Eaters of the Dead

They had had high hopes for Emmanuel Digby in the beginning. His Pa named him Emmanuel, but it seemed too grand a name for someone so small. “We'll call you Manny,” said his Ma in her tired voice, still weak from childbirth. The new parents smiled at each other and talked of the infant's future.

Manny was a blessing. His single bout with croup was short-lived, he ate well, his growth was steady, and by the time he was three, he could even read small words. Though his Ma never truly recovered from his birth, joy filled her at every turn as she watched her son progress. His sweet face and sweeter voice brought him a measured amount of charm, especially at church when his clear tones soared out over the congregation in song.

It was the lantern that caused his troubles one night when Manny was four, the oil lantern in the old barn that fell into the hay, its rusted wire handle giving way at last with a rather halfhearted snap. The ensuing flames engulfed the dry piles and drier structure in an instant, trapping Pa between the back wall and two terrified horses who thrashed and kicked. His own screams joined those of the animals as his body was eaten by the blaze. Ma, having rushed from the house, stood in the doorway and helplessly watched as the fire destroyed their livelihood and her husband. “Edwin,” she whispered. Then she fell, her heart bursting with the strain. Manny, asleep in his small bedroom, woke to a neighbor who wrapped him in a blanket and carried him to a buggy that drove the child away from his home. It was days before his questions were answered, and once he was told the truth, his chatter ceased.

He remained with the neighbors for a few weeks while arrangements were made for his care.  Manny no longer spoke, no longer chased chickens or skipped about the yard, and it hurt those who knew him to no longer see his bright smile.

It was the church that finally took him in, this small silent child who was once so full of life. The minister and his wife, childless themselves, felt that at least Manny would have the guidance of people of God and perhaps return to vigor.

Manny's recollection of that time was hazy, given his youth and the stress of such a massive loss. When he thought about his parents (less often as time went on), he remembered the scent of his Ma's baking, his Pa's strong hands as he lifted his son high when coming in from the fields. He soon forgot their faces, the sound of their voices. Some days he just felt a lonely ache within, felt lost without remembering why.

Though he was treated with kindness and caring, Manny could not respond. He wasn't rude or uncaring, just locked within himself behind a door that had no ready key. He listened attentively each Sunday as his foster father spoke from the pulpit, sitting in the front pew beside his foster mother who held his hand. He did the chores required of him willingly and with growing skill. There wasn't much farm work for the minister, as their needs were mostly met by the town, but his wife enjoyed her flower gardens and there was always water needing to be fetched.

When Manny Digby entered his early teens, he began helping with the church's graveyard, pulling weeds and tending plots. The groundskeeper, who was also the grave digger, found him handy and gave him more responsibilities with the minister's permission. Having given up on Manny ever speaking again, and thus unable to perform sermons or lead Sunday school at the church, the minister felt that he could still render service to God by serving those who now abided with Him in heaven. As the groundskeeper aged, more of the heavy work fell to Manny, which included digging graves. Some of the local boys began calling him Diggy Digby, a moniker which drew no response from Manny, rough teasing though it was. The nickname morphed into just Digger, and so Digger he became.

In the winter of Digger's 24^th year, the groundskeeper caught a bad cold and died, leaving all of the responsibilities of the graveyard to the young man. The minister, now in his late 50s, was no longer as spry as he once was and was considering retiring from preaching. Not wishing to live with strangers, whomever the new minister turned out to be, Digger moved into the old groundskeeper's cabin.

The winter passed and spring brought with it a new minister who came with his family and all their trunks and valises. The pulpit rang with his strident voice as the man railed about sin and damnation, haranguing and shaming his congregation as never had been done before. Digger still attended church, though what he thought of this fellow's manner of sermonizing was never known. But he no longer sat in the front row.

Seasons passed. Digger scythed the long grass around the older graves, added new markers as the townspeople passed on from this earthly life, and led a quiet and unremarkable existence.

Then one late summer afternoon, upon checking the newest graves, Digger noticed that the dirt and sod of one plot was disturbed, dug up at one end. Likely the damned gophers again. Digger walked back to the tool shed, got his spade, and repaired the mess. Mourners were still visiting the site fairly regularly, as those who have lost a loved one recently will do, and Digger didn't want them to have further cause to grieve.

Two weeks later, at an older site, Digger again found the ground disturbed. Kneeling down, he inspected the damage. Claw marks, shreds of gravecloth, mounds of dirt, and, yes, a bit of spoor that seemed to explain the stink in the air. Raccoons maybe? They had dug deeply into this plot, going so far as to have brought up a bit of the corpse's wrappings (the graves at this end of the cemetery were for folks too poor to afford a box, so they were sewn into cloth shrouds). Bothered and uneasy, Digger tucked the rags back into the mound, smoothed over the loose dirt, and turned to use his spade to move the offending fecal matter to the woods. A movement caught his eye, and a chittering sound. Yes, likely raccoons. Digger sighed and finished his chore, pondering snares and traps, and the possibility of rabies.

