I had started working at the cemetery on the weekends as a way to honestly just get out of the house. The pay wasn’t great, but well the job was perfect, so it was worth it. I was only fifteen so I didn’t have to see or deal with any of the death or anything like that. While I was never inherently uncomfortable around death, I wasn’t particularly thrilled with it either.

So… about my work, which was simple enough. The way that the cemetery operated was we didn’t care much for the disposable plants and flowers that most cemeteries used. You know, the ones that would whither away and die that same day.

Instead, you were asked to simply leave a potted plant or flowers, anything you wished to have planted at all, on a simple wooden platform on the outside of the cemetery grounds on Friday.

That’s where I came in.

There was a small bunkhouse located on the cemetery grounds near the back gate. It was a comfortable little shack that was incredibly old. From the outside it wasn’t much to look at, but after you walked inside… OK, well it wasn’t very impressive from the inside either, but it was a place to sleep.

So, that was the highlight of my life. My parents would drop me off on Friday. Then on Saturday throughout the day, I would gather up all the plants before putting them into a small blue wagon that the cemetery provided. I was then allowed to plant them anywhere that I thought they would look good.

It was a unique and entertaining job, not to mention I had always had a natural affinity for plants. They were quiet and relaxing, they never seemed to have too much of a problem with me. The same can’t be said for my relationship with people.

I was never great at socializing or making friends or even keeping them. It’s not that I was a bad friend. I was just well…forgettable.

I would smile and be talked to, a room would never change for the worse because I was there, but I didn’t make it much better either. It always felt a bit like being invisible.

This job was how I expressed myself, I loved it. I would get to plant each plant carefully and tend to it. I was allowed to pick the spots of everyone. Now and again a person would leave a note and ask me to plant it by a certain loved one.

Sometimes it was some basil, or perhaps a person’s favorite flower. We even got the occasional fruit tree, it made for a very distinct landscape.

I always kept the notes. I often thought about burying them with the plant, but I found that I liked going back and reading them, so I kept them in a wooden box in the bunkhouse.

It was my way of saving the simple requests of recovering people, people who only wished to remember a loss in their lives. They had gone out in their day, then they picked out a special plant that meant something to them, then left it for me to plant in honor of a loss in their lives.

It made me feel like I made a difference, in a small and distinct way. I felt like I made the world just a little bit better, for at least a moment in time. These plants stayed and thrived in this environment, I like to think that it had a little bit to do with the care that I put into my work. Even though it was only for one day a week.

Friday was always the longest day of my week, because of how excited I would get that it was finally the end of that part of my schedule. It meant I could get my hands dirty soon.

I had gone to school, come home, had some dinner, and then sat in my room counting the minutes til Dad would call up the stairs.

It wasn’t long before he shouted my name. I grabbed my overnight bag, before rushing down the stairs and then out to the car.

We arrived at the cemetery about fifteen minutes later. I stood on the curb waving goodbye to him for a moment, before turning to stare at this week’s plant haul.

It was a good week, at least that’s what I called it when I received a lot of plants. I hoped that the people who left them weren’t too sad, I imagined that perhaps they smiled when they picked out the plants for their lost ones.

I decided that I should get a bit of a head start, at least gather up the tools for tomorrow. It would make my job a little bit easier. It was always easier to get started when everything was in one spot.

The tools were always locked away in a small shed around the back of the bunkhouse, it was secured with a combination lock. I entered the required digits before turning on the light overhead. Let’s see, I needed the wagon out. Oh, the shovel, of course, I would need that.

Let’s see-

A sudden noise pierced the night and echoed throughout the shed, a sound that I was not familiar with.

It sounded like… I don’t know what it sounded like, almost like nails on a chalkboard, except quieter. I felt a shiver run up my spine, and my heart began to race. The sound wasn’t natural, it wasn’t steady. It was sporadic and distinctly… Wrong.

Sometimes, when you hear some kind of odd sound you think to yourself “Oh it was probably the wind, or maybe I just imagined it.” both of which always seemed like a good way to get murdered in my humble opinion.

