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Grave

Mystery and the Rains

By Thomas SebacherPublished 5 years ago 6 min read
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Thunder rings in the distance, a low rumbling sound. I stand amidst the buildings of a small town, the inhabitants laying now in their beds, oblivious to their peril. The storm is coming, the dawn breaks upon a new day, but the light of the sun shines here no longer—the storm robs them of its rays. The neon lights of the diner illuminate much of this small town, and the rain falls heavily upon the pavement of the road through the small hamlet.

“Deepshade, population 183.” The sign is barely visible in the rain and darkness, its letters smudged and indistinct, the numbers the only clear part of the sign. While I stood at the entrance of this tiny place, I wondered why it happened here. I dig along the side of the road, one shovel, many shovels, and the ditch fills with water just as quickly as I dig it out, the futility of my own actions on display for every shovelful. I decide it is a good idea to stop for the night, to wait for the rains to end. But they will never end, and I think to myself, “It must be done soon.” I walk towards the diner, the lights left on, the woman laying on the counter, her face peaceful, as though she were sleeping, her eyelids relaxed, no tension lay within her body. Her hand was placed about a glass of water, half-drunk and her food barely touched. Her dress was a floral print, from her chair at the counter hung an umbrella soaked from the rain. The others in the diner, there were three, each had glasses as well, each of them part-full of water, the liquid of life. The waitress sat at a booth by the window, the chef laying by her, his glass on the table where she sat. The last man had coffee and the glass of water, his head laying on a newspaper he was reading. I sat amidst them, feeling them. I felt their presence, their bodies.

It was a temporary break, and now I go back to work. The water piles up in the ditch. The shovelfuls grow in number, the dirt piling up in feet on the side of the depression I made. The raindrops make loud splattering sounds as I wear waders to dig further and further, bailing out the rain in a large bucket as needed. The moon is not out, and all around there is nothing but darkness. When the rain strikes the ground, it sounds like blows, the rain soaks everything now. Several people lay outside, on the pavement, the sidewalks, and the road.

One shovel, another. Bail out the ditch. Rinse, dry, and repeat. Over and over I think of the water, the endless supply of water that seems to hang about this town. The preacher said something once about the water, but I must try hard to remember what, that it is god’s gift to us all, perhaps? Or something else, maybe? I have only the energy to carry on digging, not to trouble myself with the hows or whys. The rains come, but I don’t bother them anymore. The bodies are out now, all of them, and I take them one by one to the grave, working myself harder and harder as the rain soaks my skin and clothes. I sweat as I work, but it makes no difference whether rain or sweat soaks me. The voices grow louder, each talking to one another, and the rain gets quieter, and now the mist comes instead of rain. As I bring each to the trench, the voices are more and more, each of them adding to the chatter.

The last one is there. I took the preacher from the church, his eyes relaxed and his muscles gone. And then the chatter stops. And I begin to fill the ground back into the grave. And the water runs no longer. The filling is hard as muddy water flows into the ditch, the mist rolling in from the forest around here, and the occasional whispers coming from the woods. The whispers come again, and again, and after I am done I will go to them. I don’t know why they killed them, the whispers, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask either. The last shovelful goes into the ditch, and I look at the mound, wondering what has become of this life, what I have done, what I could have done. I thought once it was possible to save them, for them to live normally, but now I hear again the whispers, calling me back to the pines. They hear my thoughts, they beckon me, and I know what they will do. Rain splatters upon the road, and although I wore waders as I worked, all my clothes are soaked. An umbrella now would be superfluous. I have a flashlight, but the way is slippery, and I almost fall several times as I stumble past the trees along the path to my solitary house. Crossing the stream there is a bridge, the pines lay strewn now across parts of the path, the rains destabilizing their ancient trunks, their decaying flesh dampened by the thunderstorm. While I wander, my mind turns endlessly among a sea of uncertainty, a fragile skiff on a raging river of comprehension. I don’t know where I am anymore, and I don’t know who.

I reach the house, and the lights are on, the small shack illuminated by two lamps, poorly built and fragile, but watched over by the pines. The trees are great, their spirits whispering in my sleep. At midnight, sometimes I awake to the sound of voices outside the hut, but I never find anyone, and the voices stop as I walk outside. Odd forces compel me to bury my former friends, but I know now what I needed to do, what the voices say, they say that something was wrong, that something was amiss, that the water is not the water that heals, not the water that cleanses, the water that sustains. This is the water that burns, the water that poisons, and we are dying. The forest is dying. They are dead now and I will be dead soon too. I pour out a glass of water from the tap. Staring at it, I hold it up to the light, trying with all my power to observe the difference between this water and normal water. I shrug. The glass is on the table now. Upon the table, I set my hands, one around the glass, and the other flat upon its surface. I know I shouldn’t but I must. I look at the glass, raising my hand that held it. I drink. Something odd happens, the lights turn out, and I see at the corner of my eyes the souls of all those dead, all my friends, those I knew in the town. They stare, mournfully, at my dying body. I stare at it, and I know what has happened. The lightning flashes, the thunder rolls and the rain pounds on the windows of the shack. All is loud, but the silence is deafening. I cover my ears to drown out the silence.

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About the Creator

Thomas Sebacher

A writer and editorialist from Missouri writing about history, philosophy, and politics. I provide leftist views and social commentaries upon a variety of topics.

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