A Grim's Tail

Night settles like a woolen blanket over the churchyard cemetery, thick with dew and silence. I lie curled beneath the yew tree, my black fur indistinguishable from the shadows that surround. Ivy climbs the side of the chapel in a lattice of vines and leaves. The wind rustles leaves on the ground nearby and the iron gate creaks faintly, as if sighing in its sleep.

This is my pasture.

My flock rests beneath the soil, quiet and still. At peace. Each soul a sheep entrusted to my care. I know them all. I know the weight of their sorrow, heavy, like a fleece too long unshorn. They do not speak, but I hear them.

I am the church grim.

I am the watcher in the darkness. The guardian of the helpless lost souls, no longer of this world. The legend that some call a nightmare from hell. I was born of sorrow and mourning when the first grave was dug and the first prayer whispered. An answer to the hope that no one would disturb those who seek eternal rest. A protector to those who have lived their lives and earned their peace. I do not age. I do not sleep. I keep watch. I tip my nose up to the breeze, the static scent of a storm stirring in the air fills my nostrils.

Tonight, the flock is restless.

A new lamb arrived just yesterday. A man with a heavy heart and heavier debts. His resting place is still fresh, the soil soft, the scent of mourning lingering in the crisp night air. The others murmur around him, welcoming yet wary. I lay my head on my paws and listen.

Then I hear it.

The leaves begin to crunch, rather than rattle. Footsteps. Not the shepherd. His footfalls are sure and steady. Reverent. These are sharp and furtive with disrespect and ill-intent. They send an unease through my herd like an unwelcome and threatening pack of wolves.

I rise.

Three men slink through the gate into the sheepfold, their lantern hooded, their voices low and bitter. They smell of sweat and greed. One carries a shovel. Another carries an iron bar with a crook at the end. The third reeks of fear and superstition. As they draw closer, their voices slice through the hush like daggers with dull edges.

“He owed us,” the shovel-bearer growls. “Dead or not, we’re getting what’s ours.”

They approach the new grave. My lips curl back in a silent snarl. They do not see me. Yet. That is my gift. I will not be seen until I wish to be. I am the shadow that watches. The silence in the night that waits. But when the flock is threatened, I become something else. I become the wrathful spirit of vengeance.

They begin to dig.

The ground groans beneath their intrusion. The dead stir uneasily. I feel their distress ripple through the soil like a shiver. The metallic sound of the shovel grates through me as if it is gouging into my own flesh, rather than the soil. The new one is afraid. He thought in death he would find his escape. His peace.

I step forward.

The lantern flickers. The fearful one gasps. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” snaps the one with the iron bar.

“A dog. I think. Big. Black.”

“There’s no dog,” the shoveler mutters as he upends another turn of earth. “Just help me dig.”

I let them see me.

I step from the shadows, my eyes glowing like twin blood moons. My fur bristles, my teeth gleam. I do not bark. I do not growl. I need only exist.

The fearful one stumbles back. “It’s, it’s, the grim. The church grim.”

“Nonsense,” the man with the iron bar scoffs. “Old wives tales. Pull yourself together, man.”

I take another step.

The wind moans through the trees. The chapel bell rings of its own accord. The ivy writhes like serpents, hissing in the breeze. I let loose a growling snarl that vibrates throughout my entire body. I bare my teeth in an angry grimace. The others see me now. They are frozen in terror, I can taste the tang of fear as it wafts off of them. I take another step.

The shovel-bearer swings his tool toward me. “Back, mutt!”

I vanish.

Not away, but around. Behind. Beside. I am everywhere and nowhere. I am the whisper in the grass and the chill up their spines. They whirl around wildly, trying to catch a glimpse of me in the shadows. Every slight movement in the wind spooks the further.

I reappear beside the grave.

My paws press into the fresh dirt. The earth trembles. The lantern gutters out completely. The shovel falls to the ground.

“Run,” the fearful one whispers, unable to tear his eyes away from my visage. They do not run. I throw back my head and a mournful howl ripping from my throat, a death knell warning to those who would desecrate this sacred pasture and harm my precious flock. It is not a sound for mortal ears. It is a sound meant for the dead. A cry for justice.

At last, they find control of their legs, and they flee.

The shovel-bearer trips over the head of his own forgotten implement and hits his head on a headstone. He crumples to the ground in a lifeless heap. The iron bar carrier runs, still carrying his tool. The metal in his hands flails about with each of his hurried strides. A sizzling streak of lightning cracks through the air, striking the metal rod and the man holding it. A smoking heap of charred flesh is all that remains. The fearful one gets further, but just before the gate, he stops. He clutches at his chest, crying out in anguish. He slowly sinks to the ground. I listen to his heart beating wildly. Faster and faster until it stops completely, as does his breathing.

The grave is safe. The flock settles. The new one sighs beneath the soil, grateful. I nudge the disturbed earth back into place with my snout, gentle as an ewe tending her newborn lamb. Then I find an unoccupied space and begin to dig.

The stars fade and dawn creeps over the horizon, painting the sky in warm hues of gold and rose. The mist recedes as the chapel glows softly in the morning light.

Then I hear him.

The shepherd.

His boots crunch along the path, his footsteps familiar and reassuring. His coat flaps in the breeze, waving a greeting to the dead as he passes each grave. He tips his hat to a long-departed friend. Some call him “death” others call him “the grim reaper”, to me he is just “master”. His shepherd’s crook rests jauntily over his shoulder. Used for harvesting and tending souls, its curved blade glints in the light of the freshly risen sun. He finds me laying under the yew tree. I wag my tail in greeting as he scans the cemetery, a shepherd checking on the well-being of his herd. Spying the three newest graves, he gives me a knowing look.

“I see you brought three more lost souls into the fold, old friend. I trust they didn’t give you too much trouble?”

I bark in answer. He chuckles and pats me on the head.