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To the inheritor of my duty, my work, and my life. This letter is addressed to you, whoever you may be. I have my assurances that I know who you are, but one can never be so sure after all. I, Cromwell Hume, now impart upon you the deed and title of "Gravekeeper." You, who so reads this letter, are now part of a writ, a pact, and should always swear faithfully to your duty.

_ As a Gravekeeper, you now find yourself as the owner and caretaker of Coldshore Cemetery. Your job as a keeper is simple. Maintain the Cemetery. Keep its graves undisturbed and free of intruders. And, most importantly, when the dead rise, put them to rest._

_ Be aware, that the dead are not to be treated and shuffled back into their rest like instruments or simple blunt objects. Sometimes, the soul forgets that it is dead, and returns to what it finds comfort in. The dead you deal with, are people._

_ Some of them, like all people, will have different ways of responding to you. Some will not heed reason, will not listen, because they are mad. They've no sense left in them and so all that remains is violence. Put these souls to rest with a strong arm and a sharp blade._

_ Some will be curious, returning to the world they've been away from for so long. Bribe them. Give them trinkets, offerings, and they will happily return to their graves to tinker, and then rest._

_ Some will feel the surge of life in their old bones, and seek to flee. To run and escape. Coldshore Cemetery is surrounded by wards, and so they never will. Chase them down and play their games with them. Eventually, they will tire, and return to rest._

_ And, of all who are the most troublesome, are those souls who are lonely. Why they are lonely, it never has been known. Do not strike them with a blade. Do not bribe them with trinkets. Do not play games with them. Your job, as a keeper of the dead, is compassion and understanding._

Listen to these souls. Give them comfort, if you can, for they are lost and have no one to light the way for them. Grab a lantern, and walk with them, all the way to their home. And then put them to rest.

And finally, be aware of the strongest. Souls who do not need to return to their body. Souls that force our world to bend for them, if only slightly. These souls are the most detached. They will wander the grounds, or the river. They will scream a wail that curls your blood. They will yell in a rage that rattles your very bones.

And they will kill you if they lay sight of you. They act as beacons for others, and seek to draw other souls to them, so that they may sustain their temporary life. Your best and most final option for dealing with these souls is to avoid them, and cut them off from their food source.

Put the dead to rest that are drawn to them like moths to a flame. And you shall put out the wail and fire of the Banshee as well.

I, Cromwell Hume, wish you the best of luck. The life of a Gravekeeper is that of being alone. But if you are succeeding me, then it shalln't worry the likes of you no doubt, for a Gravekeeper is the mirror image of death in life. You shy away from others and likely led a shallow, tiring life before this job seemed like anything a sane man would do. Something to make you tired of the world.

But take heart. The dead who walk Coldshore can have more life in them than you'd ever expect. There are days when they renew your faith in the people you've abandoned. In the world you hide from.

Treat the dead with respect, and be kind to them.

And they will take care of you more than you can ever expect.

Best of luck, yours in confidence, Cromwell Hume, now, ex-Gravekeeper.

Rain pattered down on the roof of the coach as he folded up the letter, slipping it back into its envelope safely where it belonged. The coach bounced and rocked along the old path in the mud as he sat in the dim confines, alone. Coldshore Cemetery. Farther inland from Coldshore Harbour. The cemetery was ancient. A part of old history, having endured for centuries untold. Perhaps, even thousands.

It resided in the cold, damp fog of the murky forests that filled the coastline here up north, and since man was always so ornery about rituals in death, Coldshore Cemetery only grew wider over the centuries. Graves built upon graves, crypts, sprawling outwards ever more. Surprisingly, the cemetery was still manageable for one man alone.

Although, keeping graves wasn't exactly a hard pressed job. But Coldshore was unique. The undead were not uncommon across the world. From the scourge of those who fed on the blood of others in the shadows, vampires. To the beings that dwelled farther down south on the opposite coast of the continent in a place called The Shroud. The undead, the undying, were everywhere.

Scattered across the world in all of their numerous forms like mankind itself, like the ancient, enduring remnants of magic, and all the forms it could take, alongside creatures of wonder, the undead were a part of life. But what made Coldshore Cemetery so profound, was the sheer number. It was as if the cemetery were a well of sorts.

A collection, an indent on the land that drew souls to it. Why, he could think of no other place across all the world where the souls of the deceased walked so freely and appeared in such number. Which was why the long, and storied history of Gravekeepers who had called this place home had a reputation. For they were more than just merely Gravekeepers.

And now, he was stepping in to fill the role. Stepping in to fill the shoes of the man who wrote this letter for his successor. Under the dim light in the coach he listened to the patter of rainfall on the roof and looked outside beyond the windows to dark and fog. The letter, written by Cromwell. The man knew what it was to be a keeper of the dead.

Musing on the path that led him here, the long, winding road, tiring to him. A world he wanted to vanish from, and disappear from. The coach came to a sudden stop, lurching him back to things. No matter. He was here now. Slipping on his hat and a thicker coat, he opened the coach door to the black of night, lit only by the light of the lamps on the outside of the coach, and now, the light of an old building, not far away.

Before him stood the gates of Coldshore Cemetery in the night, given some shape in the darkness and rain by light that shined through the windows of an old building behind them, ancient cobble and a simple, hayed roof. The sound of heavy iron was heard as a figure pushed through the blustering rain towards the coach in darkness.

He could barely see the man as he strode towards him, and was barely even given a greeting as the man spoke up in the rain.

"Right, you're the replacement then?"

"That I am."

"Right, I'll not spend another night here! I'm just a courier for this place. I'll take your shopping lists and bring you what you need. Get your bags ready. This place is all yours now!"

In a hurried manner the man went round to the back of the coach as the driver steadied the horse up front. The driver spoke now.

"This place. Spooks horses. Best if we all moved this along."

In silence the three men hauled trunks of luggage out to the only source of light in the rain and dark, promptly dropping them off at the steps of the old home at the gates. Through the light of the windows he could make out the man a little better but never got a chance to say anything, as the last of his trunks were dropped off and in hurried silence, the man quickly went out beyond the gates to the coach.

The driver, a man more courteous, stayed behind, if only for a moment, tipping his hat in the rain.

"I wish you luck sir. This job is not one so easily shouldered."

The driver held his hand out, and he took it, shaking it firmly.

"Did you know the old keeper here before me? Cromwell?"

Under the darkness of his hat the driver nodded.

"Only vaguely, sir. I am but a ferryman. But I hear the fellow who is going back with me now who watched over this place, was the one who found him."

"What happened?"

The coach driver chuckled.

"What else? He died."

With one last tip of his hat in the blustering rain, the coach driver turned, walking back out to the dark beyond the house, closing the iron gates behind him. That was it then. He was the Gravekeeper now. The sound of leather straps and a horse making to move far away from here was heard alongside the creaking of the old coach. He looked out from the dim light that shined through the old windows of the house to the darkness beyond.

There was nothing. Only wind and rain in the night. Well. That settled it then. He stood on the stone step to the house, feeling the patter of cold rainwater on his hat. May as well bring his luggage inside for the night. He'd sort things out in the morning.

Grey skies dawned under a dim light in the morning, as the rain continued, albeit slower than the night. The small cottage of sorts, he quickly discovered, was very well built despite its appearance outside in the night. It was warm. Welcoming. And not a spot of cold water to be found here. A simple space really, a bed, a desk, a stove, and all around him, books. Stacks of paper and shelves.

With only a little room left behind for his own things, he found spots to nestle his trunks into and use them as chests of sorts. He mused on the cramped space, all the books here, and wondered why they were left behind. And on closer inspection, he soon understood. The books, and stacks of paper were records.

Some were records of the dead brought here. And others, were records and documents of the instructional kind. Upon skimming through pages and pages, he'd found them all signed by Cromwell. It made sense, perhaps. One needed time to occupy themselves out here. And so Cromwell had prepared things for others. And, as if on cue, like it were planned, he opened up the drawer on the desk by the window, to find another envelope. Signed to, "The New Owner."

He looked outside the old window to dull grey beyond outside. Gravestones, hills of them as far as he could see. Crypts. And the borderline remains of the forest that surrounded this place, standing tall in the form of very ancient trees among the graves. Thick iron bars taller than the house he was in surrounded the perimeter of the cemetery, held together by immense stone pillars and cobble walls, vanishing from his view behind the hills.

He could wait a while. There was no real rush involved with the dead after all.

_ To the new owner of this cemetery, this letter is indeed for your eyes. There is only so much a man can say before driveling on for too long in a short letter of addressment. And indeed, this job has many pitfalls to overcome. Simple, small important things to learn that take time._

_ Admittedly, there is no formal selection process for these sorts of things. If you want the job, you can have the job. And rightfully so, my predecessors were worse off than I, or now in your own case, yourself. When I first arrived here, there was nothing to help me or guide me, to teach me of what I had to do, how to do it, and what I had to be careful of._

_ But fear not. If luck should play fairly, then you will have my library of notes to refer to. I will walk you through what matters most in this letter, and leave the rest up to your discretion._

_ This job is simple. In fact it works itself. No sane man would ever come here to rob and desecrate graves. No upkeep is ever needed. But, your services are required to bury the dead you receive here, which, I can say with earnest experience, come in fleeting moments. Coldshore Cemetery is no longer much of a cemetery as it is a relic of older days._

_ The real job, lies in taking care of those who do not rest. For as I said, sometimes, the soul forgets that it is dead. It strays off the path, and wanders, back home, to the only place it ever truly called home in life. The dead come, in many forms. From assembled masses of bones held together by the stubborn will of the soul. To old flesh, preserved or decayed._

_ Admittedly, not all souls can return to their bodies, and not all bodies can free themselves from the ancient crypts that run so far below the ground here. You may see lights. Small beacons that move of their own accord. Wisps. There are lanterns set about the cemetery, that burn of blue fire and use the knowledge of what I've heard of as the old arts._

_ These lanterns burn of blue fire, can be lit by a match or a spark, and burn for hours without end before the flames eventually reside. But while the flames burn, they create warmth. The wisps are drawn to it. Use these lanterns to light the cemetery in the night, check them in the day, and appease the wisps with their warmth._

_ Wisps are the most common, and easiest to deal with for they are simple. Secondly, and only slightly more complicated are the dead who've gone mad. It matters not what form they may take, but only that you carry with you a weapon or tool for defense at all times. Personally, I preferred a scythe, as ironically cliché as it may seem._

_ For the dead who've gone mad, keeping them at arm's length or farther is preferable. An undead soul who's trauma upon returning to this world is easy to recognize. Erratic movements, with no sense to them. Howling or attempted howling. And a destructive, angry nature to their shambling's._

_ I say keep them at a distance because they will attack you. They are a corpse after all, and can carry disease and sick on them. A wound you sustain from them will not be pleasant. But put them to rest with your tool or weapon of choice and they will not be a bother again._

_ Now, the matter of curious, or sprightly dead. Keep trinkets on you at all times. Preferably machinations. The latest in fashion or design. Or, complex children's toys. The curious dead will rise, and will often be found near the walls of the cemetery, attempting to get out beyond the wards placed and built into the walls._

_ Some, regular offenders as I call them, may even wander to your very doorstep. They will never attack you. They simply, wish to look. And on that regard, I say, never leave things laying around here. For they will take them. When you find these dead, or they find you, give them a trinket. Excite them with noise it makes, or movement. Show them the trinket and they will happily wander, back to their place of rest on their own terms._

_ To the sprightly dead who wish to move and run again, play with them, for they are like children. Perhaps they were energetic in life. Perhaps they remember fond moments. But they like someone to be there with them, for their brief moments of enthusiasm. And I know in my heart that what pleases them the most is that someone puts them to rest. Tucks them into bed after a long day when they grow tired._

_ And, finally, we come to the most difficult to deal with of all. All other dead beforehand require patience, and somewhat tiring physical days of labor. But the last two that I have laid eyes upon require more than a strong arm, more than a sprightly pair of legs, and more than patience._

_ A Banshee that screams and howls, requires you to fight fear. For if you give in to your fear you will run. You will run from them and abandon your duty at the thought of them laying their hands upon you. You will abandon the souls here, to be claimed by this perversion of death. Do not let them down. Stop them from wandering into the banshee's grip._

_ Fear makes fools of us all. But if you are brave, fear doesn't have to. Fear can make you more than that. Fear can make you clever, and smart. Fear can make you faster, and stronger. Fear can make you the opposite, of what those banshees are. Brave. Be brave, when you encounter them. Be brave for the dead and those who came before you._

_ And, finally. We come to, arguably, the most powerful, the most dangerous. The dead who are alone. These undead, are arguably, the most human. The most alive, in some way. For they are alone because they regret. In all the years I have watched over this cemetery, I have learned a great deal._

_ The undead are human. Their actions, come from emotion. Human emotions are all powerful. For if they weren't, they would not drive man to do what they do. And they would not lure the dead, back to this world. Of all emotions I have seen, regret is the strongest. Regret pulls the dead, back into this world intact. Their minds are healthier. They are capable of speech, capable of talking, if they still have lips or a tongue._

_ Regret, can be the fuel for anger. It can be the fuel for fear. It can be the fuel for happiness and joy. But for most, regret is the fuel for sadness. I have no words for you, my successor. For how do you deal with a soul who has ripped themselves back into this world on sheer sadness alone?_

How do you console a dead man who has lived a life with regrets? A soldier who made mistakes? A woman too harsh on her children? A father, abandoning his child?

These are answers that I do not have. For it is up to your discretion, how you deal with these souls. But all I can warn you of, is the burden. These souls, these undead, dead, who and whatever you wish to call them, will be heavy on your own soul.

Heavier than fighting those who've gone mad. More perplexing than finding a toy to amuse those who are curious. More exhausting then playing games with a corpse. And, more frightful then facing a twisted perversion of death.

_ If you are compassionate, you will feel pain. You will seek to help them when nothing can be done. If you are cold, and detached, tired of the world, they will only drag you down farther. My only advice to you, dear successor,_

Is to listen.

Listen to what they have to say. Be a comfort to them. Someone they can confide in. Listen to their words and their stories.

