See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Josh Rountree

Dig a hole, climb in, cover yourself in grave dirt. Not your face. You aren’t ready to join the dead, not yet.

The bone men tend the graveyard, unaware they’re being watched. You’re crying because you’d lost hope of ever seeing them. They step so softly they appear to drift above the graves. Bones bright as blades in the moonlight. Tall as trees and just as slender. They clear away dead flowers and smooth out the fresh graves with white gloved hands. They straighten tombstones. They scatter leaves in artfully melancholy patterns across the steps of the stone mausoleum. On their knee bones in the muddy soil, they lean in close to the earth and whisper to the dead. This is their most important task, or so you’ve been told.

Someone must keep the dead company, after all.

Yellow lantern light guides your approach. The lanterns hang from posts stabbed into the earth, haphazard and crooked but always lit, no matter the hour. You suppose they have not heard of electricity in the graveyard. The night smells like thunderstorms, but so far, the rain is only a mist, and the moon still watches. Twigs snap and rocks scrape as you follow the path, but you aren’t trying to hide. The bone men don’t frighten you. What could you possibly have left to be afraid of? The cemetery gates are wrought iron, and they howl when you pass between them. The bone men cease their labors, turn to acknowledge your arrival. Their eye sockets are empty, but they have no trouble seeing you.

Okay, perhaps you’re a little frightened.

But you’re bold, too. Or maybe desperate. The bone men circle around; they tower like light posts, and their bones are chipped and scarred. You run your palm along one long femur and feel ice cold eternity against your skin. The bone men don’t mind your touch. They are ancient things, untroubled by human concerns. When the cold begins to burn your hand, you pull it away.

You’ve drawn them all in close, and this is when you open your mouth and tell them why you’ve come. This is when you beg them for their help. And the bone men are kind, solicitous even. They can’t speak but they can communicate, and they put you at ease. What you desire is not beyond their power, though it is certainly irregular. None among them can remember ever teaching a human to speak with the dead, but they’re sure it’s been done before. They have existed a very long time. They have forgotten more centuries than they remember.

They agree to help you.

And so, your lessons begin.

You’re not fond of the irony, but you must acknowledge it. Alicia was the one who told you about the bone men. Alicia collected stories of monsters and ghosts and trolls who lived under bridges the way some kids collect baseball cards. You’d heard her go on about the bone men a million times, but twelve-year-olds talk so much, you eventually tune them out or lose your sanity. And you were trying not to speed. Not to get caught. Trying to get home in one piece. Because when your mother tossed you the car keys and asked you to pick your sister up from dance class, it was either do what she asked, or confess that you’d stolen a six pack of beer from the fridge in the garage. And you hadn’t even felt that drunk, not at first.

Now grief grows like lesions in your mind, and though you can’t remember everything – thank God – the bits you can remember visit in high resolution. Streets slick with rain, and stoplights streaking the darkness. Alicia in her high chattering voice swearing to God that she really did see bone giants stalking the graveyard behind your house in the middle of the night, and she watched them whisper to the dead. Your head swimming and the air conditioner pumping and the rain slicing sideways. All you wanted was to rewind time and take the punishment, because you absolutely should not have been driving. Then brake lights, headlights? Screaming. An empty passenger’s seat with an unfastened seatbelt hanging in limp accusation, and a yawning hole in the windshield, rimmed with blood. Like a monstrous mouth that simply swallowed your sister whole.

Your lessons involve little more than the bone men placing words in your mind, and you whispering those words to the earth. Listening for a response. They caution that though you may learn to speak with the dead, you will not like what they have to say. The dead do not guard their thoughts. The dead are not polite. This doesn’t trouble you. You’ll listen to anything Alicia has to say. If only you can talk to her again, you’ll gladly drown in a sea of stories about chupacabras and fairies and witches dancing beneath full moons. Let her say she hates you. Let her blame you for her death. Because you deserve it. In a way, confronting this with her might ease your burden, though that’s not the end goal. You just want to tell her how sorry you are, and to hear her tiny voice again.

