I sat up from my coffin as the church bells began to ring. My tiny mausoleum remained much the same as the night before: the stone slab of my coffin sat turned at an angle, allowing me to sit up and take my evening walkabouts. Dead leaves and detritus littered the floor, mingling with mouse droppings, spiders, and the refuse of nature that wind blows into such spaces.

I climbed from the coffin as the final two bells struck midnight. The connection between the bells and my nightly animation was not lost on me. Church bells don't generally ring at all hours, true, but in the small town of Shermansville, they always had. I had the hour. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but there was an intimacy to the knowledge that I had exactly one hour to be up and about, and if I wasn’t returned to my coffin by the end of the hour, neither church bells nor holy priests could raise me again. I enjoyed my nightly wanderings and always made sure to be back by the unspoken deadline. I didn’t know why I was given this gift, and I didn’t need to know.

Movement caught my eye. A runner shuffled outside, too far away to see me watching through the cracked window. They passed under a streetlight, and it was revealed to be Layla. I didn't know her real name, but as she went for a run most nights, I had taken to calling her Layla. It was more respectful to call her by a name, instead of just calling her jogger.

I watched her practiced gait continue on. Good for her, I thought. She would make two more circuits of the cemetery before heading home for the night. She always did. I wondered why she ran at midnight. Perhaps it was her job, or maybe she didn’t sleep well, or maybe she just didn’t like running during the day? Whatever the reason, she was just one of my nightly companions.

I walked a slow circuit of my tiny mausoleum to shake loose the worms that had nested. The worms had done their work during the day, tendons and ligaments held my bones together, but most of my musculature was eaten away. My squishy bits, if you will, had dried up long ago, but I still had my bones, I could always trust those.

One of my other companions, my favorite if we’re being honest with one another, would arrive shortly. The musician came almost every night, and I needed to be in place before then. Her music would fill the night in a fantastic and wonderful way. To try and satiate my hunger for her music within my tiny crypt was an empty meal. I shuffled to the wooden doors and worked my skeletal fingers on the old iron handles. The door gave a lecherous squeal, overdramatic as usual, and finally gave way when I threw a shoulder into it.

The midnight air greeted me with the fragrance of the linden trees curated and spaced carefully among the grounds. Moonlight caressed my path to the ornate gravestone where the musician, Brigid, played each night. I danced between shadows, careful to keep myself hidden. I was fairly practiced at staying hidden. Only the watchful owl caught my decaying visage. He hooted out a warning, or maybe a greeting. I motioned towards the field behind the cemetery where the mice lived. He was content to remain, probably waiting for the nightly music as well. I nestled behind a large tree, hiding in the hollow and eager for my most treasured visitor.

She arrived shortly after, her small mandolin case in hand and knapsack of candles in the other. Though strangers we were, and strangers we must remain, we kept one another company, Brigid and me. We were friends, if only from a great shadowed distance, and perhaps that friendship was one-sided.

“Hello Tomlin,” she said, lighting the candles as if part of a ceremony. She spoke to the headstone, but I always liked to pretend she was speaking to me.

“Hello, friend,” I mouthed back silently, unable to form words or sounds myself.

She laid out a small blanket and took out the mandolin. She plucked the strings with care and precision, the melody rang out, not as deep as a guitar could have achieved, but there was a lithe laughter in her music. The symphony washed away from us, bathing the cemetery in a sonorous greeting. I felt myself sway back and forth as the music took me, reaching into my chest and giving the semblance of a beating heart once again. She often started this way, a fast-paced song to wake the dead. It was something that always pulled a smile from my already smiling features, and I always fought the impulse to stand up and dance a merry jig.

I recognized the song from another time, perhaps when I was still alive. I found myself silently mouthing the words to the music as my head swayed. Some nights, my lovely Brigid would sing. Tonight she didn’t, and I found myself missing her silken voice, rich with life and bringing another flavor to the song. She finished the song with a blaze of her fingers along the strings, a wide smile that might have been a little sad set her features.

“What next?” she asked the headstone.

“Oh please, The Rain! I want to hear the rain song!” My silent pleadings were somehow heard as her fingers flowed like water across the strings. Each note sounded like a different raindrop, and if I had eyes to cry, tears would have fallen freely in recognition of her loss. There was no swaying in this song. The emotions that she woke within me, I could not dance to those. They were of lost relationships, time wasted, and it was full of what might have been. I held tight to the bark of the tree, emotion overwhelming me. I felt it so keenly through her music, for a moment I was alive again. I love this song. I loved it more than any of the others.

I wondered if there were people who missed me as she missed her Tomlin. If there were, I did not remember them, just as I didn’t remember much of my life when alive. I felt guilty about that, like I was betraying them by not lamenting each evening on the lost time. I suppose if they came to visit at the hours after midnight, I could know them, even if only from a distance. The rain song often woke a terse melancholy in me, but I was happy to feel it, even if it was painful.