Be brave. And listen, and learn from them. And make your life something beyond theirs. Learn from their mistakes and live your life well. Find something out here to occupy your time. Do not spend your life away communing with the dead, and studying them as I have. This cemetery, is your sanctuary, as much as it is theirs.

You may only have the nerve to stay here for a short time. Perhaps, like me, you will spend the remainder of your life here. But I beseech you, whoever you are. The world is not as tiresome as you believe it is. For if it were, the dead would not walk beyond their death. And so, I bid you farewell now, and wish you the best of fortunes.

Yours in confidence, Cromwell Hume.

_ _ He stared down at the parchment, folding it up and placing it into the envelope before sliding it back into the desk drawer. He looked out to the cold grey skies outside the window, tinged with fog and mist, over hills of tombs and graves, some cast under shadows of ancient, twisted trees and their gnarled roots. Well. That was certainly informative.

Cromwell's letter set him at ease somewhat. Maybe it was the way the man scrawled across the parchment. Like he was talking so sure of himself that he knew someone would come to take his place after he was gone. He thought about it. And he almost felt.....reassured? As if the old and now previous Gravekeeper was waiting for him. Expecting him. Wrote everything down in this house, just for him.

He looked out to the graves beyond the cold window. Was the previous keeper out there, somewhere? He found the idea rather funny. What if he was? And he bumped into him as a shuffler? In the silence of the house and the vague sound of the wind outside, a sound resounded through the door that almost made his heart skip and knocked him out of his chair.

One.

Two.

Three.

Three, slow, heavy knocks on the wood of the door. Silence and wind howled outside the walls of the house. The grey sky and fog, unchanging.

One.

Two.

Three.

He scrambled up to his feet, suddenly, aware. Aware of the reality of things. He was surrounded. By graves of the dead. Dead who could rise and come back, and walk.

One.

Two.

Three.

The knocks continued. And fear, found itself traveling up his spine. The fear of something. Something beyond the door. As it knocked, yet waited for him to open it. He tried to picture it. What would be waiting for him outside. He couldn't do it. He knew, that inches away through the wood, outside, right now, there was a corpse. The fear. The paralyzed stillness was beyond him. He had never known this before.

One.

Two.

Three.

And then, reassurance found him. Carefully written words from somebody who'd been doing this long before he ever set foot here.

"....or when they find you, give them a trinket."

He nodded. That had to be it. He faced the door, and closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, and counted, in hushed breath alongside the knocks.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

His hand found the latch on the door and he pulled, listening to the creak of old iron hinges, and for one brief moment that fear overwhelmed him as he pressed beyond the veil of what was unknown, and into reality. The latch unhinged, the door pulling back, his heart skipped, breath stopped, frozen in place as the old iron hinges groaned, and the door opened.

And there it was. Looking at him. Decay so old that the corpse was dry. Thin, bony shambles of what remained of it stood in the doorway, staring at him. He was paralyzed. It had no eyes, just empty sockets, an ugly visage of missing teeth as its mouth was stretched dry and there were no lips, accented by the hard bony features of its skull through the remnants of skin that once clung to it.

But in the place of its sockets, a dull light flickered. And through the shreds of the clothing it wore, under the visible ribcage pressing through a skinny frame, was a dull glow. But as the wind howled along, and the moment passed, the fear, the shock, all faded. The corpse raised an arm, bony fingers curled with one left sticking out, pointing to him.

He looked down at himself, to see the pocket watch dangling from his pocket. He raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly. He grabbed the watch, holding it up.

"You want this then?"

Grabbing a dial on the back of the watch, he twisted it, and the watch clinked and clicked. The dead corpse before him stood taller, eyes alight with wonder. He closed his own eyes. It didn't even have eyes. But the lights in the sockets of bone. He felt like it still had eyes.

Slowly, cautiously, he held the watch out on the chain, dangling it over a bony hand that extended so much faster than bone and tight dry flesh would have eluded to. He dropped the clinking watch into the awaiting hand, and the corpse clutched the watch close, holding it up to its head, as if trying to listen to its inner mechanisms, before clutching the watch close to its heart in both hands, before it turned, slowly, and began to shuffle away from his door.

In the fog, he watched, as the shambling being hobbled along the path, through graves upon graves, and disappeared into the mist. He closed his eyes, exhaling deeply as he realized that he'd practically been holding his breath the entire time. He closed the door, slowly, looking out to the fog, the graves, and listened to the howl of the winds.

The latch clinked, the door shut.

Something, suddenly changed. Coldshore Cemetery suddenly took on a strange light for him. It was all so......real. Not an hour ago, a corpse, dead as dead could ever be, stood at his door, and knocked. And then left, holding a trinket in hand that had excited it. It was all so alive.

And he realized, that Cromwell's letter was real. The words the man had written, his explanations. He had done all of this before. He had encountered everything he had spoken about. And it finally, arrived at his doorstep and dawned on him, that he was the new Gravekeeper. This place, was his job now.

Over a kettle of tea and somewhat shaky hands, he read through Cromwell's letter in the desk, running over and over again through his notes. He looked outside, catching the fading light of the day. He set his cup down on the desk.

The wisps. The lamps.

None of them were lit. In a rush, he stood up from his chair, and found his heavier coat, and his token hat, slipping them all on. The door creaked loudly as he stepped outside this time, out to the strange world he now apparently called home.

In the fading hour of the day darkness began to creep across the cemetery, the fog growing more oppressive, colder and thicker. The cemetery had many winding, twisting paths through its hills of graves and crypts, of which he followed diligently into the fog.

And then he found the first lantern. Hanging from a post on the side of the path. He counted his luck, praying that he didn't need to do any more than light a match. The match in his hands flickered, threatening to die as if it were being smothered by the fog itself. He held it up to the old metal lantern, no glass encasement or even a fuse base.

Blue fire ignited from nothing, sparked to life and suddenly he felt warm. The heat from the simple box radiated out around him and the strange blue flames provided a strange light for his eyes. These flames did not smother in the wake of fog. In fact, the fog itself seemed to be pressed back, away from the lantern.

He had an idea. Stepping back, away from the warmth of the lantern and into the fog, his eyes adjusted to the darkness as he turned and looked back to the path he walked to get here. The sun wouldn't have gone down yet. But the fog was growing more oppressive and smothering the light. And then he realized it.

What if the lanterns weren't only for the wisps?

He stepped back into the circle of warmth and light of the lantern, reached up to the post it hung from, and found a handle. He could use this. Bring it with him into the fog to find the other lanterns. He nodded assuredly, looking out to the fog on the path beyond with the lantern in hand. Right. He could do this. It was simple. Just look out for the other lanterns.

He felt like a fool, stumbling through the fog, following the path along as it wound up and down, through and around graves. The lanterns he managed to find were all hanging from posts, easily spottable as he approached them. The last light of the sun, or whatever could be hinted of it through the thickening fog vanished, leaving him in darkness.

As fog surrounded him and he clutched at the lantern, peering out beyond the veil around him, as he walked, something startling happened. In the dark oppressiveness of the fog as twilight crept across the cemetery, as he passed gravestones and monuments, he felt the air cool. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He didn't hear anything, but nearly jumped as a small flickering light made itself present on the edges of his vision, and then swirled past him, towards his lantern.

He stopped, feeling the chill in the air as it passed him, and then began to circle around the lantern he held out in front of him. His eyes were drawn to the strange thing, merely a small, bright cloud that shined in the dark with stray hues of blue. It wavered and flickered, and looked like it could blow away and scatter on the slightest wind, like it was just mist.

It circled the lantern, drawn to the blue fire, and suddenly the air around him returned to normal again. The lantern's warmth overpowered the cold grip of the wisp. The small thing circled aimlessly around his lantern. He watched it, curious. Something compelled him. Curiosity. A need to touch it. He held his hand out.

The wisp passed through his hand as it circled, as if he were made of nothing. A deep chill, like ice water burned his hand. But for a brief moment....there was something. Beyond the chill and sting of the cold. In his head. A feeling. Like...old memories. A smile. Clean teeth. Laughter. A field. Sunset. A life. And then. Darkness.

The wisp passed through his hand completely now, circling around the lantern once more. He closed his hand, moving his fingers to try and regain feeling to them. And then another wave of cold passed over him. He turned, to watch another wisp, rise from a grave and flutter over to his lantern.

Ice water suddenly flooded his chest, and he choked and gasped for air as a cold so deep made him feel as if the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. He fell to his knees as a wisp, from behind him drifted straight through his chest to get close to his lantern.

The cold stung and burned and he dropped the lantern as he laid down in the mud clutching his chest. The fog disappeared in the wake of more wisps suddenly arriving, their light growing stronger alongside the lantern. But another blast of ice traveled through him as a wisp emerged from the ground and passed through him.

He was shivering now. Shaking violently in the cold. He tried to stand up in the mud, in the dark, using his one good hand that wasn't numb. He slipped in the mud, trying desperately to pull himself away from the lantern as wisps appeared from nowhere to encircle it. Another blast of cold through one of his legs and he couldn't walk properly, too numb now.

They were going to kill him. He was going to freeze to death. He pushed forward, dragged himself frantically, afraid now, when suddenly, the air stopped. A surreal silence, deeper than normal fell upon him. And in the silence, there was a voice. Out in the fog, a voice, a song.

The feeling of being watched crept over him and all the hairs on him stood up as he shivered violently. He rolled over in the mud and the dark, and saw something. Beyond the lantern and the light of the wisps. On the air a sing song voice, gentle and calm, slow, like a lullaby grew stronger.

But from the twilight, something that made his heart go into overdrive stepped out from the fog. Black robes, dark as night, twisting and curling as if the robes themselves were alive. A hooded figure with nothing under the veil of darkness of its hood. Under the sound of its song the wisps were drawn to it, and it extended cold, dead hands, skeletal in their thinness but pale of skin that remained.

Adrenaline found him and fear was alive. He looked into the hood of the banshee and felt something staring at him from beyond its voice, beyond death. And then an explosion, as he found himself running into the darkness, away, scrambling in sheer terror.

The darkness was a better alternative to what had watched him in the light.

Two days he'd stayed inside. Two days he'd wrapped himself in blankets to fight off the cold. He was furious. Frightened. Going through Cromwell's notes he found nothing on the phenomenon of wisps in great detail. Why would the man not even cover something so basic? And he was afraid. Because he knew, that out there, in the fog.....was something. A Banshee.

But something.....wasn't right. To him, that collection of dark robes, moving as if they were alive, the dark hood and trappings it wore. It had terrified him. To him, if that were a Banshee, surely it would look like that. Except that it didn't scream. It didn't wail and yell. Under blankets and eating anything warm he could make from his supplies, tea, soup, he sat in the silence of the old cobble building.

He should leave. This job.....it just wasn't for him. Why did he come so far out here in the first place? Why even bother? He shook his head. No. No, that was fear talking to him. Afraid of what was out there, in the fog. He looked around the dim confines. Stacks of paper and notes. An old iron cook stove, still warm from being fed wood. Simple furnishings and his own crammed in trunks.

Still shivering, he slapped himself. Idiot. Why didn't he see it before? Stacks of paper, with slips of paper stuck in between them. Alphabetically organized. He pushed himself up and out of bed. B. He wanted the B section.

A Banshee is a twisted perversion of death. And a most mournful sight indeed. They are, no doubt the most clear and present form of danger at Coldshore Cemetery. For they are up front representations. They present their threat, their presence, quite clearly, because they desire to.

_ Banshees howl, and scream, not because they wish to frighten, or even make the living aware of their presence. But because, as I have stated, they are a mournful sight. They are afraid. Or, perhaps, in their last moments, they were afraid. Such is this fear that gives them such terrible power._

_ They rip themselves back into this world, and they seek to stay alive. It is, in my personal opinion, based off observations and sightings, and talks with the locals, that a Banshee, is primarily afraid of dying. They are caught in a perpetual trap of their last moments._

_ And so, a Banshee becomes a twisted perversion of death. In order for a soul to come back to this world, one could argue that it takes power. Strength. Any soul who returns from beyond has great strength. And a Banshee can feed on this. As such, they cannibalize on the dead. Upon other souls returned to this world._

_ They drain the soul of its power, its ability to return to this world, and gain strength. I do not believe that a soul consumed by a Banshee can ever return to this world. But they are not destroyed. However, this is irrelevant for the problem at hand is the fact that Banshees are a serious threat._

_ They prey upon the dead to extend their own unholy life, and, the living. A living soul, a living body, if consumed, will grant them immense power. Do not take a Banshee lightly. And do not attempt to physically fight one. They cannot be harmed physically. And trying yields their focus upon you._

_ Banshees exert extreme cold around them, and most of all, they emulate something powerful. Fear. A Banshee, is like....a hole. Picture a blanket. Now picture dropping a heavy weight onto the blanket. Undead who stray close to a Banshee are pulled down into that depression on the blanket. And living who stray too close to that depression, will falter._

_ A Banshee will look into your soul and they will overpower you with fear. You will fall to your knees. Your darkest thoughts will come back to haunt you. Paralyze you._

And to this, I must say, when you see a Banshee, do your best efforts to lead souls away from it in secret. The blue lanterns, make excellent lures for the most common to fall prey, wisps. But one must be careful for if a wisp comes into contact with the living, ice water surges through one's veins. They can never truly kill. But the experience is.....less than agreeable. Being shocked by a wisp could lead to your demise at the hands of a Banshee.

Move quickly.

He sighed. Confounding man. Then again, these notes were better than nothing, even if they weren't too precisely organized. But something still didn't make sense to him. What he encountered......it looked like a Banshee. But it didn't quite fit Cromwell's description. By chance he turned the collection of parchment over. He nodded. Yes. That had to be it.

"See additional notes on the phenomenon that closely resembles a Banshee. Under M category, Maiden in Black."

