The One Who Lingers in the Mausoleum

George Vaughn: March 12th, 1986 - December 29th, 1992. He was only six… Wilted daisies, three of them, were scattered over his grave. It had been about three decades and his loved ones, most likely his parents, took the time to visit him. It warmed my heart to witness moments like this. I kneel in front of the grave, my hand hovered over the flowers. I whispered, “George, are you here?” No response. 

He passed on. It made sense. There weren’t many reasons for a child’s soul to fight to stay on Earth. The experience would be lonely and horrifying. No matter how loud and long you cry, your mother won't hear you. I shook my head to dismiss the depressing thought and gathered the flowers from the grave. I threw them in the garbage bag. Next, I removed all the dirt and debris from the gravestone. The rising sun hit the renewed tablet ever so perfectly. 

 The goal was to make the grave suitable for his next visit. It may be from a loved one, an enemy, or a complete stranger who was curious about the stories of the dead. I shifted my attention to the next grave. 

Boris Ridge: February 3rd, 1898 - July 16th, 1923. He leaned on his tombstone, handsome as ever. I won’t confess to him that I am quite impressed with a style like his: a white button-down, well-tailored sand dress vest with matching slacks, a red striped tie, and a classic newsboy hat to tie the whole outfit together. Like any other old man, his pride and ego were larger than the sun, so it was best for me to not boost him up much. I wouldn’t hear the end of it. 

“Hey, Kitten,” Boris said. 

“What do you need,” I asked. 

“I can’t just say hi?”

“I’m sorry. Hello, Boris.”

“Well, since you asked, I do need something.”

As expected. “Okay, what is it?”

“One of the attendants took it upon themselves to snatch Diane’s necklace. Bloody thief.”

“Which attendant?”

“I didn’t catch who it was, per se.”

“So this is all a conspiracy?”

“More like deduction based on logic.”

“Maybe it’s been placed with all the gifts left for the dead. We have a box full of treasures. Too disrespectful to just trash and we must keep the grounds clean. The best alternative.”

“A half-witted one. The necklace should not be befouled by gravediggers. Go fetch it for me. Diane may visit me at any moment.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Diane would never come. It wouldn’t do any good. I didn’t want to break the news that he will never fulfill his aspiration, therefore would never pass on to the afterlife. 

The cemetery was cold for most; surrounded by corpses as they rotted under their feet. Bodies became only empty cartridges of the person they once were. Tragedy and despair lingered from each funeral, every remembered anniversary. Many couldn’t handle being in the presence of death because of the constant reminder of their mortality. On the opposite side of the spectrum, the spirits would often linger here. Waiting to be relieved from this state between life and death. Would someone solve their murders? Or would they learn if they were forgiven for the sins within their lives?

These treasures were hidden in the mausoleum in the center of the grounds.  It was open to the public; no one dared to go into one during visiting hours due to the eerie atmosphere that slapped you immediately upon entering the mausoleum. The beautifully created casket stood in the center of the room and seats were placed on the perimeter of the tomb. I walked a few paces and placed pressure on a special brick, opening the stone bench. 

The lore behind this structure was that it was built for a wealthy trickster who desired to have his secrets next to him. Only a handful of trusted gravediggers are aware of this special installment. But when I first was trusted with this secret, the benches were completely hollow. Therefore, now if anything was placed in his tomb, it was said that he’d awake from his slumber to disturb the perpetrator. 

The owner of these grounds, Mr. Roh, was known to make up stories to fearmonger his employees into staying in place. But the majority of the time, he was plain cuckoo. I mean, he trusted this trickster spirit to protect these treatures more than his employees. Also, he told me about a new conspiracy almost daily. For example, he said once that “The ghosts are stealing my keys to go into forbidden locations on the grounds! I always find my keys next to someone’s grave at the end of my shift.” Why do spirits need keys? They can just float through walls. In actuality, the latch on his key ring was broken, and he loved placing his keys on his belt loops. Countless times I’d seen him drop his keys. 

Inside this bench was the box overflowing with the said personal treasures. This included unopened letters, jewelry, toys, and other objects with sentimental value. Boris’ necklace laid on the very top. I sighed at the simple task. Something glowed. It glowed a dark red color from the bottom of the box. The color told onlookers to turn away from it, but curiosity possessed my body into discovering this mystical occurrence. It was a book. 

The book was encrusted in red gems. No, it was red diamonds. The book was heavy and the spine was thick. I traced the ends of the book as I debated whether to open it. I had to know. I opened to a random page. The page was titled “Entry 349,232,731.” A journal? I brushed off the abnormally large entry number as not the actual number, but some type of code that was special to the writer.  Why was the date scratched out?

You were such a waste, Wendy Bishop. As I watched the blood drain from your body, and your soul escape from through your eyes. You would have lived a long life. With your husband, that loved you so dearly. He gave you the World, yet you still desired the entire universe. If greed didn’t consume your heart, I’d like to believe that you would have discovered the joy right in front of you. Emotional impulse is something I will never experience, although…

I stared in horror. Was this a serial killer’s diary? A rush of wind collided with the back of my neck. It must be a spirit. His voice was extremely deep and slightly raspy. “If you love life, I recommend you don’t read anymore.” A meaningless threat from a being that no longer had a physical vessel to execute this. 