As the song finished, I saw movement behind Brigid. Someone stalked up behind her, crouched low in a predatory way and wearing all black. They reminded me of a cat ready to pounce. My friend was in trouble. I turned, looking for the jogger, Layla, but she was somewhere else on the circuit. I did not see her. I screamed but without breath, no sound came free. I tried again, pounding my skeletal fist against the tree in desperation. No one heard me. No one came to my friend’s aid. The stranger was close now, nearly behind Brigid. I stumbled forward to warn her, suddenly uncaring if I was seen.

The mandolin fell from her hands as terrified eyes met my features along the candlelight. I should have realized how my appearance would frighten Brigid. I should have found another way to warn her. I should have been faster to act.

I was too late, and worse, I distracted my friend. The stranger took hold of her neck and pulled her backward. The candles fell away from her kicking legs, the flames guttered out and the headstone was once again bathed in darkness, hiding them from the world and concealing whatever awful crime was about to transpire.

I put my desiccated remains into motion and ran towards them. I honestly couldn’t say when was the last time I ran, but I think it may have been when I was still alive. My knees cracked and snapped and jumped in their decaying hinge joints. Ligaments and tendons held fast and I did not slow.

I made two long loping bounds before it happened. My bones, my traitorous bones, betrayed me in my time of need. My hip snapped, sending my legs tumbling away from the rest of my body. There was no pain, thankfully, but I was no longer running to save my friend. I fell heavily to the ground; the sound was overshadowed by Brigid’s fighting and muffled screams. I dragged myself forward, intent on saving my friend. Skeletal fingers clawed at the overgrown grass, and I fought with everything I had to pull myself forward. Again, I turned and yelled for Layla, but of course, no sound escaped. Brigid continued to struggle with the assailant. I was nearly there.

My hand brushed against his foot just as he gained control of Brigid. He bashed her head against a stone placard set in the earth, and she went still. I reached for his foot, but he was already standing, pulling Brigid up and throwing her over his shoulder, his prize won. I cast around for anything I could use to stop him, anything that might save Brigid.

The mandolin lay nearby, discarded in the sudden attack. I took hold of the slender neck, lifted myself up with the other hand, and threw the mandolin with every bit of strength I could muster. Thankfully, the instrument was light. It sailed awkwardly through the air and caught Brigid’s attacker just behind the leg.

He turned in surprise and I crawled forward, snarling my rage that he tried to take my music and, more importantly, my friend. With eyes wide in fear, he let out a cry of disbelief and dropped Brigid heavily to the ground. He took another step back, stumbling into a headstone. He tripped and fell to the ground. This was my chance.

I crawled forward with renewed alacrity; I wouldn’t let him escape. I took hold of his dark jacket, my fingers slipped away, but I continued with a frenzied clawing grasp. My strength was little more than the wind behind a falling leaf, and my fingers slipped from the jacket again and again. He pushed me back with hands that shook in fear and desperation.

My teeth chattered in annoyance and frenzied rage. I could not belt out my anger in a proper scream, so I clicked my teeth in a biting fashion. I clawed at the man’s head and neck with sharp bone fingers, determined to hurt him. I swiped at his eyes and throat. He continued to fight me, scrambling backwards.

He freed himself from my grasp, crawling backwards and kicking out his feet as he did so. He hadn’t escaped though. I continued to pull his kicking legs towards me, stopping him from climbing to his feet and running. He pulled a knife and slashed at my face and hands. I felt nothing as the blade connected, biting into my bones and cutting free the tendons and ligaments that helped me to maintain my assault.

I pulled myself on top of him, my hands went for his neck. He stabbed my chest, breaking two of my ribs in the process. My silent, cackling laughter must have been a sight worthy of stories. He fought like a trapped animal, arms flailing and reaching for anything that might allow him to escape. My fingers weren’t strong, but I was determined. I held fast to his neck, bone fingers digging into his flesh and bearing down with all the weight I had. We continued to struggle. He grunted in a tired effort, he was wearing down. I could keep this up all night.

The church bells started to ring. The first bell gave out a resonating clang, signaling the end of my hour.

I didn’t have all night. I had less than a minute to return to my coffin, otherwise this would be my end. But if he escaped, he might attack Brigid or someone like her. And next time, there might not be a graveyard savior to stop him.

The chimes continued, and I felt they sang out for the end of my second life. I could only hope they also sounded the end of his. What little strength I had started to fade. He pushed me aside, gasping for air as my hands fell limp and unmoving. The final chimes began. He was going to escape. I failed my friend, Brigid. I couldn’t save her, and I was not back in my coffin. I would never again hear the beautiful music that had called me from my slumber each night.

The stranger looked down on me in disbelief and horror, but there was something else behind his eyes, something that said my assault had not been enough to deter him from such things in the future. He was still a predator. Brigid wasn’t safe. Others weren’t safe. I failed them all.

The rictus sound of wood cracking against bone rippled through the graveyard as Layla, the jogger, swung the mandolin like a baseball bat against the man’s head. It shattered with the most beautiful twang of strings. He fell heavily to the ground. If I still had lips, I would have smiled wide. Brigid said something from very far away. My vision darkened, and I slipped into a final death as the church bells went quiet. I would miss my friend and the lovely music she played. I would not rise again.

~