_ The Maiden in Black. A strange being indeed. There are many tales. Old wives tales and sightings. I have done thorough investigating on this. And I can say of only one thing for certain. The maiden is old. Very old indeed. For she has many names. The Twilight Singer. The Mournful Singer. The Black Siren. The Lonely Widow._

_ Tales and speculation run rampant. Her titles are as varied as my theories about "her" if one is even sure that she is indeed a woman. Truly remarkable indeed is the astounding fact that not even the dead themselves know who she is. I have communed with the souls capable of speech. And asked them questions about the black hooded mystery._

_ Astounding, or, rather frightening, is that they recount her. They know of her. They speak of her songs, calling them lullabies with a sense of deep appreciation. But they state that she has been here before they arrived here. She has always, just been here._

_ I can only attest to two sightings of her in my entire time here under my oath. Once, when I was in grave danger. And twice, prowling through the fog. In her wake she was leading wisps. Singing to them, of that I am sure of._

_ My primary theory about the maiden, is that she is indeed, a Banshee. Or, perhaps, a guise. Her guise of a Banshee is a defense mechanism. A camouflage. She does not seem to feed upon the dead. And she shows no interest in preying upon the living. Truthfully, I have no credible theory as to how she sustains herself._

_ But I know that if she does, she is immensely powerful. I have communed with dead so ancient, and yet they themselves attest to her being there before their arrival. I have only one thing to say in regards to this mystery, of which I will continue to investigate as best I can._

Do not approach the maiden. She is an unknown. In this line of work, it is the unknown that can get you killed. It is foolish gambles and risks that carry your life on the line. The maiden has proven to be nonviolent. So far.

Do not disrupt her for I fear if she ever was provoked, it would be a terrible power unleashed. Care for the dead who cannot care for themselves. The maiden is, by now, obviously quite capable of that by herself.

As it should be. There are some things in this world that should remain buried. Some secrets, or questions, that should never be answered.

The end of the notes. He set the paper down, looking out the window into the night. He hadn't gone outside in two days. He'd done nothing ever since. No. Unacceptable. He would run nowhere. This was his job now. And the lanterns were not lit tonight. He pushed himself out of bed, reaching over to his coat and hat which were both still damp even when set on the old cook stove.

He was going to do this right this time.

Behind the house a toolshed sat. And he found what he needed. A scythe. Long of handle and long of blade. Into the dark fog he pressed with a torch in hand, until he found the first lantern post. And to his surprise....rather than find an empty post, the lantern hung from its usual spot.

He had dropped it. When he left he had dropped it. No matter. This place wasn't the befitting nature of "normal" at this point. He lit the old metal box and watched blue fire spring to life, before putting his own torch out, a simple task as the darkness and fog naturally seemed to smother it. Grabbing the lantern, he slid the handle onto the end of the scythe, sliding it down the long shaft of the scythe to rest at the blade.

There. He could rest the scythe on his shoulder. The lantern would light his way. And it would stay behind him. He would lead the wisps with him. And not through him. He looked out to the path beyond in the dark. And he set out again, with a sense of stubborn defiance, and straightened his hat.

He couldn't help but smile under some sense of satisfaction. It worked. He was walking now, in the dark and the cold. And he was leading the wisps behind him. The long scythe balanced on his shoulders gave him enough distance that he had no trouble whatsoever. It was dark. Cold. But he was doing okay.

It was only until he began to walk the path, nearing where he'd fallen, recognizing the scrapes and struggles left behind in the mud as his own, that some sense of worry found him. But he pressed forwards anyway, remembering the notes he'd read. Nothing happened this time.

He followed the winding path along in the dark, leading a trail of wisps with him as he lit the lanterns he came across, watching briefly as each area came alive with activity as wisps flocked to the blue fire in the night. It was almost too routine. Almost.....too easy. As if to spite him, something did happen. In the night, in the darkness, in the fog.

A voice. Distinct. Almost loud. Somewhat dry. It made him jump as the silence of the night was cracked like a whip.

"Oi! Cromwell! Is that you? What're yer doing up so late in the night for?"

He stopped in his tracks, frozen. He couldn't tell where the voice came from. But it was close. He inhaled sharply. It. No. The man. He was talking. That was a start.

"No. I'm not Cromwell. I'm new here."

Silence and darkness. The sound of shuffling.

"Say what?"

"I'm the new keeper here sir."

"Sir!? I can tell you're right new then, nobody's ever called me sir before. Right. What happened to Cromwell that old bugger?"

He stared out into the dark, looking around for anything he could see.

"You don't know?"

"Well of course I don't! It's been a while since I dropped by to see that old fart."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Sorry bout what? You shank the bugger or something?"

"What?"

"Did you shank him? You know? Kill him and take his place?"

"What? Why would I..."

More shuffling and something stepped through the fog towards him. Stepped into the radius of light. Old. Dead. Scraps of clothes, only the most durable clothing, bits of armour, rusted and covered in dirt remained. And three arrows. Splintered and broken with age. But visible, sticking through the man's torso.

The corpse stopped, standing on the edge of the light, lurching forwards on poor balance, hints of bone showing through legs. From under a bandanna, now practically scrap, the jaw of the man rattled.

"Oh did I spook you? Terribly sorry mate. Old manners of mine."

The man tilted his head, long since decayed eyes replaced with the same dull glow in his eye sockets, wavered as they found themselves looking up. The man lurched forward, raising an arm, pointing to his hat.

"Oh no wonder! Yer fancy rabble. I used to rob blokes like you on the roads."

He was angry, suddenly. He didn't really know why. Maybe it was the man, standing close to him, making presumptions about him when he didn't even know him. A man, a robber, talking so freely as if he were still alive. He found himself slipping his hat off.

"So what's this then? You coming to rob me? I guess you tried to shank Cromwell but never got the chance because you're just a shuffler!"

He tossed his hat over to the corpse.

"Take it. That's the most expensive thing I've got on me."

The corpse lurched as he looked down at the hat in the mud. In some attempt to bend down to pick the hat up, his knees gave out and the man fell, now sitting in the mud. A long sigh passed his jaws as the man picked up the hat with skeletal hands, wiping mud away.

"You know, it's funny. I used to rob people over things like this. I killed them for even less."

The corpse held out the hat to him.

"I used to joke, with me mates. Dress up in fancy clothes. Make myself look like something I wasn't. No. I never tried to shank Crom. He was a right smart bugger. I tried....working out some problems of mine with him."

The corpse let the hat rest in his lap when no advances were made to take the hat back.

"I was hoping I could talk to him about something I thought about. I saw yer lantern. Thought it was Crom being strange."

He looked down at the man, sitting in the mud. And he felt like a fool.

"I'm sorry. Cromwell's passed away. That's why I'm here."

The corpse nodded.

"It was coming, one day. That old bugger. Figure's I'd miss the chance to talk about something important with him."

"What'd you want to talk about?"

The corpse looked down at the hat in his lap.

"A lot of blokes and lasses buried here. Even I got buried here and I'm a damn road robber. This place is too good for me. No gravestone for me. But maybe for the people I shanked. Killed, I mean."

"You know their names?"

"Yeah. I gave old Crom a list. But.....I'm just wondering."

The corpse turned the hat in his hands.

"You think they'll accept my apology?"

Silence filled the night. Wisps fluttered about the lantern hanging from his back. He didn't know what to say. And before he could even say that, the corpse spoke again.

"Yeah, see. Even you don't know. Crom didn't either. But, I mean......I'm dead now too, I guess. I robbed people for fancy trinkets and look what it got me."

The man looked up to him.

"And.....what scares me is that they're not mad. They haven't come to laugh at me. Or even mock me. I thought when I died maybe I'd go to some nasty place where all those blokes would be waiting for me. But.....I can't remember...."

He nodded. He had an idea.

"Hey. What if they already did?"

"What you mean by that?"

"What if they already forgave you? And they're just waiting to tell you when you show up? You don't have to find their graves, you know. I mean...what if you're just scared of the apology itself? Like a girl you liked when you were a kid. You wanted to, right? But you just couldn't say it to her face."

The corpse suddenly started laughing, a dry laugh that rattled with his jaw.

"You. You're sharp as a whip kid! What's yer name?"

"It's Tom, sir."

"What's a bloke like you doin' out here? Yer young. Old Crom told me once that most keepers were old."

The corpse struggled, trying to push himself up to his feet. Tom held out a hand. Decay and bone reached out and found his hand. Old dirt, cold. Tom pulled the corpse back up to his feet. The corpse staggered on weak knees briefly.

"I came out here for my own reasons. I wanted to see something. What's your name by the way?"

The corpse held out Tom's hat back to him.

"Wallace. My mates called me Tops. I liked hats."

Tom looked over his hat. He handed it back to Tops.

"Take it. I don't need it."

"You serious mate?"

"Yeah. You've got to look fancy when you're going to say something important right?"

Tops fit the hat over his head slowly with skeletal hands, running his fingers along the ridge.

"Mate. Thank you. I could've used somebody like you when I was still kicking. Course I might've just killed you."

"It's my job right? I'm the new Keeper."

Tops shook his head.

"No mate. I don't know why somebody so young like you is here. I don't know what happened to you to get you here. You shouldn't be watching over sorry old corpses like me. Take my advice. Yer meant for something better. First time meeting you and I'm already calling you a mate like old Crom."

Tom nodded.

"Hey. It's getting late out here. I've still got to light some more lanterns. I'm still learning my way around this place."

Tops looked over Tom's shoulder to the wisps circling the lantern behind him, waving a bony arm in their direction.

"Bunch of no good little buggers is what they are. You get body freeze from any of them yet?"

"Yeah. Two days ago."

Tops laughed dryly again.

"You're a right brave bugger to be up and about so soon. Smart too. Crom never used a lantern like that. Always used a normal one. They don't last out here in the fog."

Tops turned his head, looking out into the dark. He turned back to Tom, nodding.

"Think I should go now mate. I'm just stalling for time. Wish I was half the man you are. Thank you."

Tops started shuffling off away from Tom, headed back out into the fog. Tom watched him go in silence, before suddenly realizing he wanted to ask something important.

"Hey, Tops. What's it like?"

Tops stopped.

"What's what like?"

"You know....after you're....dead."

"I dunno mate. Can't remember. I wake up here and it's like I was never gone."

"Can you do me a favor then?"

"Hell mate I'd go drinking with you if I could. Sure."

"If Cromwell's there. Tell him thanks for the notes."

"Will do mate. Watch yourself out here now. It's not all rosy like me."

Tops lifted his hat up into the air before setting it back down on his head, shuffling off into the darkness beyond the lantern. Tom watched him go until he saw nothing and heard no more shuffling. He nodded to himself quietly. He'd been out here for a while. And things felt different again. All very surreal. With a slow exhale he stepped forward. Time to finish the lanterns for tonight.

The next few days were quiet. And Tom started to develop a routine. He was learning his way around the cemetery now. Every night mainly, he'd light the lanterns across the expanse of graves and tombs. It had been roughly a week and a half since he first showed up here now, and for once he had the company of the living over.

The man who'd quickly left on the night he'd first arrived came back to take a shopping list of supplies. The job of a Gravekeeper of Coldshore was funded no money. But it was goodwill itself that gave supplies to this remote location. Shops and places from Coldshore Harbor. It was sort of a silent agreement for everybody. The Gravekeeper kept the dead quiet and orderly, confined to the cemetery. And the residents of the harbor supplied the means for the keeper to continue doing so.

The man was still in a hurry to leave just like before, and so after receiving Tom's list, did so promptly. Which left Tom some free time, for once. He wasn't under the weather. Wasn't scared stiff to go outside. So he began exploring the cemetery under the fairer fog of daylight.

The cemetery, despite seemingly being surrounded by a permanent shroud of fog, was still actually rather nice. It was in the middle of a forest, surrounded by trees. And despite the graves piling up, old stubborn trees still found a way to grow within the confines along with plenty of grass. Tom could easily imagine this forest appearing more welcoming if it didn't have a permanent shroud of fog and dampness to it.

He walked the old paths through graves winding and twisting, up hills, around hills. There were ancient monuments here, in some places. Relics from another time long before this one, from wars or conflicts. And he found it all very strange, thinking about it. Remembering his conversation in the night.

Tops had little to no clothes left. Was practically bones. His armour was rusted through and through. And, when he was alive, he had been killed with arrows. Tom thought about it. Warfare came in many forms. And while arrows were not uncommon, they had been overshadowed by firearms. Guns with their explosive powder and impressive display of force.

Then again, it was only large, crowded settlements that seemed able to produce guns in ample supply. Smaller settlements, like Coldshore Harbor wouldn't have much in the way of firearms unless they were expensively imported. How old must Tops have been?

How long had that guilt of what he'd done stayed with him?

It was something rather frightening to think about for Tom. He didn't understand the undead. Why? Why come back? Because surely, if they came back, then there had to be something after death. Couldn't there? Under the shadow of an old monument, sitting on the base, he looked out to the fog and the graves.

Tops had said that he didn't remember, what there was. And in truth, Tops seemed disoriented himself to even be back here. Unless.....what if souls that returned just hadn't fully moved on yet? What if they were caught between worlds? Coldshore Cemetery itself seemed to be a blurred, veiled line between worlds. Tom could see it, right there, in the fog, across the graves, the monuments, the crypts.

This place.....was cracked. A sliver between barriers. But why? Why were there so much dead here, when compared to every other part of the world? No priest in the city ever had to watch over graves to the extent that Tom's job here warranted. Tom thought about it. Cromwell's description of a Banshee.

A weight on a bed. A depression that trapped or caught things. Tom suddenly had it. The maiden. What had Cromwell's notes said? All the dead here claimed that she was already here when they arrived. So far, Cromwell's notes had proven trustworthy to him, if not, a little bit disorganized.

Suddenly, Tom was curious. Suddenly, he found himself thinking up questions and ideas. He could agree that if a soul came back to this world, it was because of something powerful. Emotion. And he could agree that even though a soul had to be strong to pass through the barriers, he knew that the life force was only temporary. Which is why some undead became Banshees.

But, who, or what was the maiden?

Tom stood up, taking one last look around through the thinner set veil of the day's fog. Cromwell had explicitly stated, to avoid the maiden. Tom mused on that.

That old man. How could he know so much about the going on's of this place?

That old man had to have taken chances.

Tom was going to try his luck tonight.

Wisps trailed behind Tom as he carried the blue lantern on the scythe supported on his shoulder. It was cold again. Dark and damp. And there was rainfall yet again. Tom's sentiments about his hat came around to greet him tonight. But as he walked, in the dark, he began talking.

"You know, I hear you've got a lot of names. The maiden in black. Singer in the twilight. Lonely widow. And, I think, that you're watching."

