Written by Megan Cox of John F. Kennedy High School
Night in Clearridge Forest was thick and black. Tall fir and pine trees loomed over the path, their shapes casting long shadows. Vegetation and weeds spilled over tree roots and crowded the beaten dirt trail. The overzealous plant life reached up to wrap around and trip the passing feet of a funeral procession. Silver rain fell heavily around them; the tapering tips of the evergreen trees provided little cover. It mixed in with the dirt in their shoes so that each step ended with a squelching sound.
As the procession was nearing the edge of the woods, weak grey light could be seen filtering through the trees like sunlight through the shutters of a window. They emerged in a small, man-made clearing. Sunken clouds of fog shrouded the short stumps of trees that had been cut down to build the Kyteller cabin—a cabin sitting a brief hike away on the crest of a pathetically shallow hill. Low hanging branches smacked the roof of the cabin on windy nights, and pine needles fell down the chimney to the fireplace. The needles would land among the ashes below where they would be used as kindling the next time a fire was sparked.
The line of people veered to the left, following the treeline to the spire of a particular fir tree. Beside the tree, balancing on one of its above-ground roots, was a man. By the sputtering candlelight of Mrs. Kyteller’s lantern, she could see that everything about this man was grey. His hair, slicked with rain, was hoary, his clothes were colorless, even his skin had a greyish pallor about it. The spade he leaned against was dug into the dirt so that its steel head was hidden. The hands with which he gripped the shaft of the spade were gnarled with apple core fingers—broad at the bottom and top but narrow in the middle.
Mr. Kyteller approached the man, taking one hand off a pinewood box he had held very gently the whole walk here. The men shook hands, and then Mr. Kyteller gestured for his wife to come over and do the same.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kyteller. I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said with an unnerving grin. When he did so, Mrs. Kyteller could see his teeth were yellow stained and that he was missing a tooth from both top and bottom rows. He grasped her shaking hand and placed a moth-light kiss on the back of it. “I am the gravedigger.”
“Yes,” she said carefully. His eyes seemed to bug out of his head, and he gave off a distinctly foul odor. She could not help but lean away from him. “I know.”
The gravedigger frowned. He peered around her to see the line of people who had followed Mr. and Mrs. Kyteller through the forest from the village. The people in the procession hoisted their lanterns so that the gravedigger might see their faces. One little girl gave him a tentative wave. He ignored the brave gesture.
“Well, I suppose I ought to start digging then.” He huffed and began to toss heaps of dirt aside.
They watched quietly while he worked. The forest was silent, as if its creatures were caught in a church service. The hole at the base of the fir grew deeper and deeper and the mound of discarded earth grew higher and higher. It did not take much time until the grave was deep enough—maybe two or three feet. Mrs. Kyteller watched the glistening body of a worm tunnel into the side of the grave where it disappeared into the wall of dirt.
Into the grave was lowered the small box Mr. Kyteller had been carrying. It was made of tarnished wood salvaged from a chipped and stained bedside table. It was about eighteen inches long, but still too big for the lightweight bundle inside.
The coffin was covered. A lump of dirt was tossed into the grave by each at the funeral. Mrs. Kyteller turned away from the scene, unable to watch. Afterwards, a heap of soil still remained, waiting to bury the coffin completely. It was here that the gravedigger cleared his throat.
“We are gathered here to regret the passing of one Michael Kyteller. Born many months too early, he died shortly after taking his first breath,” the gravedigger rasped. He swept his arm towards the Kyteller couple. “We send our thoughts, our prayers, and our condolences to the Kyteller family. Michael is in the hands of God now.” And with that he tossed the rest of the earth into the grave, burying the coffin.
Later that night, the rain was still pouring down in sheets. Mr. and Mrs. Kyteller had returned to their cabin and changed into night clothing. Mrs. Kyteller could not stop shaking, and she had to sit down on the edge of their shared bed to collect herself.
When her breathing had steadied, she rose and peeled aside the curtain of a window in their bedroom. Mrs. Kyteller could see across the dark swamp of silt and drowned grass to the brink of the forest. Her eyes narrowed and strained; she yearned to feel some kind of tug or connection. And yet, she could see nothing. She could not see any white-grey hint of her son’s pitiful headstone through the night’s blackness, nor any other sign or indication of the grave.
Mrs. Kyteller sucked in a sharp, rattling breath and her chest heaved. Then she turned away, stinging eyes blind and heart numb.
And in the distance, a baby boy began to cry.
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