The Gravesitter

There's a graveyard next to my house. Saint Something-Or-Others. Catholic? I dunno. I've lived next to it for a good long time, but never, y'know, gone in or anything. My friends spent plenty of time in it in our younger years. Back then this neighborhood wasn't mine but my friend Carol's, and cemeteries weren't just the rows of stone and old trees that they are. They were the Kingdom of the Dead. Kur, Irkalla, Tartarus, She'ol, the Sunless Lands, Moria. They held a magic, one I was not, under any circumstances, prepared to fuck with. No matter the bribes and dares from my circle of young hooligans. I watched Scooby-Doo, I watched Dawn of the Dead, I know what's in graveyards, you can't fool me. I saw those broken headstones over the wrought-iron, vine-covered fences. Hell now that I think about it, I don't know if anyone's even been buried there in the past hundred years. There were ghosts and ghouls and Haunted Mansion-type spooks of every size up in there. There was also... him.

​

Now, I understand how ominous and foreboding that sounds, but the reality is not nearly as creepy as it is just... strange. Less Midnight Society and more local news, but the paper no one really reads. You only know someone who knows someone who read the first few paragraphs of the story on page three, and remembers no names or dates contained therein. A weird bit of local lore, not quite interesting enough to call a cryptid. This mysterious He is someone my friends referred to in our high school years as The Revenant (courtesy of my friend Lily O'Neil. My other friends didn't read enough books to know what a revenant was). I just called him The Gravesitter. Because that's what he did: he sat by the graves.

​

Yes, “by”, not “in”, not “on”. He took his beat-up old Cubs lawn chair (it had a logo I'd seen on my dad's collectable mugs and not really anywhere else), a bottle of cheap beer, propped up under a huge oak tree in the middle of the cemetery, and plopped down into it. And he'd sit there. For hours. Sometimes I'd see him outside my kitchen window at noon, go about my day, and come back to see him still there as the sun goes down, but maybe facing a different direction. Sitting there, with his bushy, scraggly white beard somewhere between a Warlock and Santa Claus. Sometimes he had a baseball cap on, but I could never tell what was on it. Derrick (a... friend is too simple of a word for what Derrick is for us, but we'll go with Derrick for now) says the Gravesitter's beers are some variety of Miller Lite eight-tenths of the times he's seen out there. I didn't ask what the other two-tenths were and I really didn't care.

​

"I'm gonna talk to him," I declared one cloudy fall afternoon. All chatter in the room stopped. Lily was mid-sip of a pink colored drink, Carlos was getting up to use the bathroom, Derrick I think was trying to sneak up on Esmeralda, Carol was staring out the window, and blinked as she realized the low buzz of conversation stopped. Everyone looked at me. I looked back levelly, but I suddenly realized how weird my declaration was. "I- uh- well, you see, he... um... I dunno, he's, just out there... I can-" I stumbled.

​

"Dude, I've been in this town all twenty-three and a half years of my life and I ain’t seen anyone speak a word to my boy out there," Derrick finally broke the tension.

​

"Well, Yeah, but... I mean, he's just like, a guy," I responded. Nearly everyone was looking out the window now. We couldn't see him from this room, but we could see most of the rest of the cemetery. "He's not a ghost or somethin’."

​

"I think we've all gotten past the point of thinking he's a ghost, dude," Esmeralda said. "But he's still a guy who spends his days in a god damn graveyard. Mans's probably a psycho."

​

No one talked for a good couple minutes, probably imagining my gruesome murder at the hands of, what... a dude in his seventies mauling me from his Cubs camp chair? Lily broke the silence this time.

​

"No," she started, hesitantly. Or maybe she was purposely trying to build tension. "No, I think it's a good idea. I wouldn't mind hearing what he has to say."

​

"'Gimme yer head, yar!' that's what he has to say," Derrick interrupted. "Ralda's right, bro, that guy's gonna sell your kidneys!"

​

"My kidneys ain't worth a damn and you know it," I retorted. It wasn't really a valid argument, but neither was his. So the net absurdity of the world remained unchanged. At some point in the conversation, we had all moved to the kitchen, everyone crowded by the small window like a family in the 50s around their brand-spankin'-new color TV to watch our favorite show, Old... Old Geezer... in the Graveyard... I'm bad with names, ok? Anyways. The Gravesitter was at his usual spot, today gazing at the low clouds.