Tom continued along the path.

"I don't know, about you. But there was a person here before me, who did a lot of investigating. And, he thought your appearance was...a defense. A trick. And going on what I know about you in person....you scared the living hell out of me."

Tom stopped in the rain, turning his head back to look at the wisps gathered around his lantern.

"But you didn't kill me. Really....I think you saved my life. Which means you're not like what you try to appear as."

Tom smiled.

"You know, that old man. The Keeper before me. He had a lot of ideas about you. Funny enough though, I've got a feeling that he didn't act much on what he thought about."

Tom felt it. A chill in the air. Colder than the rest of the night. His heart began to hammer.

"But me? Well, you know, I learned that to get anything done you had to actually get up and do things. Take a look at me. I'm young. Especially for a Gravekeeper. Most keepers stay here for the remainder of their lives. So I'm going to be here for a while. And I'm going to keep asking questions to things I'm curious about."

The temperature dropped further, his breath becoming visible and the hairs on the back of Tom's neck stood up. There was silence. The patter of rainfall. But he felt it. He closed his eyes. His heart hammered and he felt it. Every single bone in his body told him to run. He remembered the door. The knocks. And in hushed breath, he counted quietly.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Tom turned on the spot, opening them against the blackness. And there it was again. Reality. The realization of just what stood before him. Stood tall above him in the night. Black robes. A black hood. Pale, thin hands that reached out to the wisps that were drawn to it. Tom stared, beginning to find more details. The maiden's hood stared down at him, the black void gnawing at him. But he finally stuttered something out.

"Well."

He remembered the voice. The voice that had sung the song. It was strange to actually hear words from the figure. And not only that, but words which were clear spoken. Not dry or raspy. They were starkly....alive.

"You ask questions to which you should not. But you, indeed, could have many things asked about yourself."

"Why are you here?"

"Why are you?"

Tom stared into the dark hood as rain pattered down on it.

"I'm here for my own interests."

"As could be said of me."

Tom shook his head.

"It doesn't work like that. You're dead. You're not supposed to be able to survive for this long unless you're like one of those Banshees you're trying to imitate."

The maiden's hood tilted.

"And who are you to judge that I do feed upon my own kin?"

One of the maiden's pale skeletal hands grasped at the wisps floating around her. Tom watched as the small ball of light simply circled around the skeletal hand aimlessly.

"We are all one in the same. Dead, or not."

The maiden's hood leered down at Tom.

"I pose a question for you, and to you. I ask, why one as young as you, walks these grounds under the oath? And I pose you the question. What do the Keeper's eyes watch?"

Before Tom could say anything, the black hooded being before him, simply, and suddenly phased away. The dark cloak that moved as if it were alive became thin air, leaving behind the wisps, who quickly drifted back to Tom's lantern, now the only source for them to go to.

Tom was left out in the rain, almost warm in the cold rain itself as the overpowering icy chill of what he'd just encountered, faded.

He couldn't sleep properly. He stayed up all night. This. This was something new. This was tremendously exciting. This....was all his. There were no notes. No hints, no....help of any kind. And the question posed by the maiden. It was so painfully simple that he knew the first answer that came to him was wrong.

What did the Keeper's eyes watch?

He was the new Gravekeeper. Cromwell was a Gravekeeper. It was such a broad question. A keeper watched over the dead. Unless it was Cromwell. Cromwell would be watching something else. He paused on that. Watching something else....

Outside, in the early dawn of the fog, Tom heard the sound of a horse's protest. He looked out the window to the outside world.

Company.

Coldshore was now under the habit of doing things to Tom. Changing his perception of things. Or, maybe, just slapping him upside the head with reality. A corpse. Tied and bundled into a bag. Hung from the gallows, if he were to believe the driver of the wagon.

And it was Tom's job to dispose of the body. All this running around with the dead. And he'd completely forgotten about the outside world beyond this place. Forgot that people, did ugly things. Terribly ugly. And now Tom's day was spent in labor as he hauled a corpse with him, over his shoulder.

A tiring affair, winding through the murky hills and paths of the cemetery. It seemed like he couldn't find anywhere to go that wasn't already taken. But Tom was adamant about continuing on. Even after breaks, retreats back to the old cottage for something to eat.

He spent the majority of the day, searching aimlessly. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do. The entire area of Coldshore, all the way up to the perimeter walls and their high iron barred fences and stone walls, was packed.

Sitting at the table in the cottage over tea and a sandwich, Tom started to look through Cromwell's notes again.

_ This was an inevitability, really. With so many dead being buried at Coldshore over the centuries, and being unable to expand the cemetery beyond the warded walls for fear of being unable to replicate the sealing wards and their ancient magic, I can safely say that Coldshore has no more free room for graves._

On the surface.

I admit. I am, deathly afraid of going down into the crypts again. I know, that beyond the surface of the cemetery, there are crypts. So, so very far below the earth. They wind, and twist, endlessly. Into the dark. There is space in the crypts. There is always room.

_ And if one goes far enough, is brave enough, and is lucky enough or unfortunate enough to find their way. The pit. In the winding crypts, there is the pit. It is....enormous. And that is what I fear. What resides at the bottom. For when one throws a corpse down into the pit. There is no return sound._

_ I've stood, on the edge of darkness for over five minutes to no return sound of any echoes from the bottom. That pit. It frightens me so. More than the dead who prowl the crypts. The shambling corpses, in a psychotic rage. Angry at the dark, raging, I could say from being afraid._

I know that I am afraid to go down there again. And yet.

I know that I will overcome it. Because what frightens me most is what I would have to return to, if I were to leave this job.

To any who may read this. Please be wary of what lurks in the dark of the crypts. Be aware, at all times of your surroundings. And I pray that you never stand on the edge of the abyss and look into that yawning pit of dark.

Because I believe that it watches you back.

Tom paused on his lunch. This was the first time Cromwell had written anything so....personal. His words seemed...younger. He looked around for the date on the parchment but it seemed that Cromwell had a habit of not signing the date. Tom looked through the letter and his eyes found that simple line.

Cromwell was afraid of the crypts. The dark. Why? Why would that old man be more terrified of leaving this job and returning out to the world, rather than facing something that Tom himself suddenly found dread in thinking about?

And suddenly, it clicked.

What do the Keeper's eyes watch?

Tom sat at the base of an ancient memorial, a shadow cast on him by the great old statue, worn down now, so that the old soldier standing before him was unrecognizable in features. Wisps swirled around his lantern as his scythe rested on his shoulder. He looked out into the murky fog with a smile, out to the ancient trees swaying in the wind, old and ancient willows.

"What do the Keeper's eyes watch?"

Tom looked all around him.

"The keeper's eyes, watch the graves. The Keeper's eyes, watch over the dead."

Tom looked at his back to watch the wisps circling his lantern.

"But the dead see things too. My first day here. A dead man, knocked on my door. And he took my pocket watch. Another man, saw my lantern at night. And wanted to ask me a question."

Tom felt the air chill.

"But this job. It isn't all cheery. The dead aren't supposed to come back. So a Keeper, watches out for them. To.....put them back to rest. But a keeper can still be killed. When they shouldn't. The dead, shouldn't kill the living."

Tom smiled as he felt hair stand up.

"So what do the Keeper's eyes watch? The Keeper's eyes watch the dead, and put them back to rest. And the Keeper's eyes watch the living. And keep them as they should be. Living."

Something grasped his shoulder. Slender. Cold. It was like ice. He turned his head to find the black robed woman sitting next to him. He couldn't see under the hood, as usual. And the many layered dark robes hid what was under them. But the voice was strongly alive.

"Very, very good. You're the first one to figure it out. Congratulations, scholar."

Tom couldn't believe it. He figured he knew. But hearing it. Seeing it.

"You're a Keeper. You're a keeper like me and you never told anybody?"

"We all have secrets."

"But why? Why....never tell anybody? Why not tell them they had somebody watching their back? A partner?"

"For the very same reason you carry your own secrets. There are some things, best left unspoken."

Tom continued to look over the figure next to him.

"How long have you been here?"

The maiden chuckled.

"Longer than one would say is healthy."

"You're telling me you've been here all this time. And nobody's ever just talked to you? Like they could talk to any others here?"

The maiden tilted her hood.

"Even the illusion of fear makes a powerful ward against prying eyes. No. There were some who came close. Your predecessor, was one such case."

Tom looked out to the graves beyond.

"What are you, exactly?"

"What do your eyes tell you, exactly?"

Tom turned back. Black robes. Twisting at the maiden's feet. A hood that covered all. Pale skeletal hands.

"You were alive. You're a person. But you're not like other dead here. You're.....under oath?"

"The oath you take as a Gravekeeper is less restricting in life than it is in death. The oath you recite in death is a curse."

"A curse?"

"Curses cut deeply into the soul. What a better way to curse a soul than to curse it with undeath?"

Tom paused.

"Why?"

"A broad question."

"Why......why take that oath? I've only been here for a few weeks. And I know that the ones who come back do so with good reason."

The maiden paused.

"Some things are better left undisturbed."

"Fair enough."

Tom's eyes wandered and trailed after the wisps that now circled around the maiden.

"So what happens now?"

The dark hood turned on Tom.

"The veil is broken. The guise, lost. It is best, if we do not found our knowing of each other on lies and deceit."

Cold hands raised and grasped the hood, pulling it down. Shadows shattered and Tom was met with reality again. The face of a woman, long since dead. Yet...preserved. Somewhat sunken. Almost....hollow. But intact. Like it was locked in place. Thin and pale of skin, having sunk far, but untouched by decay and time. The token bright light of the source that kept her mortal frame moving escaped through her eye sockets.

Long flowing black hair and lips that still managed to remain although withered, smiled as the maiden held out a pale hand to Tom.

"Lies only work to conceal. Now the truth has come to light. Do you accept a partnership?"

Tom looked into the otherwise empty sockets beyond the dim resilient glow that resided in them. Tom held out his hand warily.

"Only if we actually work together on what we're supposed to do."

Tom paused before reaching the maiden's hand.

"I need some help."

"I know."

"The crypts. I don't know what I'm getting into."

The maiden tilted her head again, smiling.

"Neither did you when you decided to test your luck on me."

"I had a good feeling."

The maiden nodded with a smile.

"How optimistically brave of you."

"I was just curious, really."

Tom reached out to the skeletal hand and clasped it, shaking. Cold seeped into his hand and wanted to work its way up his arm.

"Tom, by the way."

"Of all the names given by those to name me. I liked Singer in the Twilight. Call me Singer."

Tom held his grip despite the chill creeping up his arm.

"Glad you weren't a Banshee, Singer."

"Pleased you were curiously bold, Tom."

The shake ended and Tom closed his hand in the wake of the cold sting.

"Right. Should we get going then? To the crypts?"

Singer stood from her spot beside Tom on the base of the old statue looming over the two.

"When you are ready, I shall join you."

Tom nodded, picking up his scythe and holding it over his shoulder to leave the lantern dangling behind him.

"Okay then."

Dark stairs leading nowhere but down beckoned to Tom. Light vanished with every step downwards, which was slow and carefully placed as he hefted a sack weighing roughly the weight of a man over his shoulders. Tom spoke to find his voice bounce off the stone around him.

"So. What's it like?"

Singer strayed behind Tom, always, boasting a trail of wisps with her.

"Another broad question."

"Undeath."

"Have you ever fallen? Lost your way and then caught yourself before falling completely?"

"You're catching yourself?"

"In a manner. Picture that feeling of fighting for balance. That is my existence."

Tom chuckled.

"Sounds like everyday life to me."

"Permanent rejection can grow tiresome. Imagine always being on the edge, but being stopped. One wishes to fall and jump. To feel that rush. But one cannot."

"The others who come back seem to miss it more."

"Yearning and nostalgia, can be quite enjoyable."

"So how do you do it? Stay here, all this time?"

"Pleasant company."

Tom smiled.

"Singing in the twilight."

More darkness clawed at Tom and eventually, he found the bottom of the stairs. Before him stood an engraved stone archway, a wide entrance leading into more darkness. Tom sighed heavily. Maybe he was tired from what he was hauling around all day. Maybe he was afraid.

"I've just realized that the dead outnumber me."

Singer stepped alongside Tom.

"You say that as if they are different from you."

Singer stepped forwards ahead of Tom, leading the way into the crypts. Tom pushed forwards.

"Thank you. For helping me. I don't like it down here."

Wisps trailed past Tom after Singer as she walked ahead slowly.

"Thank you for being honest to me. I agree. This place is foreboding. Even to one such as me."

"We don't have to go far right? Just find a spot and we can leave?"

"If such things opt to remain simple. Yes."

Singer pushed forwards, leading the way into the tombs with her ever present collection of bright followers, as did Tom, steadying himself. He wasn't alone to do this. And maybe, that frightened him. Surrounded by the dead, down here in the dark.

Singer and Tom pressed into the crypts, rows upon rows of carved notches in solid stone on all sides towering up to impossible heights of sheer darkness. Countless numbers of bones filled every notch. Sometimes there were coffins. Old decayed wrappings. Tom was tired. But kept his heavy breath slow and quiet.

He felt.....wrong. This place was hallowed ground. He felt like something watched him down here. Like he was a walking torch, a beacon. Tom spoke quietly as Singer led the way, watching her black robes twist and curl along as she walked.

"Hey. Is there some reason it feels so.....bad down here?"

Singer paused, turning back to Tom under the light of the wisps that had followed her.

"This place is ancient. It has known death for a very long time. It is unwelcoming to the living."

Tom set the sack on his shoulder down, leaning against an available patch of stone wall at his side.

"How old, exactly?"

"It was here when I tended to the graves."

Tom could see his breath down here.

"You're fond of being vague aren't you?"

Singer smiled.

"You're fond of asking broad questions."

Tom shrugged.

"What c-"

In the dark of the towering crypts a howl reverberated through stone. It echoed far, washing over Tom. It was no howl. He felt it. Guttural, pure unrestrained anger. Rage at the dark. Tom stood up immediately.

"I take it we should hurry. I've no weapon on me. I couldn't carry a body and a scythe at the same time."

Singer's empty sockets turned their gaze to the darkness ahead.

"They feel your presence. They already know where you are."