You couldn’t do that when the sound was constant though. It was persistent and it did not let up, I felt myself getting more scared as it seemed to grow louder.

Scratching.

Like nails on wood.

I walked out of the shed… the noise growing louder as I walked into the bright moonlit night that had seemingly come from nowhere. I had never once been scared here nor had any reason to be.

The dead were simply gone and that was that. They were all just…decomposing flesh in the ground. That was it, nothing at all to be scared of. The dead didn’t come back to life.
That wasn’t a thing that happened.

Then why was the sound getting louder? Scratching hard. Violently. Desperate to get out.

My God….

My heart pulsed in my chest telling me to run. But whatever was out there… It called out to me. It was eager and desperate to escape. It was like whatever was trapped under there was scratching my name into the wood like it wanted me specifically.

I should have run. I should have got out of there. I knew what that something was. I had waited my whole life, prepared for this in my mind my whole life.

It was the zombie apocalypse.

It was finally starting… Right here. I was going to be the first victim. The first to fall to the undead as they tore their way through this town and then the next. They would slowly turn this world into their playground of horror.

I finally followed the sound to its source, it was a small grave with a headstone that read “Dustin Milliferd.”

The sound was getting louder now, more violent. It was a racket and a half that was impossible to ignore. I held onto the shovel, unable to run. I just couldn’t process what was happening and it was only about to get worse.

I heard a terrible crash, like the sound of a doorway splintering, that must have meant it was wood. It had made it through the coffin. This was happening. I could hear it burrowing up through the dirt. It was getting closer and closer every second. Oh my God. It was right underneath the surface. Any second now…

Then it happened. I had heard every second of it, but my mind wasn’t ready. I couldn’t fathom the reality as soon as it began to exist.

A decomposed hand shot up through the ground. Grey discolored flesh reached out from what looked like the depths of hell, then suddenly there was another, two hands twisting and turning their way through the dirt. Fingers pulled away at the loose soil as they began to re-enter the world of the living.

I stood there shaking. I wanted to run, I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. My mind was not prepared for this. I had never known true fear like this before, I felt myself unable to process it. I knew it was going to get worse.

Then without warning a head shot up from the ground. At that very moment, the adrenaline just clicked. I immediately knew what I had to do. The entire world was in danger and I was here. The only one here right now actually. I was the only one who could stop this… the actual fate of humanity depended on me.

I felt my newfound bravery along with adrenaline coursing throughout my veins, it gave me the courage to do what I had to do.

I grabbed the shovel with unbelievably sweaty palms, I ran up to the decomposing head and swung the shovel with all my might. The flat metal connected with the horrid creature’s flesh-

“OWWW! What in the hell are you doing? Why did you do that!” exclaimed a very annoyed voice.

I stopped and held the shovel confused. Did that thing just speak? But I don’t understand. Zombies don’t speak. They can’t. They only want brains. That’s the only thing that they want.

I watched as the flesh beast finished crawling its way through the dirt, pulling itself from its hole. It stood up on its legs, just like people do, and began to shake the dirt from its jacket. He shook his head from left to right, sending dirt flying.

Then he turned to me and spoke, quite agitated I should add.

“What did you go and do that for?” he asked.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what was happening. I had manners, of course. But also, well this was a decomposing man who had just dug himself out from his own grave. It was honestly a lot to handle.

“Alright, well that is just astonishingly rude. You can’t just go upside someone’s head with a shovel and then not even tell them why, that’s honestly just bad manners.”

He looked and sounded genuinely hurt as he rubbed the side of his head where I had hit him. He had gotten me with the line about manners. I felt guilty…but what was I supposed to have done?

“I guess…I thought you were dead?” I finally said sheepishly.

“Oh, that makes sense. Well, I suppose I should walk down to the garden center, get myself a shovel, then come back and knock you on the head simply for being alive then?”

His line of questioning was beginning to be more stressful than the apocalypse that I had been worried about.

“Well I thought you were going to eat me,” I rationalized, hoping it was enough of a justification.