As the summer progressed toward fall, Digger found several more disturbed sites. He mentioned his discoveries to no one, as he felt a touch of shame that the grounds of his responsibility were being troubled by animals that he had neither seen nor caught. He had heard more chittering in the woods, seen spots of great damage, but nothing that he couldn't manage on his own. But in his heart and in his head, he felt uneasy. Along with the animal noises, he thought he had heard the sound of teeth on bone, a grinding, scraping sound that chilled his flesh along with grunting and a squeal he had never heard from a living animal before.

He had found a large bone near the edge of the woods on a September morning. It had not looked too old, but as he inspected it, he found teeth marks, and one knobby end had been chewed open. Intending to bury it somewhere else on the grounds, he lifted the white piece. It was far too light. There wasn't enough damage from gnawing that there was much loss of material, but thigh bones are the biggest in the body, and even with the lack of flesh, should be rather hefty. He looked into the broken opening.

No marrow. Hardly any bone left within, just a thin tube, brittle and hollow.

Suppressing a shiver and the instinct to hurl this strange object away from him, Digger instead brought it to his cabin. Lighting the lantern (no memories deter him from this action) he examined the marks, the interior, with increasing unease. Something is out there. He pondered possibilities, discarding each one. He made up his mind to get a dog, a good tracker that could help him locate this strange animal that desecrates the graves entrusted to him.

And so he did. A local farmer had a few dogs he was willing to sell, and Digger chose a likely creature of some indeterminate breed, said to have a talented nose and friendly demeanor. Tying a hank of rope about its neck, Digger led his companion home. The next day he showed the dog the bone, let it sniff it well, and brought the dog toward the area where the strange human remain had been found. Upon reaching the area where the bone had lain in the grass, the dog, til now placid and mellow, snapped its head up and let out a low growl. Digger peered into the dense woods, losing attention for a moment. As his hand slackened on the rope, the dog lunged forward, racing into the dark trees, leaving Digger clutching his rope-burned hand. Nursing his wound, he listened intently for the odd sounds of the unnamed creature. Even over the dog's frenzied barking, he could hear it, the squeal and chitter. Glad that the dog had found the culprit, he waited for it to return with its quarry. But the barking took on a different note, then peppered with yelps and a howl. The maddening noises from the unknown assailant (were there more than one?) increased in volume as well.

Then everything stopped.

Foregoing his usual silence, Digger called out to the dog, whistling and clapping. No dog came. Feeling himself a fool and a coward, Digger brought not one foot into the shaded forest. Whatever being was in there subdued a strong canine and he was not tempted to risk injury himself. Turning away (with guilt in his spirit), he returned to the cabin and his duties.

Hours later, as the evening thickened on the grounds, Digger paused in his reading. Had he heard something outside? Taking up his walking stick and for once regretting not owning a firearm, he cautiously undid the latch to his door and eyed the darkness, holding the stick high. The noise again. Movement. Then the play of dim light and deep grass resolved into a recognizable form.

It was the dog.

Crouching in fear, it let out another whine, and Digger set his stick aside to fetch it in. Seeing the dog in the light, Digger's eyes opened wide. The poor animal had been savaged. Bite marks marred the dog's fine form, chunks of flesh were missing from both front legs and paws, its nose was an open mess, and deep scratches striped the tan fur with lines of red. He spent the evening tending the dog's wounds with a heavy heart. Even if it survived, the dog would be lame for life. The nasty whisper of rabies flowed through his mind. He was sad, but he knew what he had to do.

Leaving the dog shut within the cabin, Digger took the lantern and walked to a nearby house. The man there, he knew, had a gun. He knocked on the door and, using a voice that had seen little volume for decades, he explained the situation. Solemnly the man agreed, gathered his gear, and followed Digger back to the graveyard. Later, in lantern light, Digger dug a new grave, this one not as large as most, and laid the poor creature within. Did he hear the chittering nearby again? It sounded like a jeer. Digger's dreams that night were unquiet.