Tom froze.

"What do we do?"

A roar, a scream in the dark followed by the agonizing sound of nails being forcefully dragged across stone.

"You run."

Tom looked behind him into the dark.

"I'll never make it. I can't see down here."

Tom was starting to panic. The screams and howls of more joined the first. They were getting louder. Tom saw his breath, stronger now, rising up in the cold dark. His eyes fell over Singer. She wasn't worried. There was no hint of fear or urgency in her dead composure. Something clicked.

Banshees. Weight on a bed sheet. The dead were like wells. Imprints. Tom looked forwards down the tunnel.

"Singer. They know where I am. What about you?"

"They are aware. But I am dead. They will leave me to my peace."

Tom nodded.

The dead were imprints. The living......had to be the opposite. Upward slopes. Positive and negative. Tom spoke hurriedly.

"Singer. I need your help. Grab me!"

Tom stepped over to her in the dark. He felt the chill in the air the closer he got. Singer tilted her eyeless head, managing raised eyebrows as the lights in her sockets flickered. Tom pushed forward, up to Singer, stopping just short of face to face. The roars and horrid sound of limbs scraping or bashing the walls in uncontained senselessness echoed loudly, almost deafening. Tom was matched eye to eye with Singer.

"The dead are negatives. Living are positives. They're coming because they can feel me right?"

Tom looked desperately at Singer.

"Right!?"

A smile creased her lips.

"Quite the scholar, you are. You are aware of what this means?"

Tom nodded.

"You're going to snuff my heat."

"This might not work."

"Better than being dead."

"This might make you dead."

Tom smiled.

"At least I'll have pleasant company right?"

Ice water filled him completely. A cold so deep that it almost burned. The screams and uncontained rage of the dead bodies around him, shambling in anger, the only burning fire left in them, became background noise. The light of the wisps had vanished, the small, frail and pallid souls fleeing in the wake of what had frightened them.

Dark and cold claimed Tom. Cold arms wrapped around him pulling him tight. Singer's dark robes enveloped him. It was like huddling for warmth to stave off a cold death. Now twisted on itself, huddling to the cold of death to hide from death itself.

Tom was numb. His sense of time vanished. He didn't know how long it was. How long the shambling of the corpses persisted as they searched desperately for that source of heat and life that they were jealous of. Rage, in the dark, vanished and Tom found himself somewhere else. The tranquility of cold.

He had pushed himself as close as possible. Made every attempt to snuff his heat out. Under the robes of twilight, he was aware of Singer's body. Sunken. Cold. But intact. The still defined shape of hips that his arms managed to rest on as he found her back and clutched tightly.

There was silence, in here, in this coupling. A stillness of cold. Beyond the rage and echoes the world began to vanish. It was.....so, very, very dark. He could see one thing though, in the twilight. The life force that endured in Singer's eye sockets. Resiliently pale. Even this.....pocket of safety was going dark.

He was aware of his breath, so cold, his face, so close to hers, but the stillness of air, a reminder of their positions on the scales of life. For the last fleeting seconds, he surrendered. A push forwards, to the still gentle lips that remained beyond death. Let one, last breath escape and felt it, Singer's lips and body clinging to his warmth in desperation and acceptance of what he was giving.

The dark found him.

Up and down. Up and down. An old, familiar feeling. Air, coming in, going out. Warmth. So warm and soft. The howl of winds, the patter of rain. Tom opened his eyes. Orange. The orange glow of the stove, the flames visible and bright through the caged door.

Light, flickering and resilient in the dark of the night outside danced across the cottage. The fire was hot. Warm and comforting. The bed was accepting. Pulled him down into the soft material and made him feel so heavy. A deep breath and Tom closed his eyes. He could stay like this, for a while.

Sleep was good.

A quill scratched on paper. The writings of thoughts that had suddenly claimed Tom after he woke up when he was no longer cold or shivering. It had been a few weeks now. Since he'd gone down there. He'd not seen Singer since. And he admitted to himself. He was afraid to.

He was content with the quiet that had overtaken the cemetery. There had been no disturbances. Tom had only to light the lanterns along the winding hills of graves and trees, and then return to his home cottage near the great iron barred gates.

While his memory lingered of the experience down in the dark of the crypts, something else, pulled at him. His realization. Cromwell was right. He was...absolutely right. It wasn't only, supposedly Banshees. All of the dead who returned to this world emanated a coldness.

A decline in the scales. And it seemed as if, the stronger, the more resilient of the undead boasted a wider range. A stronger field. And the living. The living were the opposing end of the scales. Heat and life. Cold and death. Tom needed to write it down. He needed to write the experience down. Of what he remembered.

Of how Singer's stronger aura snuffed and consumed his, making him undetectable to the shambles of dead men who raged tirelessly and coveted what they sensed. Tom, suddenly had a muse. He started thinking. Long since dead had no eyes. The softer parts of Humans eroded quickly. But their sockets were filled with the lingering flame and light of the soul.

Perhaps the undead saw the world differently. Not in the sense that he did, with light and colour and objects. But a sense that went beyond the eyes. It was suddenly fascinating to him. The Undead were always a mystery. And Tom, suddenly felt as if he'd stumbled onto something enormous. Cromwell had merely scratched the surface.

But there were other questions. Other, muses. Other things to look at. One of them was Singer. He remembered, vaguely. The fear. The suffocating darkness of the crypts and the shiver on his spine when nails, fingers of bone scraped against stone.

And the tranquility. He felt that. Like he was on the very edge of the end. And in those last moments, he did something.

He knew what it was. Remembered the feeling.

He wasn't sure why. And once more, that was unsettling to him.

Singer was dead. Long since dead. Only enduring because of her self-afflicted curse she had made in death. Preserved in some remnant of what she was before.

Tom paused in his scribbles.

There was something more here. He wanted to know.

The usual damp, cold weather persisted as usual. Fog and mist shrouding the cemetery. Tom had become accustomed by now. But he'd never really looked too far into the cemetery. Today's curiosity was the walls. Immense stone bases, with tall iron bars embedded all around. Every so often, there where pillars. Pillars of great stone.

The brush of a hand to wipe away cold moss or grime revealed etchings. Carvings that were ancient and weathered. Cromwell had called these the wards. Wards to keep the dead inside the perimeter from escaping. Tom knew little about the old arts. And so inspecting the walls themselves and gawking at ancient runes did nothing for him.

Other than make him realize where it all led back to. Walls to keep the dead contained. Scales, positive and negative. Singer, the eternal, silent guardian.

Singer. It all pointed to her.

Tom resigned himself to it. One way, or another, he had to talk to her again. Why was he so spooked anyway? What happened down there.....delirium. Simple delirium. Tom sighed, resting against one of the large stone pillars around the wall, resting his scythe against the wall.

"It's been a while since I've talked to you. Thank you for saving my life."

Tom looked over the visible graves in the mist around him.

"And thank you, for leaving me back at the cottage. I didn't even know you could do things like that."

Silence.

"But something's going on here. There is something, you're not telling me. There is,something here."

Cold shivers met Tom and he smiled. Singer appeared from thin air in front of him. But something was different now. Her hood was up again.

"There is something here the both of us hide. Of what manner of secret are you so reluctant to share?"

Tom tilted his head.

"Is this place a prison?"

"Is this place special to you?"

"You first, Singer. I know more about what's going on here than anybody else before me. I know more about you, than you know of me."

"Don't make such bold claims in ignorance, Tom."

Tom crossed his arms. Singer crossed her own pale arms under the sleeves of her robes.

"Okay. Fine. A deal. No hiding from me. No hiding from you."

Tom held out his hand. Singer tilted her hood but eventually extended a pale hand forwards. The grip was soft. Kept brief as ice stung Tom's hand.

"Is this place a prison?"

"Yes."

"Is it for you?"

Singer paused.

"No."

"No?"

"I am true to my word, Tom. I am a Gravekeeper of Coldshore in death. That is my oath. My oath, was the first."

"Do you mean....."

"I was the first. When Coldshore Harbor was founded."

Tom rested his head back on the stone wall in surprise.

"When Coldshore was founded, when it just started its beginnings. People found this place. It was already old, and ancient. Souls were already being drawn here. It was already a graveyard."

"I....don't understand."

"The old arts, Tom. My people, knew more of them than what people do today. They saw the wards in the walls. They saw the crypts and how they were constructed. They knew, this place was a prison. Scholars searched, and searched for answers. History, was not easily unburied."

"What did they find?"

"Legends. A telling of the days to come when what writhes deep below rises again."

"That doesn't explain....well, you."

"The academic world puzzled over the discovery. But they were concerned. Concerned for the future. I.....volunteered. I was the first watcher and keeper of the dead here."

"But, your curse...."

"I know not what lies below. But I do know that what it is, is dead. It is dead and it is consolidating its strength. I, am the answer to when the day comes."

Tom paused. Shook his head. He wasn't expecting this. Singer motioned at herself.

"The only way the dead can sustain themselves is through consuming the dead, or the living. Or, like me. A curse upon my soul. I am, cursed. I am, a barrier. The last barrier. My soul cannot be claimed by the hands of a banshee. It cannot fully be erased and claimed by death."

Tom looked into Singer's hood.

"You're the gate guard. The last man standing. When everything else fails....."

"I will not let what slumbers below, go without a fight."

"Singer. I'm...sorry. Why? Why did you volunteer?"

"Those reasons. Who I was. It does not matter now. All that matters is that I am here. But what intrigues me, is why you're here. You are not fit, to be a keeper of the graves. You are kind. But you are also, sharp of mind. Keepers, should not ask such questions."

Tom sighed.

"I was looking for somebody."

"And you thought you'd find them here?"

"Yes. I thought....maybe the graves. I could find them."

"What would drive you so far to come here in search of somebody?"

"I had questions to ask them. I wanted to know some things that are important to me."

Singer, without warning, lowered her hood, to show Tom a smile across her sunken features.

"And it seems since they weren't here, you decided to ask other questions instead."

Tom smiled back.

"Yeah. Yeah I did."

"Then I've a question for you, scholar. How fast, can you run?"

Tom raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Something scraped against stone to the side of Tom. Metal and wood. He turned his attention to the sound and stood upright from leaning against the wall to being dumbstruck as he reached out at the sight in protest.

A corpse. A shambling collection of bones, and wrapped up bandages, was now hurriedly running away with his scythe. The metal blade clanking along graves as the corpse dragged it along behind it as it hurried, amazingly quickly, away from Tom.

Tom turned his head back to Singer, who still boasted a smile. He pointed out to the corpse which was still shambling away.

"I need that...."

Singer continued to smile.

"I know."

"I mean, I need that. I really need that."

Singer waved a pale hand after the shambling corpse.

"Fetch, scholar!"

Tom broke off into a run with a smile as he looked at Singer one last time. The pale undead let slip a sound he'd never heard before. Short and brief on her sing song voice.

A chuckle.

Tom ran as fast as his legs would move, and yet the corpse ahead of him, merely a pile of mummified bandages was outpacing him in hunched shambles on all fours as it towed his scythe along with it. He was partially laughing as he ran, struggling to keep up. Unbelievable to him was the speed and life displayed.

Winding and twisting through graves, the corpse would suddenly change direction, being able to scramble over tombstones or statues with the same remarkable agility and speed as on the ground. Tom's breath was heavy as he chased after the corpse, fearing that if he let it go he'd lose his scythe to wherever the corpse took it.

The chase would slow as Tom would grow winded. And the shamble of bandages would stop. Slink behind a gravestone and leer out at him with empty sockets and a loosely hanging jaw of bone held by bandages. It was playing him. Tom would lunge and the corpse would move quickly, outpacing him but then slinking behind another grave to peer out at him or hide itself completely but leave his scythe sticking out.

A combination of frustration tugged at Tom as the corpse seemingly had no end to its games of hide and seek or tag. But laughter escaped him too. The senseless shambles and stumbles to its movements. The fact that it seemed so happy to see him as it would poke its bandaged skull out beyond the cover it was hiding behind.

A mere skull with empty sockets and nothing more managed to convey to Tom that it was so, so very excited and happy to play with him. Happy that Tom was there. Tom, eventually played along. Peeking out from around a statue to see the corpse on the other side, before quickly rounding the other corner to catch it in surprise.

A game of back and forth across the cemetery lasted for some time, until finally, in a burst of speed, up a hill along a path, the corpse out sped Tom on all fours and disappeared into the fog. Tom walked along, tired, following the path of dirt through the graves and into a patch of ancient trees. Gnarled roots and twisted bark thickened as long draping leaves welcomed Tom into a quieter part of the cemetery.

Graves still crowded around the trees but this particular area was surprising to him. It took on a tranquil peace that seemed uncommon for the rest of the gloom behind him. Tom followed the path, and eventually, found its end. A burial house, or collection of them. Through the thinning fog sunlight made its presence known to Tom through the trees, late evening rays warm and orange as the sun set.

Not far beyond, the shamble of bandages and bones rested on all fours outside a crypt house, the old stone doors left open. The glow in the sockets of bone was fading. Tom paused. His scythe was resting against the wall of the house. The evening glow of the setting sun was casting shadows over the roof of the stone burial house. The corpse had now taken to resting against the wall as it sat down. Tom froze, now. He realized it. And it paralyzed him.

The fading of the day. This....strange spot in the cemetery that was clearer, warmer than the rest. The setting sun and now, suddenly, the absent wake of excitement and happiness to the corpse. It was...fading. Tom turned away from the sight. One of his hands found their way up to his mouth and he stood, looking away as some terrible feeling overwhelmed him.

The air chilled and Singer appeared in front of him, the light in her own sockets unwavering.

"Everything ends, Tom. Life must move on. Come. We, as keepers, shall put this one to rest."

Singer strode past Tom in silence towards the burial house, and Tom, reluctantly followed. The corpse rose in composure as the two approached, reaching out to the scythe at its side, holding it out to Tom with a glee in the light of its skull, a dear, silent thank you. Shaking hands grasped the wooden handle as Tom took it back.

With every passing moment as the sun faded, the corpse slowed. The flickering light in its sockets grew dim and wavered. Singer knelt down at its side as Tom felt helpless only to watch in silence. He didn't know why it was so painful to see. That happiness and excitement, ending. Singer placed a hand atop the skull of the corpse.