You haunt her tombstone like a ghoul every night, wallowing in the grave dirt, begging her to talk to you. But Alicia Laine, Beloved Daughter and Sister, Gone Home to God, never responds.

You can’t really blame her.

The bone men counsel you to have patience. You will be able to communicate with her, eventually. But what is patience to creatures like these?

What have they ever lost?

Nothing has ever broken you like the look in your father’s eyes when he fell to his knees beside your dead sister. Nothing will ever sound so horrible as the breaking glass shriek your mother made when she spotted Alicia splayed out in the street, covered in a blanket but leaking blood into the storm drain. This version of them is awash in red and blue police lights, and drenched in rain, and it’s the only version of them that remains. That moment washed your parents away and left strangers in their place, and even in your dreams, you can’t remember the people who used to love you.

The window in your bedroom upstairs framed a view of the graveyard like a painting in a museum. You studied every play of moonlight across the yellowed grass, every naked tree branch clawing at the sky, every shadowy brush stroke on that bleak canvas. And you considered the creatures who supposedly lived there. If Alicia was to be believed, they were servants of the graveyard. They were stewards of the dead. And every night when you retreated from the heavy silence of the dinner table, when you fled to the sorry sanctuary of your bedroom, you watched out the window for them. Even though you didn’t believe, you watched. Because you needed them to be real. You begged the universe to build such creatures into existence. And for so long, the universe ignored your desperation.

Your surrounded yourself with Alicia’s things. All her books on myths and monsters, every discarded doll that she’d once held dear. Unfinished homework assignments. Crayon drawings of unicorns and short stories about mermaids, written in neat block letters with a number two pencil. Hair ties and bubble gum wrappers and muddy tennis shoes. You collected all the ephemera of her life and did your best to absorb it. But she was still gone. There was no way to tell her you were sorry. There was no way to sit with her in the quiet gloom and listen to all the things she had to say.

Every night you studied that graveyard tableau, familiarized yourself with each graying stone bench, with every mound of fresh turned earth. And of course, with Alicia’s tombstone. Some nights, you imagined a tombstone for you, right alongside hers. A matched set. And maybe that would have been better for everyone. In your darkest moods, you allowed your guilt to wander elsewhere. If your father didn’t horde so much beer that he never missed a six pack, you wouldn’t have been tempted. If your mother had looked at you, actually paid attention to anything you ever did, instead of absently tossing you the keys on her way past your bedroom door, she might have noticed you were in no shape to drive. If Alicia had just been quiet for five seconds, you’d have been able to focus. To push through the drunken blur, and navigate those last few blocks unscathed. But this childish escape never lasted long. Responsibility might stray, but it always found its way home to you.

Then one night, when you’d finally convinced yourself that reality could not be reshaped to fit a dead girl’s imagination, you saw them. Tall and graceful and gray as storm clouds. There was not time to consider what you were seeing. You bundled up against the wet night and hurried out the back door, afraid they might disappear. Maybe they weren’t really there at all. Maybe it was just your mind working overtime to torture you.

But you followed the lantern lit path, and they were waiting for you. They were real.

Even now, you aren’t entirely sure you didn’t will them into existence yourself.

The bone men have instructed you well. Never, they are certain, has any human been more fluent in the language of the dead. But you still can’t hear them. And though you’ve spoken aloud every word the bone men taught you, no one seems to be listening. Certainly not Alicia. The bone men continue their tasks while you practice; they carry on conversions with every graveyard resident like they’re fast friends, and your envy boils. You ask if perhaps they can interpret for you, so you can speak with your sister that way. This suggestion is not well received. This is the only time the bone men have ever regarded you with anything but kindness. Their mood grows dark, and you understand you’ve broken protocol. A week passes before they will acknowledge you again, and you resign to step with more caution in the future.