​

Before I knew it, my shoes and coat were on, and I was headed out the door. "Don't die!" called Derrick. I could hear his smirk. I won't, I thought to myself. At the entrance of the cemetery, I was not so confident. I stood beneath the old, rusting, black iron archway, which said nothing but "CEMETERY". On the crumbling brick pillars to either side of the entrance, two headless cherubs danced, one no more than a single leg, a torso, and an arm. Their bases were overgrown with vines and weeds. I realized that I'd never actually seen anyone mow the gravesites, but the grass always seemed the same height. Do people mow graveyards? Is that a thing? Surely it is.

​

Some of the graves seemed more mown than others, though. Some patches were clean shaven, others were borderline wilderness, with headstones peeking from the brush like a lion that had crossed paths with Medusa. And in the center of it, surrounded by much smaller (but no less older) trees, was the oak, and beneath it, its keeper. I approached slowly, my heart racing despite knowing nothing bad could happen. The Gravesitter never noticed me. When I was about six feet away, I cleared my throat.

​

He looked up, slowly, like he had been waiting for me. Like he summoned me. He had one eyebrow cocked expectantly, and a slight smile. His eyes had this deep darkness to them. Not a sinister darkness, but a darkness of... experience. Intelligence. Calm, no matter what happened around him. He wore an old brown jacket, a lopsided golf cap, a seemingly brand-new pair of jeans, and well-loved shoes. He had a bit of a hunch to his back, and one of his hands had three crooked fingers, like he'd broken them. One of his legs might have been a prosthetic.

​

I cleared my throat again. "Uh-" what the hell do I say? 'Hi, I've watched you since I was a kid, and uh, what's your deal, bro?' I put my hand out awkwardly for a handshake.

​

"Um... hi. My name is Riley. What's yours?" Smooth.

​

He regarded my hand for a moment, then looked up at me. "You gonna come closer? These old bones can't stretch that far, kid, and my hip's killin' me. Don't make me get up just t' be polite."

​

I blinked a couple times. "I'm sorry," I sputtered, and stepped closer, hand still outstretched like a doofus. When I was within arm’s reach he finally put his own out and gave me a firm shake. His hand was far stronger than I expected. "There's a good'un. Thank ya kindly. Now. You wanna know my name?" The darkness in his eyes took on a mischievous glimmer, and his smile became broad and crooked. I nodded stupidly.

​

He cackled, sitting up in his chair, hands clasped before him. "Well, you know, if you want my name... you'll have to complete my quest."

​

I blinked, stunned. When I opened my mouth to speak, no sound came out. Oh God, I thought, I've fallen into a video game. The Gravesitter's boisterous, booming laughter shook me from my thoughts. He slapped his knee, and descended into childish giggles. "I'm joshin' ye, kid, I'm joshin' ye, don't you worry yourself none. Name's Percy." He held out his hand and I took it again numbly,

not sure how to proceed.

 

"N-nice to meet you, Mister uh, Mister Percy."

 

"Likewise, likewise." He studied me up and down, and I would be lying if I said I didn't feel the urge to make for the hills. The silence dragged on, and I felt sweat bead on my arms, beneath my coat, scratchy and gross.

 

"I- um- uhhh," Jesus Christ what was I supposed to say?

 

"Take your time, we got plenty of it," Percy said, and took a sip of his beer.

 

"What's your deal?" I blurted. Then, under my breath, "shit." Percy eyed me, still with that crooked half-smile, and chuckled a little to himself.

 

"Wanna try that again?" He said, nodding to me with his beer and crossing one leg over the other. As if getting comfortable watching a performance.

 

"I'm sorry, um. I just... I've been in this neighborhood awhile, um..."

 

"As have I, as have I," Percy interrupted. "Continue."

 

"Well, not living here, but, my friends, you know, uh-"

 

"I don't, but go on."

 

"I've seen you here since I was a kid, almost every day, just sitting here. Hell, I think you've had the same Cubs chair."

 

He twisted around, looking at the old camp chair as if seeing it for the first time. "Huh, I suppose I have. Well, yes, everything you've said so far is true. I'm learning lots about my behavior, to boot. Keep going, keep going, you gonna tell me the name of my wife too? Maybe a husband, eh? Kids?

 

“I'm joshin' ye, I am enjoying our talk, please, continue, continue. You're not finished, you haven't asked your question."

 

"My- How did...?"