"Shhhh. Rest now. Sleep soundly. Close your eyes, and go to sleep."

Singer's enduring, smooth voice began a hum. A gentle tune that was slow and relaxing. A lullaby as the last rays of sunlight faded, twilight encompassing the sun now. Her tune, gentle and warm, of slow rises that seemed to comfort like a blanket, persisted, until the last of the light vanished. One final heave of bones from the corpse, a rise in the chest like a great sigh of goodnight.

And the light, ended.

It was Singer who returned the dead one to rest, retiring the shamble of bones and bandages to its ancient stone coffin inside the small crypt house, and Tom, who reluctantly pulled on the stone handles of the ancient doors to close them. Some sense of loss, claimed him. A regret.

But he left the stone door open, just slightly. Enough so that dead hands, stronger than any would have expected, could pull the door open to say hello to the world again, one day. In the wake of the sun disappearing, stars became visible in the sky. A sight that, Tom, admittedly, hadn't seen in a long time.

Through either the great crowds of cities and villages with their lamps and fire to keep the night at bay, or to the oppressive shroud of fog around the cemetery along with its gloomy weather. Tom clutched at his scythe as he leaned against it, watching the night sky.

"How can you do it, Singer?"

The dead woman beside him turned her sunken face to the sky beyond.

"How do we do anything that we do? Motivation. Emotion, transcends death Tom."

"But it doesn't beat it."

"There is no, "beating it."

"What about your curse?"

"My body is sunken. Pale and lifeless. My soul, is tethered to it. Denied from going all the way. And yet I am still, dead. I feel the call, every day, and every night. Slumber. The end. I care not for the world beyond here for it has no meaning to me. I am dead."

"And what about what's down there?"

"What slumbers is like any other. Feebly clinging to what it can no longer truly possess."

"Why? Why do they come back?"

"I cannot see beyond the black veil. I know not what resides on the other side to make them consider the merits of this world."

Tom chuckled.

"Tops. He said he didn't remember. It's a gamble, then."

"All our endeavors are. My curse. Your questions."

Tom leaned against his scythe, watching the stars in the black sky.

"Singer. Down there...."

"I understand."

"What do you mean?"

"I understand, Tom. Whatever your reason. I understand it."

"I don't."

"And so the scholar meets his match."

Singer turned her gaze back down to Tom, smiling across her features. The dim glow of her "eyes" cast shadows across her pale face. Tom looked down, away from the stars.

"Is it fair to feel like I'd known you my whole life when I only just first met you?"

"You forget about our first meeting."

"You scared me half to death."

"Isn't that how it always goes?"

Tom chuckled.

"So what was it then? Down there?"

Singer tilted her head back and forth, boasting a quaint smile.

"Call it a date, if you will."

"I'd have called it verge of dying desperation."

Singer outwardly laughed.

"Then, indeed, not a bad first date. I saved your life. One could only ever wish to start something on such good terms as that."

Tom paused as he squinted.

"Wait. You called it a date?"

"Language and customs are rather enduring."

"No, I mean, you called it a date."

"And?"

"And you say I ask vague questions. You're......not, not opposed with that....?"

"You're the first living person to interact with me in centuries."

Tom chuckled.

"Oh. So I'm just desperation material then?"

"Considering you were the one who kissed me I could say the same of you. Going after a dead one's heart? The very definition of "no challenge."

Tom and Singer paused. Silent smiles built up until it couldn't be held in anymore. A fit of absurd laughter in the night that left Tom clutching his scythe for dear life and Singer having to cover her pale mouth with both small hands. It was, absurd. Crazy to Tom.

But then again, he was the Keeper now. A man whose sole purpose was to watch out for the dead. To take care of them. Maybe it required a special kind of absurdity. To be the lone, living being across vast stretches of hills and forest holding nothing but the dead. It was.....a very private absurdity. And in that private absurdity, Tom found an absence of fear.

In one calm moment he let his scythe fall, in one calm stride that told himself he knew what he was doing, he reached out. Sliding both hands across pale cheeks that had since gone somewhat flat and narrow, through the long dark strands of inky black hair that draped and blended with Singer's robes. Ice burned his hands but he moved quickly, to her surprise.

Another joining as his face pressed close and found those lips again. A burning cold that could snuff every last ounce of his heat out met him again, followed by a serene wake of calm. Singer did not resist and only welcomed him. He felt that pull. The way she tugged at his breath, yearned for it. He couldn't pull away. He wanted that feeling to stay. But it was Singer, who pushed. Gently on his shoulders to break the parting. She was right.

He had gone numb.

But he felt that. Something irresistible no matter how different they were. Opposites had strange ways.

Tom stood at the door to the cottage, the dim fire inside calling to him. Singer had long since attracted more wisps, the two walking back in the light provided by them. Tom stayed on the edge of the doorway in the night.

"So. What happens now?"

Singer absent mindedly handled wisps as they circled around her in the fog.

"Your fondness for vagaries never ceases."

"I think you know what I'm asking."

Singer smiled, playing with the wisps around her.

"I truly am not sure. Why, you could be asking what happens, after you invite me inside. You could be asking what happens, regarding you and me. Maybe, even asking, how?"

"How what?"

Singer smiled coyly.

"What a wonderfully vague question, if left to the imagination."

Tom raised his eyebrows.

"You want me to invite you inside?"

"I never said anything."

Tom smiled.

"Well. We'll figure something out. But, I do however, need sleep for tonight."

Singer crossed her arms together under her sleeves.

"Sleep well, Tom."

"And to you too, Singer."

Wisps began to drift away, as Singer's form faded from view, disappearing into the shrouded night. Tom stared out into the dark fog briefly, smiling.

Time passed once more, days of fog and rain, shadows and murky darkness. The dead would rise, and Tom would do his job. In days of rest, he began writing notes. Theories and all he'd since learned about upon arrival here. And of course. Singer was pleasant company. A constant, across the entire cemetery. Anywhere, anytime.

Such a constant, that Tom felt different now. Perhaps safe. Maybe even content. No longer, so tired and desperate of the world he'd long since fled from. Now a very comfortable position which he could say, he rather enjoyed. Even on the grey days. Like this one.

Rain cooped him up inside. A cold dampness chilling the cemetery. All he felt like doing today was taking things slow. He'd long since added parchment and ink to his list of things to be brought from the harbor, documenting his time here with every free moment. But a sudden knock on his door signaled other plans for the day. Tom spoke, knowing just who exactly it was.

"You know you don't have to knock."

Singer phased through Tom's door and the distinct, now familiar feeling of cold entered Tom's home.

"Is that an invitation to intrude upon private moments?"

Tom looked up from his writing, raising an eyebrow.

"You're wet."

Singer motioned to the window nearby, smiling under her hood.

"It's raining."

Tom set his parchment down.

"No. No. You never....do that normally."

"Never do.....what?"

Tom rolled his eyes.

"Rain. You're drenched. You've got your hood up. That's not like you."

Singer tilted her head.

"I've a question for you scholar."

Tom watched Singer closely, squinting at her.

"Shoot."

"Fog. A permanent shroud of fog."

"Around these parts. It's off Coldshore Harbor. The ocean."

Singer smiled.

"You've got one part of it right."

"Water? That wasn't a question, by the way."

"Correct. The question is, do you want to come with me?"

"Outside? Right now?"

"Perhaps."

Tom shook his head, pointing a finger towards Singer.

"Okay. Fine. Abuse my curiosity."

Singer moved, placing her arms behind her back.

"Is it abuse if you enjoy it?"

Tom stood up from his bed, looking around for his overcoat. He smiled.

"Potentially."

The dampness clung to Tom and sunk into his coat as he followed Singer along through the winding paths of graves and mist. The two kept a steady uphill pace, now passing by gravestones and reaching crowded burial houses.

Tom watched Singer, quietly curious. She was purposefully letting rain affect her. Her robes took on a darker tone in the dampness of the rain and mist. Tom walked along beside her, watching her as she walked. A slight, shambling gait. The shifting of weight from foot to foot. Tom smiled.

"You know, I still haven't figured you out."

Singer tilted her head over slightly.

"I could say the same of you."

"You can pass through things and disappear whenever you please. Reappear whenever you feel like it. And yet you use your feet to walk around. Why not....float?"

Singer paused briefly, before sliding something out from under the black veil she wore all around. Sunken, seemingly frail, and pale. A foot. An ankle. A knee. Tom stopped as Singer used bone like toes to grip the damp earth.

"I can feel the dead all around as I walk. The sensation in the air is not as pleasant."

Singer giggled.

"And have you ever tried keeping yourself looking presentable in robes while being in the wind? The earth is my place of peace Tom."

Singer pressed onwards again, leading Tom along.

"You know for somebody whose dead you've got a lot of....not dead qualities."

"For somebody living you seem rather disconnected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Only if you're in the company of the dead."

"Well. Guess I don't have anything to worry about do I?"

The pair walked through hills and winding rows of burial houses, passing along until they reached an apparent end to their path. Two great, tall stone doors stood in their way, etched into a taller and larger building than the rest around them. Tom looked at the doors.

"Singer. That's an entrance to the crypts...."

"Not quite. It is part of the network. But it is something else."

"What exactly?"

Singer turned to Tom as she walked backwards into the stone doors and passed through them with a smile.

"Come find out."

Tom stood out in the rain, looking over the stone doors.

"That's cheating."

With some effort Tom was able to push past the stone doors, and was met with a surprise. The stone wasn't carved and shaped like the entrance he'd seen previously. It was left untouched, jagged and crooked, left behind, undisturbed for countless years.

Singer was nowhere to be seen but Tom found wisps, floating along absently, providing dim light. Tom followed in their wake and was led deeper into the ancient cave, beginning to note the great thorns of stalactites and stalagmites that began to grow larger the deeper he pressed inwards.

He was going down. A gentle slope through winding passageways led him downhill for some time until he rounded an edged corner and paused. A chasm. Immense and black, yawning upwards into darkness that his eyes couldn't see through, stretching outwards into more walls of darkness. And down below, on the floor, Tom's eyes spotted something more.

A shoreline.

Luminescent water lit the bottom of the chasm, hues of blue and green, on a reservoir lake. The thorns and jagged stone pillars of stalagmites and stalactites were enormous, anciently monumental, stretching upwards into darkness or hanging down to be seen in the glow of the lake.

Tom stopped, staring at the scene, as Singer materialized beside him, her token aura of cold greeting him before she appeared.

"I would have called anybody crazy if they'd told me about the things here before I arrived. But this...."

Singer smiled, once more moving forwards, leading Tom onwards.

"Is something very old. And special, Tom."

The water of the lake drew closer as the two walked along down a path that was easily traveled on, smooth and gentle limestone.

"I can see that."

Singer lowered her hood as she walked, by now, the glow in her sockets that Tom had accepted as eyes watched him.

"Coldshore Harbour is indeed a place of fog and rain. But so far inland, Coldshore Cemetery should not be affected so."

"You mentioned water, earlier."

Singer continued smiling.

"I said nothing. But you are right. Water. A vast reservoir."

The two came to a slow stop on the shoreline of stone, as Tom looked out across the lake. The wisps that had followed Singer now lazily dispersed, floating away to their own devices. Tom stopped at the shoreline, looking over the water.

"Makes sense. I still don't quite see your point."

Singer stood beside Tom, looking out across the lake to the darkness of the chasm.

"Being vague can be a good thing. I see why you're so charmed with asking such questions."

"Oh?"

"Fog and mist shroud the land. Farther inward, there are pools. Hot pools, burning. Steam and geysers. Somewhere up above in the forest there are hot springs."

"So we've discovered why this place is so gloomy? All the nice stuff is just hiding down below right?"

Singer boasted a wider smile now, an almost unnerving sense of delight to her features.

"That's one way of looking at things. One mystery solved. But still another question, scholar."

Tom raised his eyebrows.

"And what's that?"

A cold hand found itself on Tom's back, pushing gently, but with enough force to teeter him off balance. A frantic motion of arms and Tom fell into the pool, leaving Singer laughing as she casually strode into the water. As Tom's shock wore off and he splashed in the pool to pick himself upright, Singer held out a pale hand to him, helping him back up to his feet. Tom brushed hair out of his face and spat out water.

"Right! Nice down here I thought! Water tastes awful."

Singer smiled as she watched Tom, waiting for it.

"I didn't think it would either. But that's not the point."

Tom's brows furrowed.

"Well I don't really see the point of you pushing me in here and getting me soaking wet! I'll freeze when we go back outside in the rain!"

Singer held her smile, but did something unexpected. A little less able to than normal since her features were somewhat hollow and sunken. But a passing imitation. The bite of her lips.

"You have frozen before Tom."

"What?"

"With me. You've frozen before. Shock."

Tom stopped. He looked at the proximity of Singer and then realized it. He was still holding onto her hand. Tom stuttered.

"I.....I mean.......how?"

Singer giggled.

"I can snuff your heat out like a candle. The warm, underground shores, of Coldshore......"

"Reverse the scales."

Singer yanked Tom forwards to her suddenly.

"Tom. Would you still consider going after a dead one's heart?"

"I-"

Singer pushed a hand over Tom's mouth.

"No vagaries, scholar. May I ask another question?"

Tom nodded silently.

"May I show you my own answer?"

Tom looked at the sunken features of Singer. Dead was dead. He was walking a line that couldn't be crossed. Shouldn't, have been crossed. But there she was. Hollowed and trapped in a permanent state of death. But still resiliently alive. More alive than anybody Tom had ever really known.

They were opposing forces on the scales. And yet here. There was a balance. Tom nodded, slowly. Singer pushed forward gently and ice found Tom again. That tranquil cold that had made everything around him disappear.

Now it was subdued.

And in its wake there was Singer, kissing him and collapsing on top of him to push him down into the noticeably warm waters.

Tom had never really known what he expected to find. He'd never really thought about it before now. But suddenly it was another mystery to him. On the shoreline in the shallow waters underground, in the comfortable warmth, he was free to let his curiosity go unchecked.

In the mass of damp and now soaking robes Singer adorned, Tom found little in his way. No clothing to speak of. Just the story of a woman and a body that had long since died. The moment was one of serene quiet. Something emerged that Tom had never known until now. Under her quiet, seemingly cheerful disposition and lack of worry. Singer's old humanity emerged in the form of being shy.

