-- 1979, St. Peters Cemetery, Keth, North Carolina. --

"If I've told ya once, I've told ya a thousand times.  Never, ever, ever go near the cemetery at night and alone."

The young boy's body lay crumpled at the foot of the mausoleum.

"But ya didn't listen.  Did ya."

He heaved a sigh, his grey eyes tinged with sadness at the absolute waste of it all.

The door to the mausoleum hung open a crack.  The old caretaker spoke towards the darkness.  "They're not yers, ya ken.  Ye canna keep takin' em."

A whisper reached him.  "Lonely."

"I ken yer lonely, but that does no' mean ye can take those who dinna belong to ya."  His voice was harsh.

"Sorry."

The old man sighed again.  "I ken, luv.  I ken ya are."  He turned to walk away, his mind already on the phone call he'd have to make to the police.

"Forgive?"

The sorrowful plea touched his heart.  "Aye, luv.  I forgive ye.  But does he?"

A breeze ruffled the brown hair of the dead boy.  In the dim light of false dawn, the caretaker thought he saw a faint glow surround the body, but dismissed it as foxfire.

He thought he felt a gentle caress upon his cheek, almost a kiss.  "Goodbye."

Before he could ask what was meant by that statement, the glow around the boy brightened to a bright light.  The old man threw up a hand to shield his eyes.  When the light vanished, he was drawn to a low moan.  He felt his chest constrict as the dead boy suddenly sat up, a confused look on his face.

Dropping his flashlight, the caretaker knelt down before the boy.  The look of confusion left the hazel eyes as the boy stared back.  "Am I dead?"

"No."  He shook his head.  'Though I dinna ken why not.'

The boy glanced over rat the mausoleum which was now tightly shut.  "Gone?"

The caretaker felt a shiver run down his spine at the boy's unconscious mimic.  "Aye.  Gone.  Ye should get out of here, child.  A cemetery is place for the likes of ye."  He glanced back at the mausoleum, a sadness filled him, startling him a bit at the intensity.

The boy's eyes looked older than they should.  "You gonna be alright, mister?"

"I'll be fine, boy.  Now, ya get yerself home."

The boy nodded and rose to his feet.  The caretaker expected the boy to take off running, after all, it isn't every day that you meet a playful ghost, get killed and brought back.  But instead, the child took a moment to place a hand on the identifying plaque.  "Thank you," he whispered.  Then, with a nod to the caretaker, he walked thoughtfully out of the cemetery.

With a last look after the departing boy, the old man gently traced the engraved letters on the mausoleum.  ::Ginny McGregor  June 5, 1913 - August 21, 1922  Beloved daughter.  The Lord shall keep thee safe in His embrace.::

With a soft sigh, the old man wiped a tear from his eye.  "Goodbye, luv.  Sleep well."

- The End

- Jennifer D'Agostino
-August 21, 2001  Original fiction
"All learning begins with these two phrases: I don't know.  Let's find out!"