He looked puzzled by this information, like a person who couldn’t quite remember where they left their keys.

“Do you think that you would taste good?” he asked.

I had to think about it for a second, not because I thought that I found myself a delicacy, but because I honestly didn’t know how to answer in this situation. It was as if my sandwich asked me the same question.

“No sir, I don’t think I would,” I replied.

That seemed to have made whatever this thing was slightly amused.

“Oh, well at least you found your manners, unfortunately, it came after the shovel bashing.”

“Well, what would you have done in my shoes?”

Again he seemed to think, carefully weighing his options. His face was strained and he looked to be deep in thought.

“What about tea, can we have some tea?” he finally said.

I was caught off guard by his request. I suppose it would be the polite thing to do too. Make him a cup of tea… he was technically a guest after all.

“Well, if it’s tea you want we have to go to the bunkhouse,” I said, before thinking it through.

Now I was inviting him back to where I slept? Honestly, that was not the best idea that I could have. It was too late now though, I had offered.

I turned and began to walk back to the bunkhouse. I heard him shifting and letting out groans as he followed me down the hill.

“This is a bit of a walk, at least the view is nice. Who did all of this?” he sounded genuinely impressed.

“Well I take care of all the planting on the weekend, that is why I’m here right now” I replied.

“You spend all weekend gardening in a cemetery? That is just morbid.”

I grimaced, despite the fear that still sat deep in my chest, he sounded like my mother.

“Well, I don’t see it that way. I feel like it is nice. People die, and when they do some people leave a plant that is alive. You know instead just flowers that wither away after having already been plucked.”

He groaned in response. I’m not sure if it was in agreement or because he was a walking dead man who had suddenly woken up in a box before clawing his way out. Either way, I continued my justification.

“This way you leave a little piece of something that lives on. I think a cemetery has enough death don’t you think?”

“Honestly, I just was making small talk until we got to some tea” was his reply.

I could not help but chuckle.

We arrived at the bunkhouse, I opened the door and stepped inside. I told him to wait outside because he was dirty, also honestly I was still quite afraid that he was going to make a meal of the top portion of my head.

I set some water on the stove and set it on high before beginning to look for some bags of tea. I opened pantry door after pantry door but simply couldn’t find any. I mean surely there was at least one single bag of tea.

I must have been making a racket because I soon heard the dead man at the doorway speak.

“Urghh gahh gugh,” he said unexpectedly.

I turned around quickly and in shock because I had not been expecting whatever sound that was. I was convinced that this guttural groan was the beginning of him becoming feral, deciding to consume my liver instead of tea. I must have had a wild look in my eye because he looked slightly taken aback before he spoke again.

“Sorry, had something stuck in my throat. What are you doing in here by the way? It sounds like you are trying to wake the rest of them up out there.”

“I am looking for some teabags,” I replied.

“What are you doing that for?” he asked.

“Well, I wanted to make the tea that you asked for,” I responded, slightly annoyed. This seemed obvious.

He looked at me confused before wandering backwards. He held up his hand and beckoned me to follow him as he limped away.

Well, why not? I suppose I had ransacked enough of this place and found nothing. May as well see what he had in mind.

He walked, or shuffled if you will, to the edge of the treeline where I had planted a variety of flowers and herbs. His knees cracked as he let out a groan and bent over, beginning to pick as he spoke.

“All of you strange folks and your wacky solutions to things, you forget about the simple answers. A tea bag. Honestly? You need someone else to pick something from off a tree and sell it to you?”

I walked over cautiously as he continued his tirade, I made sure to keep a distance. It looked like he had harvested a handful of colorful flowers and herbs and was getting more.

I saw an abundance of variety in his fist. I had planted all of them but I realized with some embarrassment I was not even quite sure what they all were. Also, they seemed to be glowing…

“-So that’s why you never really know whether or not you are dead for good. Did you even hear a word I just said?”

I hadn’t. I was too focused on the way that the plants had been reacting to his touch as well as the colors that I had zoned out entirely, although when I heard that last bit I did find myself interested.