Cautious in movement, slow and worried to touch. As if she was worried that Tom would turn away at any moment in revulsion. Both of them understood what they were doing. In all the world out beyond Coldshore, the dead were regarded as such. Dead. It was a breach in sanctimony. The dead, should never be entangled in the lives of the living.

But here they were. Singer was shy and retreating. Not afraid of the sacrilege. But maybe that one she was so fond of would reject her. Tom thought about it, the question she had asked. A dead one's heart, no longer beating, no longer warm. And yet life endured. A curse, even. A slash and mark on the soul that cut so deep, damaged so much, that not even death could make sense of Singer.

It was sacrilege not to respect her for Tom.

As Singer's sudden humanity emerged, re-ignited and found after centuries, feelings that had long since faded and been forgotten, as she retreated out of fear and worry, having gone quiet, Tom didn't let her. A simple move, a simple push, and splashing in the water, Tom overtook Singer and was now on top.

No words needed to be spoken. A reassuring meeting of lips, stark opposites, and the meeting of eyes told the story.

Dead or no, limits and rules, opposites in life and death.

Singer was worth going after.

That, was a question Tom could, and would answer.

Singer had nothing under her robes but Tom still wore most of his own clothing. The simple removal of some or unbuttoning of others equalized things. Despite her apparent hesitation, Singer was drawn to the liveliness of Tom. Pale hands, nearly skeletal, found themselves exploring.

Despite the warmth of the water and comfortable nature of things down here, Singer wasn't completely overwhelmed. Cold hands still had a bite to them. The touch and slight sting of contrast. To which Tom replied to. Under all the dark wet robes and the black flowing hair, pushed aside, underneath him, there was Singer.

No heartbeat, no steady rise and fall of a chest. But an enduring light under her ribcage. She was still, plainly a woman. Preserved at the exact moment of death, fare of skin and form. Sunken and hollowed somewhat with time. Tom's hands found their own curiosity across smooth, pale skin and accentuated bone.

And he felt it. Singer's cold was a bite. But to her his heat was something her form missed. Something she yearned for unknowingly. The slope of a chest, small mounds that had since lost their weight and receded but still remained intact and smooth, passed by Tom's hands. The indents and slight stark ridges of ribs and the hourglass curve of a waist and hips that had since become just on the verge of sharp rather than smooth.

Singer's form was still very pleasant. But offset somewhat by the wear of time. It was a contrast Tom enjoyed. And it was time to give her what she wanted. Pushing down, close to Singer, Tom watched the flickering glow of her eye sockets. He liked that need of hers. That tug and pull, a gravity of sorts.

He closed the distance and found her lips again. Small. So seemingly fragile and gentle. And felt that pull. And Tom learned something. Singer had no need to breathe. So long as he breathed through his nose, he could stay like that with her. To which he wrapped his arms around her head as he shifted, rolling over to let her rest on top of him.

Draped in black hair and dark robes, Tom watched Singer's eyes and felt a new sensation. He breathed in. And breathed out. Singer's body accepted it. The air going out from his lungs, that warmth. It was Singer's lips that encompassed his now, wanting him to stay.

Cold washed over Tom as she collapsed on top of him, no longer keeping any barriers between them. Tom suddenly found himself somewhere else again. In the quiet. In the cold. Singer had pressed herself against him and likewise returned the grip that he himself was giving, draping his arms behind the slightly ridged neck of Singer.

Dark and damp, warm robes encompassed him and it was like he was off in a space of his own. Outside, there was nothing. No worry or care. Just like before. Except this time, in the quiet space, in that tranquil peace, there was Singer, with him.

Stuck to him, yearning, wanting. Tom felt every inch of her on his exposed skin. Lifeless. Cold. The dim resilient glow under her ribcage, colder than the rest. It stood out to him and made him aware. Aware of his heart, aware of the air he was breathing. Aware of that cold vacuum as Singer's lips pressed affectionately to his, wanting to intake that heat.

Tom pulled away, slowly, watching and feeling as it was Singer who tried to follow, chasing after his lips as if in a trance. A still came over everything as Tom watched Singer with a smile. Tom spoke quietly.

"How do you like your answer so far?"

Singer smiled across her sunken features, raising her eyebrows.

"So far?"

Tom chuckled.

"I never said anything. But....."

"But....?"

Tom moved his hands, pushing underneath Singer's robes, tracing along her back, to come to a gentle stop and rest on her thin frame. Tom smiled.

"You're abusing my curiosity again."

Singer understood. Tilting her head with a smile and a giggle.

"What if you're abusing mine?"

Singer pulled her hood up, encompassing herself in her cloak, before leaning back down and finding Tom's lips again. He was surrounded by her. Her cloak, her hood. This little warm space, which was dark and cold, yet warm and lit by the waters that lapped at them on the shore.

This was their quiet little space.

Anything at all could happen in here.

Tom was gentle. He knew he couldn't truly harm Singer. But her thin frame, which was gentle and soft, seemed so delicately fragile to him. He held back any stronger urges and let Singer do as she pleased. Under her sopping robes she pressed eagerly, rocking her hips gently.

Despite her state of being, Singer was gently intoxicating to him. She knew her body well, and old instincts, perhaps from long forgotten memories, returned to her. Tom relaxed, simply letting his arms rest on her back as it was Singer, who took to rocking her hips slowly, gently.

Tom was stuck on her lips again, a fight and battle to overtake one another in that strange exchange of air, heat, and cold, all under the quiet safety of her encompassing hood. Even after Tom, at some point arrived at his end from Singer's gentle yet insistent hips, the quiet little world they shared lasted long into the day, and into the quiet of night.

Beyond the hectic nature of life, beyond the watchful eyes of the dead, there was a joining and a balance. This quiet little space Singer and Tom could call theirs. No force, would ever stop them.

_ The Maiden in Black. Or the name that I in time grew to know as Singer. After that rainy day, which I remember so well, after she showed me that great underground cave, that startling secret, one of many held at Coldshore Cemetery, I truly decided it._

_ She was my friend. And she became more than that in time. Dear reader, I do not hide the fact that yes, I tread upon the boundaries and lines that should not be crossed. Singer, in due time became somebody I loved. And to this day she will always be, the only one that I love. It is important to understand that the dead, are not different from us._

_ We separate them and fear them. We study them, curious about how they function, and why they return. I have spent a great deal of time around the dead. And to this day, these are questions I still cannot truly answer. I have my theories. I've published papers and long documents on my studies._

_ But I can tell you, because I have seen it with my own eyes, that they are no different. The undead, are us and we are them. Our fates are intertwined, and our vices, our loves and our hates, are one in the same. I spent several great years after that fateful day which I remember so well at Coldshore Cemetery. They are days I will always remember._

_ But if you have read my earlier works, my published documents and studies, you will know that my time of peace came to an end. Coldshore Cemetery, is but a shadow of itself now. Dear reader, we come to a chapter in my life that I relent in sharing. I survived it. But the mark and weight on my shoulders is heavy._

I recite to you now, the inscriptions on the wards of the cemetery, designed to create a barrier to keep all dead inside the great encompassing perimeter.

"A man of flesh and blood, we resign you to this prison."

"Your rule is at an end, of which none shall miss."

"Your name shall be forgotten, lest history repeat itself."

"We bind you to your chains, because of your defiant claims."

"And I shall rise again upon a kingdom of bones, for I am your ruler, your owner, and destroyer. One day I shall return, having founded my kingdom of bone. The King shall raise, and claim his throne."

Fog shrouded the cemetery as normal, damp and cold. On a token statue that Tom was fond of resting on, an old soldier, a monument to some ancient battle, faded with time, he scribbled away on parchment. Years had gone by and Tom had grown rather fond of documenting things. Doing research.

The temperature dropped and the hair stood on the back of Tom's neck, but he continued writing, well aware of who was here with him. Pale arms snaked down his neck and over his chest and he felt the bite of ice on the back of his neck as Singer kissed him, before phasing away again into nothing, reappearing next to him on the base of the statue.

"Good morning to you scholar."

"Good morning to you, maiden."

Tom set down his paper, watching the token smile that crept out from under Singer's hood.

"So. I need a little help from you."

Singer giggled.

"This all seems familiar, doesn't it?"

Tom smiled.

"So long as we don't end up down in the crypts. I've tracked down a book."

"A book?"

"Old scriptures. A little history. Trouble is, I can't read the language."

"You're being vague again...."

"You know you like it. But, yes. I think you might be able to read it."

Singer looked up to the murky fog, as if hoping to look absent mindedly at clouds to ponder something.

"I've not read in a very long time. This is for your little project, isn't it?"

Tom paused.

"I want to find out what we're sitting on."

"You can't be optimistic, can you?"

"I don't see any optimism in waiting for what's down there to show up, Singer."

"For all we know you might be dead by the time it happens."

"That doesn't seem very optimistic, if you want to talk about being optimistic for the future."

Singer smiled, leaning close to Tom to place her lips to his quickly, the bite of ice and cold stinging briefly as she pulled away.

"I'll have pleasant company."

Tom smiled.

"I guess what I did last night doesn't count as "pleasant company" then, hmm?"

Singer giggled.

"Not here! They'll hear you!"

Tom suddenly paused. As did Singer. Wisps. Wisps were everywhere. Rather mischievous free floating remnants of people. There were none to be found around Tom's lantern. And none to be found following or flocking to Singer. Tom's eyes traveled across gravestones in the fog. Breath rose above him in the air.

"Do you feel that?"

Tom paused. He was going to say that. But Singer.....said it first. Tom watched her.

"Cold?"

Singer nodded.

"I.....can feel it."

Tom stood up from the base of the statue, watching his breath on the air.

"That's not you."

Tom looked around quickly.

"Banshee?"

Singer had stood up now as well, lowering her hood.

"Tom. There hasn't been a Banshee here in months."

"I'm not opposed to that."

Any mirthful nature to Singer had suddenly vanished.

"You should be."

"Why?"

"What happens when all of the Banshees go missing?"

Tom searched frantically for ideas.

"They burn out?"

"Something was hunting them one by one."

Tom looked out into the fog.

"Singer. This......this can't be it. Not here, not now..."

The temperature only lowered further. Tom could feel it. It was practically freezing. Tom suddenly found Singer's arms wrapped around him, a kiss on his lips and one last look at the enduring light in her eyes. Singer phased away around him.

"Tom. Run. You need to warn the Harbor. Run. For me. Please."

Singer disappeared into the fog, leaving Tom alone, in a panic.

"No. No no no no Singer!"

Tom looked at the base of the statue. The wisps may have been gone. But his lantern and scythe, were still here.

I remember the entire walk. The fog, was....different. It felt wrong. I walked and I searched, and then I remembered. Of all the various crypts and passages. In the direct center of the cemetery, there was an entrance. I had always puzzled over the many entrances into the crypts. Especially, that one, all on its own.

_ I knew I was going the right way because it grew colder. And I started seeing it. Wisps. They had not, all gone. But they were, in the process of traveling. Hundreds, thousands of them began pouring out of the ground, all headed to the same direction. That was how I knew I was going towards the center._

_ Undead act like pockets. Depressions on a bed sheet, like I talked about earlier. The stronger the undead, the deeper the pocket.....the deeper the well. I knew it was it then. I was too late. I only ever learned of things, after it was too late._

_ Dear reader....I pray that you should never come to face secrets that should remain buried in this world. Particularly, the dangers of men. I had told you, of my fear of the dark. The lingering fear of the crypts and what I encountered in them, despite surviving them thanks to a friend. That fear was nothing. You will hear it from time to time._

Scholars like to call it the Day of Convergence. Coldshore Cemetery lit up like a beacon across the land. Only the dead could see it. And they were drawn to it.

What I felt, on that day....I will remember it, for the rest of my life.

Tom pushed forwards along the path he walked, following in the cold wake of what led him. Wisps. Hundreds, if not thousands, were all streaming off in the same direction. They rose from graves and sped off, single mindedly towards the same destination.

Even up in the sky. Tom could see them. They were a swirling mass of light high above, blasting through the fog itself. His mind raced. He had been doing research on this for years. Had been trying to find out more. There were wisps, up in the sky, circling endlessly but not coming down.

They were stuck.

The barriers of the cemetery....

The wisps in the sky were from beyond Coldshore. The barriers worked both ways. Trapping those inside and shutting out those on the outside. There had to be a reason. Tom was growing colder with every passing minute. The temperature was dropping rapidly and it was almost beginning to feel like winter.

Through the fog and seemingly never ending trail of wisps, Tom pushed forwards despite something creeping up on him. A feeling. Something....bad. He felt sick. But the sight of a crypt entrance spurred him on. The towering stone doors had been....ripped away, forcefully pushed apart from the inside.

And there, in the center of it all, was Singer. Fighting with something, holding it back, pushing it back into the doorways. Tom looked to see only darkness. Beyond Singer.....there was nothing. It was a void, so dark that even the light of the wisps was snuffed out as they willingly flew towards it, and then seemingly vanished.

On looking at the darkness, that slow coursing feeling of sickness pressed farther into Tom. He pushed forward, slowing down, falling to his knees. In the commotion Singer turned back.

"I told you to run!"

Tom stood up, from the cold, pushing forwards a little more.

"What.....can I say? I was......curious."

Singer shifted, fighting with something. Tom could see it now. In the darkness, at the very heart of it. Something, someone. In the face of that wall Tom watched as Singer blurred. Her form seemed to be leeching off into that void. As if it were being pulled towards it.

Tom looked down at his hands, to see the same thing. Something was being ripped from him forcefully. He fell to his hands and knees again. That sickening feeling was growing overpowering. Tom didn't know what it was other than that it hurt. He looked up to Singer. She was being pulled in. But not succumbing. Her curse..... She was granted immunity.

"Singer......what do we do?"

Singer continued to fight with the void that was pushing against her. All the same, her voice, that gentle, sing song nature of calmness, yet firm authority met him.

"Tom. You run."

"And what....happens to.....you?"

"I stay here. As I am supposed to."

"Singer.....the sky. Wisps......"

"They're trying to break through the wards...."

