Alone in the Cemetery (Fiction, Horror)

     There are few places which could comfort me as well as a cemetery. It's a haven for trees and grass, like a park for adults. Its much quieter, and has fewer people than a library, unless you count the cemetery's permanent residents. And if someone I know, anyone I know, would get busy dying, I'd have a reason for visiting.

     Not that anybody asks. People don't ask why you're in a cemetery; it is the ultimate sacred spot of privacy, however many people happen to be there. This sacredness extends even to when you need to cry or even scream a little, as long as you are facing a tombstone.

     I used to go the cemetery with a notebook to do homework. Just a notebook, though. People started looking at me funny when I bought textbooks and set them up on the grass. That wouldn't bother me, but then they started asking me what I'm doing and I have to make up a stupid excuse, such as getting help from my dead father. I don't think I'm very good at lying. I always go red in the face.

     Now that I work a night shift, I only come here in the dark. I thought it would be strange the first time, but it brought peace and comfort. Anybody here who would have listened can now listen more perfectly; anybody that would have judged me no longer will. I can see a few stars when the night gets deep, though only a few. I no longer see the vastness I saw when I was very young, and went camping with my dad.

     I hate camping. It has none of the charms of a modern life. I get the trees and nature, and yada yada. Just give me nature closer to home. Give me a roof and central heating.

     “Deep in your thoughts?” Somebody asked. I looked up but couldn't see anybody around. The only thing I could see was the faint wisp of my own breath in the air.

     “Yeah, I guess so,” I responded, “Where are you?”

     There was a moment of awkward silence.

     “The other side of the door.”

     Door? The closest door was the maintenance building, across the graveyard..

     “Is 'door' your pet tree, then?”

     He – she? – giggled. I pulled my coat tighter to my body.

     “Silly boy. How can trees be pets?”

     “Where are you? I don't talk to voices without a body.”

     I jumped at the ice that touched my arm. The night air was beginning to curl around me, as though the unseen body of the voice were breathing on me. I backed away from the mist. It followed me slowly. I turned and began to walk more quickly.

     “Cough twice if you need the police,” I said over my shoulder, “Otherwise, I'm flat-out leaving.”

     Only the giggling. When I glanced over my shoulder, the mist followed me, though it never caught up.

     I don't go back to the cemetery anymore.