“Uh, no. Not entirely what are you doing to those plants there?” I asked pointing.

He held up his gathered herbs and flowers and looked at them in surprise as he watched them let off a slight glow and sway softly in his grip.

“Well that’s different, I have never seen that before, but well I have never been dead until just the other day, so first time for everything I suppose.” he seemed genuinely surprised.

Then he simply began walking, his signature weary zombie step heading back to the bunkhouse. Then he decided to share with me the importance of tea.

“So you see when you pick it fresh you are skipping all the strangeness, it’s simply you and the plant, by the way, it is odd that you planted and kept up on all these plants but never learned about how to taste them”

“Oddly, you are dead,” I replied.

He seemed to get a kick out of that, and again we found ourselves standing in front of the bunkhouse.

“Well aren’t you going to go in and make us some tea then?” he asked.

I felt bad after watching him gather all the flowers and herbs and then making him wait outside, it just didn’t seem right.

I walked in and held the door open for him.

“Well come inside before I change my mind.”
I replied.

He smiled before stumbling in slowly, I saw him marveling at the inside of the bunkhouse as he made his way further inside towards the pot of simmering water.

“It is quite nice in here, far nicer than my wooden box if you ask me. Is that for the tea? Well, that’s just too hot.” he stated before lowering the heat and continuing.

“You don’t want the water too hot or it will scald whatever it is that you drop in there, the flavor isn’t as nice that way.” he was excited by this whole endeavor, honestly I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I said the first thing that popped round my head.

“Why’s it still glowing then?” I asked.

“What’s that now? What do you mean glowing?” he replied.

I walked over, and we both stared down into the pot as the leaves stems and flowers danced carefully along through the water in what almost seemed almost like a pattern. It let off a strange glow of color that illuminated the water softly.

“Is that normal?” he asked.

“What are you asking me for? You are the tea master.”

“Well that’s fair, but I have also been dead quite some time.”

“So like what, you are asking if stuff boils differently now?”

He stopped and seemed to be thinking quite carefully for quite some time before responding.

“Yes,” he answered confidently.

I stopped and did some pondering of my own, coming to my conclusions before giving my thoughts on the matter.

“I honestly have no idea.”

“It smells good though, should we drink it?” he asked.

“I mean you are already dead, you have literally nothing to be afraid of.”

“Well that’s not true is it, I mean sure I am dead, but I’m here right now, but what if I drink this and next thing you know I just fall over….. More dead?”

He made a good point.

“Well, I’ll drink it if you drink it,” I said.

“Well, that settles it then. Tea with a friend is never declined,” he said, before lifting the pot and stumbling with it towards the kitchen table.

I grabbed two mugs off the dishrack and set them on the table. He began to pour carefully. I felt bad as I realized that I maybe should have done that part. He did seem like he had been decomposing, so his motor skills were far from excellent. In the end, he got the job done though.

We grabbed our steaming mugs and walked back out into the night. The moon had risen fully now, lighting the grounds. I was walking to the small picnic table to have a sit when I heard a loud thud.

I jumped at the sound, a bit of the scalding hot tea splashing on my arm. I let out a howl of pain as I gave an awkward hop. I almost fell but managed to maintain my balance at the very last second.

I heard him laughing at my misfortune then the sound of him blowing on his tea. I turned to see what the sound had been. He must have just plopped down, the sound of him hitting the earth must have been what scared me.

“Don’t laugh, this stuff is hot. I could be seriously injured,” I said.

“Doesn’t seem worse than a shovel to the face,” he replied.

He made a good point. I walked over to him waiting on my tea to hopefully cool it down a little more. It honestly did smell amazing.

I sat down on the grass next to him and looked ahead. I had spent the last few months of my life here on the weekend but I felt like this was the first time that I saw it here.

The moon shone down against the headstones, some gray, others black. There were a few statues. The trees were tall and beautiful in a way I had never stopped to appreciate. Then there was of course all of my contributions.