(quietly, it slunk away, teeth flashing in the light of the moon as it breathed with a hiss. hunger. always there was hunger. it found. it dug. a barrier of wood stopped it. another spot. success. it dug further, finding what it wanted, and chewed upon a nugget of knuckle. scrape. grunt)

Not long after his simple breakfast, there was a knock at Digger's door. It was the man from the night before who had helped dispatch the dog. He asked questions about the creature that had attacked the dog. Digger had few answers. The man voiced his concern. If there was an animal of that strength and ferocity not far from the center of town, would it attack other dogs, other animals? What of the children? Digger haltingly explained the damage he had found on the graves, but the man was ready to dismiss that to the realm of skunks and raccoons, stating that holes in the dirt were of little importance, whereas a vicious animal was. Digger did not show him the thigh bone. The man left soon after, saying he would consult with the town officials.

 

Fall wended its chilly way into winter and Digger found fewer damaged sites, barely any at all in the snowy months. He was glad of the respite. But upon the February thaw, graves were once more being dug into. The spring rains brought something new however... disease.

It began as simple malaise, a feeling of lethargy and weakness. Then the fevers came, and with them disorientation. Once the afflicted townfolk broke out in patchy rashes, their misery was soon over. For good.

Digger was kept disturbingly busy. New graves were being dug at an alarming rate as the people succumbed to this wasting ailment, the young, the old and infirm, and even a goodly portion of the hale and hearty. This sickness played no favorites. Even the minister himself, raving right to the end of hell and brimstone, broke with life and sailed to whatever eternity he felt he deserved.

The rain continued to fall almost daily, making backbreaking work for Digger as the earth turned to torturously heavy mud and slurry. In his stoic silence, he kept on, aching so badly that he could hardly sleep, lines of his grimaces carving into his forehead.

Then came a break. For three days, the rains stopped falling, though the sky was still full of clouds. And while the ground was still sodden, it wasn't flowing at least. However, damage had been done. Some graves had to be re-covered as the earth above the resting body washed thin. Simple pine boxes, the wood light and pitchy, rose above the surface in a few places, causing Digger to have to entirely re-dig the hole. The work seemed never ending.

And yet there were still claw marks in the soft dirt, bones spread here and there. Whatever weather these foul beings enjoyed did not cause them to cease their marauding. Digger was too weary to be angry, but a low sense of dread invaded his spirit each time he went out to inspect the grounds. He prayed daily, fervently, for an end to the rain and for the sickness to release its deathly grip on the town. He wasn't alone.

On his rounds on an early afternoon, he neared a newer grave that had been mounded over with dirt. As he approached, a sickening tearing sound assaulted his ears and his eyes grew round as he watched the mound sink. Ssscccct! It was the sound of the pine boards of a coffin splitting under the weight of the earth atop it. Digger was horrified – the body within would be crushed, destroyed. He set to with his spade, clods of soaked dirt flying behind him. His efforts slowed as he tired, but he continued on. Thunk! Finally, he hit wood. Moving the soil away, he saw that the boards had split in the center, making a long V wedge in the box, the edges of which had sliced into the corpse. Aggrieved and sickened, he pulled the long pine planks from the body (she, a girl, Mandy Majors, he knew her, oh god). They came away with bits of her still clinging. Digger flung himself out of the hole, ran a few feet, and vomited hard. Wiping his mouth, he turned back... and froze. Something was moving inside the coffin! His mind raced hysterically with visions of the undead rising, reaching for him, blame in their milky eyes. But what rose from that broken box was far worse.

Hissing, squealing, it leapt out of the hole (much as he had done, his repulsed mind gibbered) and stood, staring in defiance at him. Pieces of torn flesh hung from its gray lips, shreds of the yellow calico dress mixed in. Long strings of patchy hair dotted its scalp like skinny snakes on the head of a mythical monster. It squealed at Digger again, a high, grating sound that seared his eardrums, then it defecated. The mix of feces and the odure emanating from its thin-limbed body forced Digger to vomit again, and when he looked back up, the creature was gone.

He stood in shock for some time, a light rain drizzling its way through his clothing (he hadn't donned a coat that morning). This clearly was the animal that had been digging in the graves, that had torn the dog apart. His eyes cast to the open grave. What in heaven's name was he to do? He had to tell someone, didn't he? Would he, practically a mute, be believed? He didn't drink, he wasn't insane (though he definitely felt a bit left of center at the moment), but this? Who? How?

Shaking his head briskly, Digger turned back to his grisly duty. He had to repair the coffin and grave at the very least. But if he did so, the evidence of the creature's feasting would be hidden. Grant you, this was the first time he had witnessed this mysterious desecration. Was the creature a single being or was there a pack? He had never heard more than one, now that he knew it was that thing that made the noises. He also knew that his sleep, much less his waking hours, would be haunted for weeks to come. Could he let another person go through such horror?

He nodded his head once, grasped the fouled pine board, placed it as well as he could over the body (trying so hard not to look within), and set to with his spade.