Extrasensory

The last sliver of sunlight had disappeared, and now the grounds­keep­er ushered the two women between the gravestones towards the cast-iron cemetery gate.

“It has been so good to see you, but I’ve really got to close up for the day. Good night, Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Massey.”

Mrs. Jackson turned towards the grounds­keep­er, and regarded him with a curious expression on her face. “Mrs. Massey? She’s been dead for years. What’s gotten into your head?”

The grounds­keep­er glanced around and saw he was indeed alone with Mrs. Jackson. Of course Mrs. Massey was not around: he was there when she was buried, the year before last. High time indeed to close the cemetery and head home to get some rest, he thought to himself.

Mrs. Jackson headed off to her car, and the grounds­keep­er went the other way, to the lodge at the edge of the yard, to pick up his belongings before heading out himself.

He had just turned the key into the lock when he heard a familiar voice.

“One space left, and it better be for her.”

The grounds­keep­er turned around and saw a figure resembling Mrs. Massey as she had been in her fourties.

“Who are you?” The grounds­keep­er’s hands were trembling ever so slightly.

“Ruth Massey, of course, hon!”

This wasn’t the tiredness speaking, nor was he having a migraine or getting a stroke (he didn’t know what it’d be to have a stroke, but he felt just fine). This was Mrs. Massey standing there, not her daughter, or anybody else for that matter.

Mrs. Massey put a smirk on her face. “You’ve been working here for so long, and you want to tell me that you’ve never seen one of us all this time? Pffh!” Ruth Massey was supposed to be dead, but here she stood, in the flesh, healthy as could be, and flirting.

The grounds­keep­er pulled a chair closer and sat on it. It seemed prudent not to keep standing up, as he thought he might faint (not that he ever had before).

Mrs. Massey sat down right in front of him, on a chair that wasn’t there before, and put her right hand on his left leg. It felt ice cold.

“I don’t have too much time, hon. Well, I do have time, but I want to get right to the point. Your cemetery is running out of space.”

The grounds­keep­er nodded. It was true: there was only one vacant spot in the yard. It was not allocated; it was the cemetery’s policy to not allow reservations. It would have been a helpful strategy for raising the funds for continued maintenace, or for increasing the salaries, but that did not feel quite right.

“I’d like you to prepare the single remaining vacant spot for Eva,” Mrs. Massey continued. “Eva Jackson, I mean of course.”

The grounds­keep­er opened his mouth, but failed to find the words to express how unprepared he was to explain the intricacies of the formally-defined cemetery policy to someone long dead.

“Oh I know what you’re thinking, hon, cemetery policy!” The smirk was back on her face. “I’m not here to debate your policy,” Mrs. Massey continued, and under hear breath, added “that conversation would be a dead end.” She stood up from her chair, and stared off into the distance for a few seconds, pondering, and then turned back to the grounds­keep­er. “Well, never mind, actually. It is already settled.”

“Settled?”

“I’ll see you later, hun.” Smiling, Mrs. Massey pushed open the door and walked out.

The grounds­keep­er went after her, but there was nothing. There was not a single movement anywhere, and not a sound. There had been no Mrs. Massey, because she was quite dead, and had been for quite some time now.

Surrounded by figures dressed in black, the coffin carrying Mrs. Jackson slowly descended into the only space that had up to now been vacant.

From a distance, the grounds­keep­er watched the process. Just a few days ago, Mrs. Jackson was in perfectly good health, and he felt a morsel of guilt for having ended her cemetery visit so unceremoniously that day.

He was sad to see Mrs. Jackson go. Being a cemetery grounds­keep­er did not shield him from grief, despite being exposed to it on a daily basis.

When he thought of Mrs. Jackson, he thought of Mrs. Massey. The two had been best friends for life, inseparable until Mrs. Massey passed away a few years ago.

An odd feeling came over him. He vaguely recalled a conversation with Mrs. Massey, but that could not have happened. His memory suggested that he spoke with her in the lodge, but she had never visited the cemetery. The last few days’ lack of sleep must be getting to me, he figured.

It would have been nice for Mrs. Jackson to have a place on the grounds next to Mrs. Massey. But alas. Some things are just the way they are, and can’t be changed.

The sun had set by now, and the cemetery was empty. The grounds­keep­er would go home soon, but first, he’d pay his respects at the site of Mrs. Jackson. It was the natural thing to do: she had her final resting place at his cemetery now, but she had also been a good friend.

While making his way to Mrs. Jackson’s gravesite, he found himself overcome with a dizziness strong enough to make him stumble. When he regained his footing and continued, he found himself, to his total surprise, near the west gate, on the opposite site of the cemetery where Mrs. Jackson was buried. He knew the layout of the cemetery like the back of his hand. Was the darkness playing tricks on him? Or his tiredness, perhaps?

He made his way to the east gate, but the gravesite was not there either. On a hunch, he made his way to the gravesite of Mrs. Massey. It was a silly thought, but the faint recollection of an unreal conversation with Mrs. Massey was still in his head.

There it was, Mrs. Massey’s grave, already overgrowing with lichen and moss. Another spell of dizziness overtook the grounds­keep­er and he collapsed on the dirt. As he got up, he looked at the grave next over: the grave of Mrs. Jackson.

“I hope you like it,” a voice said. The grounds­keep­er looked behind him and saw Mrs. Massey, leaning against a tree. She turned around and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

“Mrs. Massey?” the grounds­keep­er said nervously.

There was no response.