 

He laughed. "No, I didn't read your mind. You have the look about you of a youth rarin' for some answers. I know that look well, aye, that I do."

 

I took a couple seconds, and then continued barreling on. "Why do you just sit out here? By the same tree? Are you here every day? Why? What do you even do?" I gesticulated around to the graveyard as I raved. I had no room left for decorum, but the Gravesitter—Percy—didn't seem to mind. He nodded as I asked each question, watching me with interest in his deep-set eyes. "What kind of beer do you drink? Why the Cubs? Aren't you cold? Do you even eat? Do you have a family? Friends? Why is no one else out here with you? Why do you just sit in the middle of a graveyard?" I paused, huffing. “What’s your deal?” I nearly started laughing out of the sheer absurdity of it all, but stopped when I saw the seriousness in Percy's face. Oh my god, he was prepared to answer me seriously, like I wasn't a lunatic, like he wasn't a lunatic. He sat back, looking at the clouds, and almost seemed to forget me.

 

"I like it," he said eventually. Suddenly, but without any sense of urgency. "I like being out here. It's peaceful. It's quiet."

 

I waited for him to continue, to elaborate, but he said nothing. The wind picked up, ruffled his haphazard white beard, then died down again. A bird sang from somewhere not far off. My foot started to itch in my boot, and the space behind my knee grew clammy. Percy held my gaze levelly. Not aggressive, but certainly intense. I could have sworn that he could read my thoughts. My hair felt too prickly beneath my hat, my nose too large. Was I supposed to meet his eyes? I shifted my weight a little, thought I looked too awkward, shifted back.

 

"So... that's... that's it?"

 

Percy scratched his beard a bit, then shrugged. "Magic tree's a perk too, I suppose."

 

I laughed. Percy did not.

 

I stopped laughing.

 

"Say somethin’ funny, kid?" He asked.

 

"I- no, I'm sorry, I thought-" His laugh cut me off.

 

"I'm joshin' ya again, kid. Gee whiz, heehee. Nay, tree's not the magic thing here." He giggled a bit to himself, but did not elaborate. Then he waved his hand, as if clearing my other questions. "No, my friends all died years ago. Family too. It's just ol' Percy ol' dog now, just me 'n' my good friends of the earth, just me ‘n’ ‘em." He gestured to the headstones, raised his beer in toast, and took a swig.

 

"...are you crazy?" I asked, almost a whisper. He considered this for a while, then shrugged, giving a raspy, humorless laugh.

 

"Maybe, maybe, just a little bit. Have to be just a wee bit crazy to make it this far, eh?" he went quiet, then chuckled as if he heard a joke secret to all but himself. I didn't really know how to respond to that. But I didn't have to; Percy continued for me.

 

"Y'know, maybe spending centuries sitting in a cemetery really has taken a toll on my mind, eh? Maybe, maybe... Perhaps it's time I switch up my post. Oh, but the years here have been lovely, truly lovely." He grew silent again, watching the sun set in over the trees. "Truly, truly lovely..." The sky was painted in golds and pinks, and was, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It reminded me that I hadn't really watched the sunset for many years, and I wondered why that was.

As the sun faded behind the woods, plunging us into autumnal darkness, Percy spoke again.

 

"Y'know, in six thousand years, the sunset has never changed. But... it's never quite been the same, either; each time it's different. Different, but the same. Every time." The grass crackled in the breeze, and I put my reddened fingers in my pockets.

 

"What was it like before six thousand years ago?" I asked.

Percy took a long, long sip from his beer, then shrugged. "I dunno. I wasn't around then."

The wind picked up, and I drew my coat around myself. Percy shivered once, going “brrrr!”, got up, packed up his chair. As he passed me, he patted me on the shoulder, giving me a smile warm enough to drive the breeze away. "Have a wonderful life, Riley. It was a pleasure talking to you, a real pleasure. You deserve a truly wonderful life." Then he limped away, seeming much, much older

than he had before.

 

I stood fixed in place, probably only for a couple minutes, but it felt much longer. Watching him go. Watching the cemetery, devoid of its sitter. Not really seeing any of it. I didn't notice when I stepped back in my door. Suddenly, everyone was upon me, asking questions like I had, who was he? why was he out there? where'd he go? what kind of beer did he drink? When the energy died down at last, Esmeralda asked, "What's his deal?"

 

I looked up at her, and just shrugged. "He likes it out there. It's quiet."