Digging

Fintan O’Hare swung the shovel into the earth and turned out the soil. His mate Sean should have been here by now, but the job needed to be done so he had just got on with it. He swung the shovel again turning over more soil. The church had been rebuilt in 1990 using the site of one of the oldest known churches in Ireland. If you believed the ghost stories, a coven of white hoods had lived on the outskirts of the village, practicising their black masses on the site prior to the rebuild. Apparently, the whole area had been overgrown and only minor traces of the old church’s foundations and parts of the walls had been found. Local rumours had suggested that some of the old gravestones had been removed and dumped. The church had countered by saying that the stones were stored on church grounds but their location remained secret.



Fintan swung the shovel again. He was sweating despite the late October chill. It was rare that he had to dig a grave for a priest but there was always the first time for everything. The local priest had been ill for some time. Word had circulated around the village within a few hours of his passing and the young substitute priest had announced the formal news at evening mass. There was still a collective intake of breath from the congregation even though the rumour mill had been in full cycle. Fintan had received a call from the parish hall asking him if he would prepare the grave. A separate piece of land had been set aside precisely for this event. A priest couldn’t be buried with the deceased congregation according to canon law so his resting place was a lonely affair, under some trees at the front of the chapel.



Fintan had immediately called his young helper Sean to help with the arrangements. Sean had complained that he had already planned his Saturday night and didn’t particularly want to work at such short notice. He had agreed to turn up though and Fintan was getting a little annoyed that he wasn’t here yet.



He swung the shovel again. The light was starting to fade and the cool air gave rise to a mist as the day began to pass. Fintan stopped for a minute. He was getting quite out of breath and began to feel a little light-headed. Where was Sean?!



The old priest was a mysterious figure in the village. Despite his advancing years he was often seen walking the country roads around the village, saying ‘hello’ to everyone he passed. He walked in a stooped manner, his hands behind his back and always wearing a long black coat and black trousers. He still maintained a shock of black hair without a trace of grey. The local children often used to follow him giggling and asking him, from a distance, if he dyed his hair.



Fintan had been made aware about six months previously that the old priest was ill. He had received a call from the younger priest who had just been drafted in to substitute for the old man. He had explained that the old priest had to be taken to hospital and he had to preside over his first village funeral over the next few days. He had got Fintan’s number from the old priest’s phone book.



Fintan swung the shovel again. He estimated that he was approximately half way through the job but unless Sean turned up, it would be dark before he finished. His shirt was stuck to his back but he could feel the cool air on his skin. Fintan was aware that other gravediggers now used mechanical diggers to remove the majority of the soil while the manual job was to tidy the edges off, making the grave neat and tidy for the benefit of the grieving relatives. Fintan was reassured that the village church’s budget would not extend to that and therefore his job was safe. He also realized that there would be few grieving relatives for the old priest. Normally, a priest would be taken to his home parish and buried with his family. Not in this case. It was clear that the old priest had little family and had expressly asked to stay with his parish on his passing. That was fine with Fintan.



The light had dropped a little more. Fintan had noticed that the mist was thickening and he was finding it more difficult to see what he was doing. His light-headedness had increased and ‘what was that smell?’. Fintan stumbled slightly. He was up to his shoulder now in the grave and he knew that he was three quarters finished. He was keen to finish now and could really be doing with a hand from Sean.



He looked towards the village just as the streetlights had sparked into life. He realized that he could just about make them out through the mist, which was now better described as a fog. Fintan noticed that with the falling light, the temperature had also dropped. Despite his work rate, he shivered in the cooling evening. He swung the shovel again and threw the soil over his shoulder. The effort made him fall to his knees. He never stood up again.



The smell Fintan had noticed earlier was everywhere. He was breathing it in, deeply. Despite being on his knees he continued to dig. There was almost no light left in the sky now. It had a hue of deep navy blue. Soon it would be pitch black. The mist that had been swirling previously was now pouring into the dark grave. Fintan had started to sweat again. He was starting to wonder where he was and felt the earth beneath his knees. He realized that his parents were buried in this graveyard. They were the only graves that he hadn’t dug in the last twenty years. He had arranged to be buried beside them, his plot having being granted to him freely by the parish in recognition of his service over the years.



The sky was now fully dark. There was no moonlight. Fintan, on his knees and sweating profusely swung the shovel again. Deep within his subconscious he realized that Sean had wanted to attend a Halloween disco. This time the shovel struck something hard. The recoil of metal on stone vibrated up through the wooden handle, shaking the shovel from Fintan’s grasp. He barely realised that he had dropped it. He began to pull at the soil with his hands pushing it off to either side. Soon he had uncovered the top of a gravestone. He pulled the soil away from the stone.



Fintan had started to cry now. If he had been able to look at his reflection he would have realized that the tears had left clean tracks down his muddy face. But he kept on digging. Suddenly the earth began to shift under Fintan’s knees. The stench intensified. Still he kept digging. He pulled the gravestone to one side. The logical part of his brain would have realised that this was a horizontal stone marking the opening to a tomb.



There was a space below the stone. Fintan sat back on his haunches. All logical thought was gone now. He was laughing. From the uncovered grave came a sigh followed by high-pitched shriek that continued and continued. An arm rose out of the void, the cold hand grasping Fintan’s shirt. He succumbed and fell forward. The corpse’s head rose to meet him, the grey and yellow face meeting Fintan’s throat. The ageless teeth tore at the skin, spilling Fintan’s blood, the corpse drinking deep.



Before death, if that’s what it can be described as, Fintan had a moment of lucidity. He looked at the form below him drinking his blood and used his last breath to scream.