The Grave Digger
written by: Emee Ring
The grave digger knew the graveyard as surely as he knew his own kitchen table; here is the scorch from the Sunday roast, here the long scratch from an errant piece of metal, and here the faint warp from years of washing. And in the graveyard, here is the cradled burn from a long-ago fire, here the gnarled exposed roots of the oldest oak, and here the initials of the girl he had thought he would marry.
Late this morning, the parish priest had instructed him to dig down ten feet and stack the caskets of the couple who’d passed together from the lung disease. Boards were needed to dam the dirt, but he had only short ones. But so, because he knew the soil of every season, where the baked clay of summer became slippery in the rains of fall, where rocks masked sand pools, and where the acorns slept under the grass in winter, he trusted his knowledge, and he proceeded.
So, he was surprised, digging on this false spring day, crouched at the bottom of the hole, almost done, when the earth shifted as quickly as a darting hare. “God help me!” The grave digger cried out, looked up, half rose, and tried to move his legs, already covered. Only the old crow spotted him, watching from his branch as the man struggled to thrust his chest toward the dirt wall.
Quick as that, he was buried. He held his breath. He tried to claw his way up. It couldn’t be far, but the dirt pressed in on his body, and he could scarcely move. All was quiet, except the loud pounding of his heart. He dared not draw a breath; the soil pressed steadily against his face. His thoughts raced, and he could not calm himself. He tried to work his hands, his fingers, to unkink his knees to fully stand, to move his feet toward the wall.
Had there been anyone in the cemetery today? He thought he’d seen a long white skirt, a summer hat, but he was unsure now. He’d been hurriedly trying to finish before it grew dark. Dark! An alarming thought crouched with him: would he stay here the night? How long could he hold his breath? All of his seconds passed as the earth bore down upon him, as sure as a boot on a beetle. He sank, heavy, unable to fill his lungs. His heart slowed.
A sound, outside himself. A woman’s voice. “Colin! Colin!” He tried to turn toward her, but he could not move. Whose voice is that? Then he placed it, a key sliding into the chambers of its lock. It was his mother, dead twelve years time.
He awoke in his bed, relieved only a short moment, for he realized it was not his own bed in which he lay. This one was large and as soft as a kitten. And all around him were the others.
- The Grave Digger - May 23, 2026
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