Tom was helpless only to watch himself seemingly flicker, blurred lines leeching off of him as he couldn't manage anything more than staying on his hands and knees. He was fighting....something. That sickening feeling. It was all of them. Every bad day, every bad moment, every last memory of pain. Memories flashed back in his mind, brought up from his past, brought up once more in the wake of that crushing feeling of fear and despair.

Home.

On the cobble streets of some grand city so far away now. To the days of plague and sickness. He was just a boy. Returning home to find everything still, and quiet. And there was his mother. In bed, as still and quiet as the house itself. Her final moments with the plague had not been kind.

Despair.

And then, the frightening question.

Where was his father? Where was dad?

Tom shook his head, coming back to things.

"Why?"

An answer found Tom. But it was not Singer's voice that found him. It was something deep and grinding. Commanding. A voice blurred with countless others into a unified form.

"Power."

Tom looked up, watching Singer fight to restrain the void. She was losing ground. Tom understood. Pockets. Wells. The wisps were drawn to it. Feeding it. The disappearance and lesser presence of the Banshees over the years. Perhaps.....even the entire cemetery......

Tom struggled to stand as cold enveloped him. He couldn't do it. That crushing feeling. Those memories, of those dark places, swirling around in his head. He was afraid.

"Singer.... I can't......"

"Tom. Fight it."

"I won't.....leave you."

"You have to. Tom.....I'm protecting you....."

Tom looked at his hands as they seemingly wavered, and flickered, as if being stretched or pulled towards something on a wind. He understood. If he was exposed directly to that oncoming wall. He'd be ripped apart. His soul, while still alive, would be forcefully drawn to it.

There was a scuffle in dirt and the sound of Singer's protest, shock. She was losing ground the more she fought to push back the void. A grating, casual laughing rung out.

"Choose. One or all."

Singer pushed back against the approaching wall.

"I will do no such thing! I will not let you harm him, and I will not let you walk beyond these walls. I do not care who or what you are, you will not touch him."

The voice, grating and commanding, laughed. It was twisted laughter, echoing as if hundreds of other voices were all laughing together at the same time in an agonizing cacophony of sound.

"Death."

The void pushed on Singer but she pushed back.

"Not while I walk."

More laughter now.

"Death. I. Am. Death."

"Actually, I would have to disagree."

Both Singer and Tom turned to the source of the voice behind them. A corpse. Fresher than most around here. Clad in still intact clothes. Old boots and a long overcoat, complete with an old sunken hat. Strings of grey remained on a beard in patches. Both Singer and Tom spoke.

"Cromwell..."

"Dad...."

The corpse shuffled closer.

"You know, I have, seen death. And you are not. Death does not claim people, you ignorant fool. It waits for them. It waits to catch them, when they fall. Death is not you because Death is kind."

The grating voice spoke.

"Cannot stop me."

Cromwell lurched forwards.

"That's what you think. Oh, but we can. You see, you're just a fool. As lost as any other here. You're a perversion of death. No more than a Banshee. In fact I would call you less than a Banshee. For they are simply....afraid. But you. You are selfish. And contemptuous. Most of all,"

Cromwell stopped beside Tom, looking down at him.

"I will not let you harm my son."

Cromwell's hand found Tom's shoulder, as dull grey eyes gazed at him.

"I know, you have things to say to me. And I know, I can never be forgiven. I'm sorry.......for abandoning you. I was a fool. I was afraid. I was.....so scared. That I ran away from you. All my life......I didn't think I could do it alone."

Cromwell looked back up to the void.

"I call upon all the dead who can hear me now. I call upon my fellow Gravekeepers. Those who have wandered this land, those who know loss, and pain, and regret. Here and now, this is your chance. This is your chance to save them. All of them."

Cromwell looked down to Tom with a mournful light to his eyes.

"To any who have had the pleasure of meeting my son. Stand with him today. For he does not deserve this. He is sharp as a whip, and so very kind. He is brave but not foolish. And he has grown up to be a better man than I."

Cromwell looked over to Singer.

"Can you hold him, Maiden?"

Singer was still visibly struggling to contend with the shadow of the man who pushed on her.

"Not for long!"

Cromwell nodded, looking back down to Tom, who was practically frozen.

"I'm sorry. I will always be, sorry. But you've grown up to be a fine man. You've done everything right. Everything a father could ever hope to watch his son achieve, and you did it without me. I'm proud of you. I will always, be proud of you."

Tom shook his head.

"Dad.......don't go........."

"I have to do this."

The shuffling of something drew the attention of both as an old bony corpse shuffled close, wearing old rusted armour and boasting three arrows lodged in its chest. A black top hat was lifted from its skull as it greeted them.

"Crom. Not part of yer little gang of Keepers but yer kid's a good bloke."

Tops lifted his hat once more as he stared down at Tom.

"Good to see you again kid."

Tops shuffled close, before removing his hat and dusting it off, setting it down beside Tom.

"Here mate. This is rightfully yours. Won't be needin' it any more thanks to you."

Tops looked back up to Cromwell.

"Well. What do you say you old bugger? Want to go shank yourself a king?"

Cromwell looked down to Tom.

"If it means I can save my son. Yes."

Tops shuffled past Cromwell.

"Right. Let me show you how it's done."

As Tops pushed closer to the void that was struggling to escape the doors and fight past Singer, he nodded.

"Maiden. I did love your singing in the night by the way."

Tops pushed into the wall of darkness and vanished. Cromwell watched him go, before nodding.

"I have to go now. Your mother.....she's there too. I'll be there too. We're proud of you....Tom."

Cromwell left, lurching towards Singer and leaving Tom behind, who was barely able to reach out as everything was draining from him. Cromwell stopped beside Singer.

"Take care of him for me, will you?"

Singer pushed back against the void, managing a smile.

"He's done a better job of taking care of me."

Cromwell nodded.

"That's my son."

One last lurch forward and Cromwell vanished into the void.

_ I had nearly died, in the presence of what was trying to escape. I was, dying as I lay there on the ground, helpless. But I watched. I watched the dead rise and make their way towards the Maiden and the Void. I can only speculate, as to what they did to destroy it. I believe the dead that rose were those who were mournful. Those who were lost and alone._

_ Undead are very primal reflections of our emotions. Singular, driving forces. Whatever, and whoever the man was, that dead King whose very name is now forgotten. I believe, he was an aspect of greed. Or perhaps corruption. His words still ring in my head to this day._

"Power."

Whatever the case, the perversion of death was not all powerful. With every undead who walked into the black void, and succumbed, the king grew weaker. Singer was able to fight harder, and repel him. I believe the undead who fed him his power, turned it against him. Wisps are but simple fragments. But whole undead with regret and sadness are a different story.

_ Perhaps they showed the King, piece by piece, the true feeling of loss. Of despair. That everything, must end. And as he eventually weakened, his life force, like all the dead, extinguished. The wisps outside the barriers of Coldshore dispersed. And for a time, things returned to normal._

_ I only ever stayed there, afterwards, for a month at the most. Dear reader, coming face to face with a man you'd been searching for, for so long in the name of answers, only to have them find you rather than yourself triumphantly discover them. It is a harrowing thing._

_ And after all was said and done, Coldshore Cemetery, was not the same. Whatever dead walked into the void, enticed by the King's power or drawn there to help repel him, did not return._

Coldshore Cemetery, is just that, now.

An empty cemetery.

Tom stood by the old iron gates of the cemetery, under the rainfall that lapped and splashed across his hat, joined by Singer, who likewise, let the rainfall drench her robes. A still had come over everything. More of a still then the cemetery itself over the last month. Tom spoke first.

"The barriers are down. Those wisps punched through. Knocked out all the ward pillars. You can go anywhere you want. You won't come with me?"

Singer spoke from under her hood, looking out beyond the gates to the road ahead in the fog.

"The world, your world, Tom, has no place for the likes of me. And the dead still linger, although greatly lessened. Someone, should take care of them."

Tom looked over to Singer.

"I'm not...... I'm coming back. You know that right? I'm not....running away."

Singer chuckled.

"You were always going to leave, scholar. From the first day, I questioned and stated; you're too young for a Keeper. You've a life to live, Tom."

"I'd live it a lot better in your company."

"I would enjoy this place more, in your company."

"Singer. Please. Don't make me do this alone."

"Your father is right, Tom. You'll figure things out. You'll succeed, in some way."

Singer wrapped her arms around Tom briefly as she circled around behind him, putting her lips against the back of Tom's neck, speaking quietly.

"Just a little push. And you'll start something new. Just like that first time of ours."

The cold on Tom's neck eased off and he felt himself gently prodded forward. Pushed gently, until one foot went out to catch his balance, followed by another. The sting of ice left Tom, and he stepped beyond the gates of Coldshore Cemetery. Tom's breath clenched and he turned around.

"I'm coming back, Singer. I'll come back."

The black robed undead lowered her hood with a smile, the flickering lights in her eye sockets watched Tom, as she crossed her pale arms over each other.

"I have time to wait, scholar."

Singer reached out suddenly, pulling the great iron gates shut to the cemetery. She crossed her arms through the bars, still smiling.

"Just....don't keep a dead heart waiting too long."

Tom suddenly smiled.

"I can give you an estimate if you want."

"And make me count my days until you return?"

"Someday."

Singer laughed.

"Goodbye, Tom. Fare travels. I hope you find answers to all your wondrous questions."

Tom nodded.

"And to you too Singer. Take care of what's left here. Have a little fun for me, right?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something."

"Goodbye, Singer."

Tom turned around and started walking, knowing that behind him, Singer had already phased away.

I never found a "cure." Curses, are indeed powerful. Perhaps that is why knowledge of them is so extremely hard to find, even more so than extensive knowledge of the old arts. Curses cut deep into the soul, cut into a place that should never be cut or harmed.

_ I wanted to return to Singer, with the knowledge to dispel her burden. But I admit now, that this is my greatest failure. For over my long life, I have found nothing. No key, no clue. I, have published numerous works, and theories. I made my mark on the academic world. I would trade all of that fame and wealth, for the key to let her rest._

_ For I know, indeed, how much her burden is. Her work is done. And yet she lingers. Perhaps, she will always linger. I am reminded, of those I met at Coldshore. I am reminded, of my father. Words needed to be said by me. Words that I will never get to say. Dear reader, this, is my burden._

_ In my waning years, the onset of depression and the realization that I could not save her dawned on me. And so, I used what little knowledge I had. My spirit and mind ages, and I grow weary. And yet, I have the appearance of a young man._

_ My greatest achievement and documentation. My greatest failure. A cut upon myself, into my soul. I will never waver, never falter, just, as Singer. I will die. I can feel my body, telling me that it is time. It is time to rest, it is time to go._

But I will be denied, partially.

It is the greatest fear of my life. Of knowing, that I will never see what lies beyond. I will never see what those who come back, forget about. And at the same time, life will fade from me.

But dear reader, I do this for something, arguably more powerful than fear. Something that is stronger than curiosity. Something that pulls so hard on one's soul even more than regret. And it is the conqueror of even greed, the need for power. If my time among the dead, and my time among Coldshore Cemetery has left any mark upon my soul, and my memory.

It is that I do this for someone I love.

_ _ Darkness and rain pattered down softly in the night. Beyond the thick iron gates, still standing, out among the hills of graves and in the fog, blue fire burned as points of light, encircled around by other, smaller orbs of light. From under his hood he stared out in the darkness, feeling a distinct chill in the air.

A sing song voice greeted him in the night.

"What took you so long?"

Tom chuckled, taking note of his pale hands as he pushed open the iron gates.

"Oh, you know. Stuff with the living."

"You've not aged! Curious of you."

"I learned.....some new things."

Pale hands found themselves wrapping around Tom's neck as Singer materialized in front of him.

"You'll have to tell me all about them."

Tom watched Singer's eyes. The very same. The same face. The same smile. All the years gone by. They were nothing.

"You might have to teach me, some of your tricks."

Pale hands found themselves on Tom's cheeks, pushing aside his hood to reveal his own face, just as dead. Singer's features frowned. Her eyes showed understanding. But something hurt, buried deep behind them. Tom nodded.

"I know what you're thinking."

Singer shook her head.

"Your reasons. Whatever they were. I understand."

"Do you?"

Singer wrapped her arms around Tom, pulling him close.

"Thank you. For trying."

"I did everyt-"

Singer pushed a pale hand over Tom's mouth. Her smile, something Tom hadn't seen in so long, returned. An enduring sense of life shone through her eyes.

"Shhh. Rest now. There's time."

Singer let her slim hand slide free from Tom's mouth, finger by finger.

"I can show you what I know. I will. But first. I missed you."

Cold lips found Tom's. That old sense of ice. That feeling of being so cold that it burned, was gone. But there it was again. Tranquil peace. Tom was dead now. And Singer had yet still, a gravity to her. The small moment ended. Under the rainfall, light became apparent. Wisps. Circling around Singer, and Tom. Singer smiled, running a skeletal finger across Tom's sunken features.

"A question for you, scholar."

"Shoot."

"So you want to learn some new things. You want me to abuse your curiosity. How about, first, you abuse mine?"

Tom went to speak but Singer moved quickly.

"No vagaries this time."

Cold lips greeted Tom again and he returned the favor. Under the rainfall Singer's hood overlapped onto Tom's head. That old feeling of being in that quiet, dark space returned. Out beyond it, nothing else was a concern. Tom found his arms and hands sliding under her dark robes, and likewise, Singer was now capable of returning the favor to him, under his own layers of robe.

Perhaps his fortunes were not so grave.

Tom moved freely, unphased by Singer's cold, but still lured by her gravity. Held close with no barriers between them.

No. He could say assuredly that they weren't grave fortunes at all.

To the inheritor of all my worldly possessions, my estate, my research, and perhaps my life's work. This book, that you have read through, to the end, is now yours. I know not who you may be, or what manner of judgment you may render upon my life and my work.

But I leave all of it, to you. And I can say this most assuredly.

I go now, and rest. I will walk, one final journey. To an old place I have always called home from the day I left. To say hello to someone very dear to me once more. Take what you will of my works and my writing, and do with them as you see fit.

Yours in truest confidence, Tomwell Hume, now, Ex-Grave Keeper.