. 

I wriggle free and look up at the man. He has sunken eyes, breath like rancid meat and is dressed in an old warden's uniform. I can hear my own gasps for air. I quickly calm myself, reminding my brain that it’s not possible for me to suffocate. 

“Please, I don’t mean to cause trouble” I dart away swiftly, turning a corner to spot a small cluster of people. 

I hold my breath. They notice me. 

A hunched, dark haired woman steps into the moonlight and speaks with a Greek accent. 

“You… you look like her.” Her eyes are wild, and she takes a step closer to me. “She deserved it, I don’t care that they hanged me. I’d do it again.”

She lunges towards me and grips my shirt with a bony hand. I instinctively push her backward, turn, and sprint as fast as I can towards the entrance. Noise and colour swarm me, outrageous clothing and laughing mouths of brown teeth everywhere. Old cockney accents and posh Queen’s english echo in my ears as I trip through the maze of people whose lives I could never begin to understand. I run without looking back until I’ve burst through the treeline to my neighbourhood. Then I take in the horror before me. 

Billy lies face down, the bottle of rum laying smashed five feet away. Ed’s body looks strange, twisted at an angle. The bone sticks out from his neck. I feel my stomach lurch and I lean against a tree for support. Bodies lay scattered across the grass, the stench of blood filling my nostrils. 

Nanna.

I run in huge strides towards the groundskeepers cabin. A plume of black-grey smoke twirls into the air. 

NO.

Flames engulf the small wooden structure, the blackened skeleton of the frame crumbling to ash. The heat is brutal. I search in panic through the haze, coughing and choking until I collapse to the ground, my hands clutching at the grass. 

***

I open my eyes. I’m sitting up against the apple tree near my favourite bench and the soft November sun brushes my forehead.

“Morning, petal” Nanna whispers, stroking my hair. 

I gasp for air instinctively and my eyes fill with tears. 

“The bodies, Nanna. The fire.”

“Shh” she smiled, touching my cheek. “All Hallows Eve is over now. For another year.”