One

September rains christened the old cemetery with a bleakness that blackened the gravestones, tumbling among the trees that had grown wild with neglect. The sporadic communion of sun did little to dispel the clinging mist and refused to warm the ossuaries of the once proudly provident, now in impoverished exile. To Vasquez, a Sage of the Charon Order, it felt like the breath of a lover in a dream.

The crumbling house across the narrow dirt road leading from the cemetery to the town still had remnants of furniture. Vasquez sat in a tattered brocade loveseat he had pulled to the unbroken window. The rivulets of the day’s drizzle etched the glass, blurring his vision of the stone sentinels marking passages. His damp clothes added to the mustiness of the deserted homestead, avoided by the righteous as an unnatural place, likely cursed by sins it had witnessed. He did not believe in curses, nor that the unnatural was suspect. Still, he always felt some uneasiness with the dead—the province of his Order.

Maybe it’s all the same. Fifty-fifty.

Long shadows wove light and rain into ominous veils. It was twilight, and the fire he had made from broken furniture scraps sent tendrils of steam rising from his clothes. The fireplace drew well, and flickering light cast his outline on the parlor wall, a note on a score unplayed.

He waited.

Two

The cemetery’s namesake began as a rough clapboard village. Six months after the first board was nailed, the cemetery made it settled country. The town disappeared after a virulent flood, and graves routed by the Acheron torrent testified to the diaspora, the dead unsettled in their wandering, unmoored without the stones above to anchor them.

Vasquez felt welcome in the parlor—built by a prominent pioneer as a practical display of the prosperity of the time. Over the years, it was a house beset no less by the elements than the eccentric excesses of its occupants. The cemetery across the road completed its reputation as a place where haunts quibbled in the darkness.

The first guests glimmered by the fireplace—a couple flowing in and out of the flames with practiced familiarity. Vasquez watched the parlor fill with ageless apparitions, gathered for their appointment in the ruins of Samarra. He wondered if he should move the loveseat out of the way so the dead would conduct their orchestrations unimpeded—a poltergeist parody of indifferent serenades, unheard in the susurrations of the living. With languid jest, Vasquez crossed himself, a nod to the old traditions of the Order.

Not serious, yet.

Still, the prescience of a prudent seer led him to pull his necklace from under his shirt, letting the reliquary rest above his heart. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a pack of Chesterfields and a book of matches. The exhaled smoke bloomed into the parlor, wavering among the glimmers. He placed the pack and matches on the loveseat, an offering should any guest want a smoke.

The rain had stopped, and the night grew cool, anticipating the coming October frost. Vasquez added another chair to the fire, and the glimmers seemed glad of the glow, gliding in the aura unfelt. Moonlight remained elusive, hidden behind clouds lingering on a small wind.

Peaceful.

It was time to dig up the guest.

Three

The graveyard was wet, the shovel hissing softly as it cut through the damp layer of leaves. The dirt got drier closer to where the coffin should be. Opening the casket was the least favorite part of the ritual for Vazquez. Most remains were bare bones and dust, but sometimes the desiccated skin cling like parchment, crumbling and tearing in his hands, leaving a taint that lingered. There was only one guest to free tonight; the parlor was already crowded with gossamer revelers drawn by his invitation.

His shovel struck the rotting wood of the temporary tomb. Clearing the dirt away, he found the lid’s edge and pried it open. It disintegrated in his grip, collapsing into the box and showering its contents with debris. He reached inside, pulling the remains from the grave and stacking them carefully beside it. The bones gleamed white through shreds of tattered, moldy clothing under the fleeting moonlight. Satisfied, Vasquez climbed out of the hole, carrying the bones across the road to the parlor, leaving the shovel behind for next time.

The fire had burned to embers. He placed the bones on the loveseat, then added a table leg to the fireplace. The wood began to smoke, and he leaned in, blowing softly on the coals. Three breaths, and a flame flickered to life. He fed it more wood, stoking the fire in preparation for the ritual.

It was the ritual to establish a place for the unsettled dead to anchor their essence. The glimmers in the parlor bore witness to his success in the unnatural awakening. Vasquez worked with quiet confidence, preparing the bones and cleaning them to bareness with his hands.

The bones cracked as they burned, releasing the spirit from the last stygian tentacles of mortality. Vasquez settled into the loveseat, his gaze falling to the empty pack of Chesterfields and the spent matches scattered on the floor. He smiled.

Good to know.