All around us were plants that friends and family had left me to put into the ground. One final way that they could let a person they had lost know that they still thought of them. Even if there was no way of being sure that the person in question would ever know.

There were flowers, herbs, cactuses, and plants I couldn’t even remember planting. They adorned the grounds in a way that seemed like it almost had a method to it. As if there was a strategy in play, instead of a bored young man who simply wished to make a little extra money on weekends.

I sipped the tea and stared down in shock. I couldn’t believe what had just occurred on the inside of my mouth.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“What? Can’t you taste it?” I asked him in response, which was rude. I knew better than to answer a question with a question.

“Unfortunately not, I guess being dead does something to your taste buds.” he sounded so disappointed.

That made me feel terrible, especially considering it was the most delicious thing that I had ever had from a cup.

He smiled the strange toothy grin of a man who was dead, as he peacefully sipped a tea that he couldn’t taste. After that, we sat there in silence for what felt like hours. We sipped and simply enjoyed the atmosphere of the cemetery where I worked and where he now lived.

“Well, I guess I best be going now,” he said, as he slowly stood up.

I had been so wrapped up in the calm and peaceful evening that I hadn’t even considered him leaving. It felt as if he had always been there. My heart sank a little imagining how quiet it would soon be without him.

“Where are you going?” I asked him.

“Well, I guess back to sleep. Or dead. Or wherever it was that I was before this.” he answered nonchalantly.

I decided to question him further, I had grown quite fond of him in the short amount of time that we had spent together.

“Will you be back?”

He stopped and thought for a second, he sounded a little bit sad for the first time since I had met him. It was as if he knew that this time would come.

“I don’t think so, I believe that was my last cup of tea.”

“Well if it’s any consolation to you it was the best cup that I have ever had.”

He let out a chuckle after I spoke. He then began his dead man’s shuffle, slowly making his way back to the soft earth that he had clawed his way out of. All because he simply wished to have something to drink. What a peculiar reason to rise from the dead.

I sat there for a few more minutes, just pondering what exactly had happened. I was too young at that time to understand the gravity of what it was that I had just witnessed. I wasn’t quite able to comprehend the fact that I had just seen definitive proof of some kind of life after death.

I stood up before grabbing our cups and making my way back into the bunkhouse. I placed them both in the sink, I was about to rinse them out when I realized that I could still smell the faint blend of herbs still lingering in our mugs.

I found it comforting most peculiarly. Perhaps I would wash them in the morning… when the smell had faded away.

I lay down, exhausted but content. I was a little more than slightly confused by the night’s events. I fell asleep not long after my head hit the pillow though, I was exhausted and the tea had made me feel peaceful.

I had the strangest dreams that night. I dreamt of colors and of time and all the ways they intertwined. I dreamt of a hallway of windows that showed me all the ways that the future would find me. Each one opened as I walked past, a calm breeze blowing against my face as I moved past each one.

I awoke feeling refreshed and with a sense of accomplishment. I decided that I had to do something special.

I walked down to the plant store that was about a kilometer away. I picked out a beautiful potted chamomile flower. I walked back and planted it next to the grave of one “Dustin Milliferd.”

I worked at the cemetery for a couple more years after that, eventually I made my way off to a decent university. I learned to make friends, even ended up in a career that I enjoyed. Life overall had ended up much kinder to me than I expected it to be.

Every time I drink tea now though, I can’t help but smile as I remember the dead friend who taught me to take the time to properly enjoy it. A friend who made sure that I took the proper time out of my day to well… just enjoy the little things.

END JOURNAL

Well, I’ll be damned. I think I just read something borderline hopeful in this hellhole. Who would have thought that was possible?
The cemetery being described here is most certainly reminiscent of the one located here in Willow Village, although I obviously haven’t seen any trace of this young man, or anyone else for that matter.

Whatever he did to keep those plants and herbs alive, it is still working. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but at least it is pleasant for me. I hope this kid didn’t end up back here, at any point.

I don’t know how I know, but I can just feel that I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Hope is a funny thing.