When the sun goes down, the gravestone statues in Willow Hills Cemetery come to life--including Gretta.
As a granite guardian of the dead, it's her job to make sure her charge--the snarky, hot-headed, lesbian spirit Quinn Rivera--crosses over and f...
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WARNING: This story contains depictions of violence, gore, and mental health crises that may be upsetting for some readers. Any depictions of mental health issues herein are not meant as a replacement for medical care. If you or someone you know deals with similar issues, they should seek the help of a medical professional. Reader discretion is advised.
In ten minutes, the sun would freeze me.
Morning fog clung to the hard surface of my body, turning it dark. Like the shadows swathing the nearby trees. Like the rain that had splattered my face for decades, forever imprinting a cascade of black tears down my cheeks.
Crouching behind a shed, I eyed the groundskeeper of Willow Hills Cemetery, an old man by the name of Charlie Jack. He unlocked the front gates and pried apart the large wings of rusted iron, casting aside the chain, opening a world full of color and life I would never see.
A twig snapped underneath my granite foot.
Dirge, my gargoyle companion, growled as Charlie Jack surveyed the trees where I hid inside a thick patch of brambles. Hunkering down to the earth, I held him in my arms.
"Anyone out there?" Charlie Jack's voice echoed over headstones. He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted.
Please don't come closer.
I didn't breathe.
Not that I needed to.
Dirge wrapped his stone claws around my ankle. His nails slid into the crack in my left leg. He gave a half-gurgled whimper and hugged the damp earth.
My time to roam was up. If I didn't make it back and the sunlight touched my body, it would expose what I truly was: a slab of cold, hard rock—a living statue forever imprisoned by shadows.
"Let's go, Dirge."
At my order, Dirge made a run for it, causing two large bushes to quiver as he passed. I chased after him, feet thumping on leaves and decay, slicing through the thick morning fog. Trees ahead gave way to the clearing that held our oldest gravestones. There, the Watchers of Willow Hills Cemetery stood at attention, a forest of moving, grinding statues preparing for the day.
Never forget your stance, Gretta, Maria, the lead Watcher of Willow Hills would say. If you change your position, the living will take notice.
Her words propelled me forward.
The large bell hanging over the south mausoleum tolled the first tune of six. Concrete doves flew over my head with clacking wings. They landed on the centerpiece of the cemetery, Maria. She held her arms out as they perched, her peaceful face looking up at the sky as it had for nearly a hundred years.
At night, we were free to roam and follow the spirits inside the gates of Willow Hills. It was our duty. We were to see to it that they crossed over. But the spirit I guarded didn't give a damn.
