Chapter 8 #2
The cemetery was massive, as I continued to walk through it, still headed to my destination, now just more distracted. I glanced down at the different names, dates, losses and buried secrets along the way.
"Ezekiel..."
"Gotta go, ma."
"You know I love you, son."
"Yeah, I do."
Reaching my destination this was the part of the cemetery that was rarely visited.
It sat under a canopy of live oaks. People rarely visited this section because it was too old and forgotten and according to the town folklore, it was haunted.
But I knew better than to believe it was haunted because the dead wasn’t what haunted Magnolia Graves, it was the damn living.
The dead didn’t cause problems, everything was buried along with them and stayed put it was the living that went digging things up, disturbing the makeshift peace that was had.
I sat on the weathered brass bench that was next to a magnolia tree with dark red blooms. They weren’t pink or burgundy but crimson red. The petals on the blooms looked like droplets of blood against the green leaves they were attached to.
I stared at them for several minutes then looked down at my grandfather, Elijah Dubois’ grave.
He used to always say that the magnolia trees would only bleed on graves that had more to say or unfinished business left here to do.
The moment I read his name on his headstone the memory of his passing invaded my mind as it always did when I came to visit him.
It was dark and storming heavily outside and it was my seventeenth birthday.
After dinner, and cake and ice cream, I went to visit my grandfather in the hospital.
We were always close, he was someone I looked up to, and he treated me like I was always his favorite.
I didn’t know it then, but it was probably because I was the one person that was most like him.
As I walked into his hospital room, the rain hammered against the window as thunder and lightning sounded off every few minutes.
His room smelled like antiseptic, sickness and death nearing.
I walked up to his bedside and my grandfather looked smaller and weaker than I’d ever seen him look and I was just there visiting him two days prior.
Elijah Dubois was the man that spent his life burying the dead and now, his body was beginning to transition, and he was about to be amongst them.
When I sat in the chair next to him, he slowly opened his eyes and looked at me.
He stared at me with this look like he was trying to memorize every little detail about my face for as long as he could because he knew our time was coming to an end.
The whole time no words were said, then he nodded his head and looked toward the nightstand.
"Open the top drawer," he said barely above a whisper.
Doing as I was told I opened the drawer and the only thing in it was a worn thick leather journal. It was so old looking that the edges of the pages were a pale-yellow color and the leather was starting to crack.
“Don’t just look at it…Grab it, son.”
“Here,” I said as I handed it to him, but he didn’t take it.
"That’s yours now.”
“What is it?”
“The job…the real job.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
"It’s time you start getting to business."
"Doing what?"
My grandfather looked out the rain-streaked window then softly said, "August protects our family legacy." He paused then looked at me, "Your job now is to take over protecting the dead."
For many years I’d watched my grandfather work diligently protecting the dead, preparing their deceased bodies, hiding and keeping their secrets making sure that they stayed buried along with them.
He even taught me the ropes, but this was the moment of the changing of the guards.
I opened the journal and thumbed through a few pages that were filled with names, dates and observations.
Some of the names included; Samuel Whitmore, Miriam Vale and the one that always stood out amongst the rest of them was my aunt, Vivienne Baptiste…
each name was either written in different handwriting, from different eras by my grandfather or my great-grandfather who held the same responsibility and now that responsibility was being handed to me.
What stood out to me as I stared down at the page with Samuel Whitmore’s entry was where it said Official Cause: Accidental drowning Observation: Fear. Water absent from lungs.
Samuel Whitmore’s death was ruled by the medical examiner as a drowning in the Magnolia River but that was never the truth.
After his death the town started spreading this legend about the Magnolia River.
The legend was about a woman, Clara Mae Vale, who supposedly drowned in the river decades prior.
Her body was never retrieved except for her shoes that were sitting empty by the riverbank.
It was said that you shouldn’t swim in that river after dusk because if you do, you won’t make it out because Clara’s spirit will take you under with her.
Samuel Whitmore’s body was supposedly found near the lake, from him apparently drowning and washing ashore.
The town’s people started a rumor saying that Clara sent him back because he was too evil to keep.
My grandfather made a weird sound that caused me to look up from the journal and at him. He had a serious expression and coldness in his eyes with a hint of sadness.
"That there is the truth…all of it. Even the truth about Vivienne…"
I looked back down at the journal as he continued. My heart racing as I thought about the night I witnessed her death. I already knew her truth, I didn’t need to read what it was in a journal.
"The official records tell one story," he paused, "and the dead always tell another. And that book tells the latter."
As I listened to him a chill ran down my spine then back up again causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand.
"I’m giving it to you because it’s now your job to fill in the pages with the truth.
It’ll be your job and your job only. No one else is to ever know about this journal until it’s time for you to pass it down just as I am doing to you right now.
In a perfect world, you’ll have a child of your own to pass it along too…
keeping it in the family. That would be my dying wish. ”
“I…I… I’m not sure if-”
“I’m not asking you if you’re ready or if it’s something you want to do, son.
You’ve been groomed… you know how I like things done, I’m telling you, it’s now, all on you.
Ezekiel, always know…NEVER trust the official stories.
Look for the signs and let the dead tell you the rest. Remember everything I showed you.
Never forget what I taught you. This town lies, but the dead will always keep it real with you when you listen to them properly.
And never tell a living soul anything about the dead that you know.
Never let anyone know what you know. Some things you too need to make sure you carry to your grave.
Just as I am and just as my father did."
I swallowed hard as I hung onto every word he was saying. He closed his eyes, then said the words that have followed me ever since that day, right before he took his last breath.
“Every undertaker has protected it. Your job is to do the same, son. You are now the protector of the dead."
The memory of the day of my grandfather’s passing faded just as a long thick piece of Spanish moss fell onto my hands that were crossed in my lap. A single red bloom slowly fell behind it. When I looked up, the red magnolia blooms swayed gently above me.