“This must be your tomb,” I said as I flipped to see the spirit. An anomalously tall man with all dark clothing stood before me. Maybe due to the mausoleum being somewhat dark, his face looked as if it was blurred. I couldn’t make out a proper facial feature. 

“Possession is an occurrence of the living. I don’t own this tomb,” the Spirit responded.

Only a trickster in the legend would speak in a slick tongue. Maybe Mr. Roh was correct about this mausoleum, surprisingly. 

“What an interesting declaration for a spirit that’s showing signs of being possessive.” 

“My words are a warning, not out of mere cupidity. The content and knowledge may vanquish your conception of reality.” 

“Enough!” I snapped. “This diary speaks of murder, possibly from someone who’s still alive. And a greedy trickster of the likes of you isn’t going to prevent me from figuring this out.”

He whispered “Trickster” to himself. Slightly offended by the sound of it. 

I ran out of the mausoleum. The sun blinded me as I entered its beam. It took me a few seconds to adjust to the new condition of my environment. And I was immediately greeted by Mr. Roh. his smile was slightly disturbing from how big and wide it was. He scanned my person and noticed that I held onto this mystic book and necklace. “Whatcha Got there, Anais?” 

“Boris requested me to return his necklace to his grave.” Mr. Cuckoo was the only person in my life to trust my ability. Wasn’t that surprising? 

Mr. Roh's eyes narrowed. “What about that journal?” 

“How did you know that it’s a journal?” this book looked like some type of spell book more than anything. 

“Lucky guess. So?” 

Something in my heart was telling me to stay quiet. Exposing this information to Mr. Roh could place him in danger, or myself in danger. 

“This is my book.” If this was Mr. Roh’s book, he would never confess that to me. Same if it wasn’t his. Either way, he had to allow me to take it with me. “I have to go, Mr. Roh.” Before the man could muster up a response, I zoomed passed him. 

The Officer flipped through each page. I was preserved with curiosity for his reaction. I grew impatient as the wall clock loudly ticked over his head. The station was less chaotic than expected; more quiet compared to the movies.  The Officer huffed and slammed the book shut onto the reception dress, which made me slightly jump.

“Miss Johnson, you said you work at a cemetery? There are many studies on how the profession of gravedigging is not only a physically demanding job but also psychologically damaging,” said the Officer. 

“Excuse me? What does this have to do with this diary?” 

“You must be aware that this book is completely empty”

I seized the diary from under him and carefully inspected each page. It was filled to the brim with stories of these deaths of the innocent. I shoved the book in his face. “Can you not see this?”

“There’s nothing to see.”

I leaned on the counter. I zoned out from the Officer’s rambles as I reflected on this discovery. Another thing I could perceive where others couldn't. This was a confirmation. These entries were from the dead. 

But how was that remotely possible? Spirits often struggled to manipulate objects like a pen, meaning that it would be near impossible to write so often and as neatly as the writer did. And that wouldn’t explain the fact only the spiritually gifted would be the only ones able to perceive the diary. I attempted to flip to the last page. Yet, it was impossible to. There was always a next page. 

I grew into thinking that I’d encountered and endured every supernatural occurrence that possibly could happen until this moment. Maybe the writer was a demon? No, I doubt an evil, murderous demon would feel ‘pity’ for their victims. And if it was an ordinary ghost, why were there no entries about themselves and their past life? They only wrote about death… Death! 

I cut the Officer’s garrulous discussion on my mental well-being. “I apologize for this episode, Officer. I’ll take my leave.”

“Oh uh, yes. Please try to avoid wasting the police’s time, next time.”

“Ok, sir.” I felt as if he wasted mine. 

It was dusk when I stood before the door of the mausoleum’s door. I allowed myself to breathe for one last time. I was not sure if l loved living, or my life. Nonetheless, I was not ecstatic about the chance of losing it for taking this diary. I creaked open the door. The faceless spirit was still there. 

“Trickster?” He repeated. 

“I mistook you for another spirit. I’m sorry, the Angel of Death.” 

“I’m compelled to confess. The mere implication of being some sort of ‘trickster’ insulted me. I do not cheat you from your life, death is a promise you receive the moment you take your first breath. And it’s not my responsibility to make anyone accept that truth.

This was surreal. The Grim Reaper towers over me as my heart beats and blood continued to flow through my body. I chuckled at the idea. More out of relief, honestly. 

“Amusement is never an emotion I’ve received from the sight of me?”

“You showed yourself to me. As Death himself. And I am still alive. Isn’t that slightly humorous?”

“I find it difficult to see our situation in such a way. Don’t fret, you have something that I desire that isn’t your soul.” 

“And what would that be?”

“Compassion for the lost souls. For both the living and the dead.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I will never understand humans. From their choices, to how they truly feel. Objectivity is valued with this power I hold. If I discern the world like a human, it’s a possibility that I’ll disrupt the balance of the universe by not taking someone’s soul from their flesh. However, empathy as strong as yours is a useful skill.”

I unintentionally leered at the Angel of Death. “I’m not as magnificent or special as you described, sir.”

“You dedicated your entire life to the lost souls. Even obtaining a job to befriend and alleviate the utter pain they experience. Anais, the moment you took this book, you assigned a target to your head. Risk dying to protect complete strangers. An act of nobility.”

The Angel of Death sticks out his hand. “Join me,” he said. “I cannot collect a soul with unfinished business. But with you, we can save these wandering spirits.” 

My hand slowly lifted my hand and clutched onto his.