Smoke rings flowed over an emptied bottle of whiskey. His voice followed after like a ragged hound.

“It smelled of rotten fruit and broken October soil, Benjel. Something is stirring inside those walls,” Walter said. Eyes fixed on the end of his pipe.

“The cemetery walls? Those walls are for the superstitious and vain. Nothing beyond rotted wood and faded bones is left in there,” Benjel said. His callused hands tapped the ashes from a cigarette.

“Something followed me through the paths yesterday. It’s stink clung to my nose— don’t look at me like that, I know what I said.”

The house settled around them— letting Walter’s words sink into the creaky joists.

Walter looked out the third story window to peer over the St. Johnstone cemetery walls. Old oaks and shrubs dotted the landscape as headstones of marble, granite, obsidian, and stone interspersed the space between them.

Since the early pioneer days, the St. Johnstone cemetery proved a popular resting place. Only current city expansion pinned the grounds in. Leading to grave re-origination. In a controversial move— the old pioneer graces without headstones were exhumed & transferred to a mass grave in the south side— the area parallel to the caretaker house both McClaren boy’s lived in.

Benjel had authorized the move on renewed insistence from their accountant. But last night brought the first kernel of doubt— the first of many that would bloom under the flames of fear.

St. Louis had a reputation for ill-gained land, dubious deaths, backroom thuggery, & poisoned moonshine. None of that spelled half as much trouble as the McClaren’s graveyard Feng Shui exercises.

“Lock the grounds tonight after your shift and salt the exits. I think we’re on the verge of calling Father Kellan.

“Salt the exits? Walter, I think you’re going over a line here. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is how witches inhabit the Aaron’s house and frolic in the moonlight.”

“Damn it, Benjel. Just salt the exits— this queer happening falls on you. Shouldn’t have dug up those old graves.”

“Come on, you know we needed the space. Can’t bury in a filled plot, now can we?”

Walter got up with a grumble and left the room, leaving Benjel to stare at the new family venture— their dead fortune.

The caretaker house creaked as the old wood adjusted to the moisture of the fog rolling in. It blanketed the graves and took away any point of staring while there were still chores to do.

***

The heavy blanket of fog turned the grounds into a silent crypt. Benjel hated walking the night patrol. Too easy to break an ankle out in the mists. A squirrel hole here or unseen headstone there, it was a minefield you didn’t want to fall in.

It fell on his shoulders to do it— Walter agreed to the deal, so Benjel stomped the grounds. Brothers can be such crafty bastards.

Benjel kept a tight circuit through the cemetery— unconsciously avoiding the area that spooked Walter earlier.

No one needs a yellow stripe when walking along the dead— you remain above it, he thought.

The soil broke fifty yards behind Benjel. The mist smothered the noise, but not the smell. He broke into a trot back to the house, cursing himself for not having a dog.

Walter watched him as he burst inside the house.

“What happened?”

“Didn’t see anything out there, but I smelled it, though. Damned if you weren’t right about the fruit.”

“Looks like we woke something up.”

“We need a dog, Walter, that’s what we need.”

“We needed to not move those graves, but we’re past that now.”

“I’m not going to say sorry. Who the hell is supposed to know something hinky would happen?”

“Perhaps some wise woman or priest, but we don’t know what’s happening— outside of it being off.”

“Yeah, well, I need some whiskey and a nap right now. We’ll call Father Kellan tomorrow.”

“In the meantime, keep a Bible handy.”

“Why?”

“Can’t hurt,” Walter said as he retreated to his study. Benjel stared out at the pale view and shivered.

“Shouldn’t have moved those bodies.”