Out here in the cold cemetery nights, the greenish-blue tint of my death fantasies come alive. I’m not much a fan of the waking hours; the dead are more on my level, the way they hold nothing back when they speak to me and tell me of their underground dreams and experiences. I think it was my father who said, when I was just a young boy, that, “The dead hold secrets the living can learn from, if only we listen to the whispers of the night.”
Cold cemetery nights, not such a fright to me. Others have rebuked me for my twilight walks, stalking among the graves, but I ignore them. The gravedigger works overtime every night; I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive. I see him digging these deep holes most nights, allowing the souls to re-enter the world. The gravedigger’s name is Cain – he has the brightest blue eyes, a slim yet muscular frame, and hands so calloused they bleed every night.
On my last night on earth, the gravedigger dug a hole so deep that it opened a chasm to the Otherworld, molten flames shot into the sky. The gravedigger dove head-first in the pit; I dutifully followed him. I don’t come back to the surface much anymore, except on times like this to give you this story, which I will write down on the tombstone that has my name. Tell the people of the waking hours they are welcome anytime to join us down below.