After months of your nightly failure, the bone men convene to discuss among themselves what might be done to better assist you. They arrive at a consensus. It is suggested you would benefit from a closer communion with the dead. Perhaps a ritual would be beneficial. They often are in such situations. You arrive one night to find they’ve prepared a hole for you. A grave, next to your sister. Six feet deep, a perfect rectangle. Dirt piled up beside it. You have no desire to enter that hole, but the bone men assure you everything will be fine. This is certain to bring you closer to your sister. You hesitate. The bone men sense your unease, but they don’t fully understand it.

What could be more comfortable and welcoming than a freshly dug grave?

One of them lifts you in his arms and places you gently into the earth, like a newborn child into a crib. The bone men look over the edge of the grave like proud parents, unable to hide the fondness they feel. You writhe in the wet darkness. There is no comfort to be found amid the tangle of underground roots and jagged rocks. But comfort is not the goal. They reassure you as their hands begin shoveling dirt overtop your body. Not to worry, they won’t cover your face. Living in this world is hard, but they understand life is not a burden you are quite prepared to divest. Not yet. This will bring you close, though. Close enough to communicate, almost assuredly.

When they’ve finished, only your face remains uncovered. No moving your arms, no kicking out. Never did you expect the soil to sit so heavy on top of you. Panic flaps about in your chest like too many birds in a tiny cage. The bone men are delighted, and they still watch you from above, blanking out the stars and the lantern light, leaving nothing but black shadows across your resting place. Part of you wants to scream, but the soil is pressed so tight around your chin and cheeks that you can only whimper. The ground is cold. The air is wet and thin. And if it were not for the gentle soothing of the bone men, you’d never be able to settle down long enough to just listen. They pluck out the anxiety from your chest and replace it with resolve. They promise not to abandon you in your grave. You breathe deep. And you hear whispers, a rush of white noise, travelling through the hard packed earth.

The dead are talking to you.

Or rather, the dead are talking amongst themselves, and you’re eavesdropping on their conversations.

Having learned their language, you understand what’s being said. But the words come in such a rush, it’s hard to isolate any one speaker. You mouth a few sentences, trying to get a word in, but the dead won’t slow down for the living, and their chatter proceeds at a lightning pace. They worry about nothing and keep no secrets. They don’t yearn for life or pine for the living. There’s no concern about what came before, and some of them don’t seem to remember living at all. You try to speak, again and again. You mumble Alicia’s name and struggle to pick her voice out of the din, but it’s all so overwhelming. You imagine her cold body, buried just a few feet from yours. Why is it so hard to connect? You wonder if, perhaps, she’s already forgotten you entirely.

The bone men look down at you with pity.

Eventually they dig you up, set you on your feet.

They promise Alicia will talk to you someday, but you don’t hold out much hope.

The strangers who used to be your parents catch you sneaking in from your night in the graveyard, and they aren’t happy. Your mother’s voice is sharp as a sword and your father wields guilt like a truncheon. You stand muddy and wild-eyed in the kitchen as they remind you that you’re the only thing they have left in the world. They’ve hardly spoken to you in months, and they’ve forgotten that you’re someone they used to love. So, when you begin to argue, they let slip every accusation they’ve been holding inside. They remind you that this whole thing is your fault. They aren’t monsters. They’re just broken. But you wish they’d go back to being strangers. Better than revealing the people they’ve become.

Having spent time in the grave, your bed feels too soft. The mattress sinks in the middle, and you long for hard packed clay. Eventually you give up on sleep, stare out the window, and watch the bone men tend to their charges. Every tombstone straightened. Every grave swept clean of debris. There’s something beautiful and sad about the devotion they show to the dead. Tears well in your eyes when you consider that Alicia will never be alone.

The bone men will always be there for her.

Downstairs, your parents argue deep into the night. They poison one another with blame. Nothing beautiful remains for them in this world. They’re dead and rotting and don’t even know it yet. Maybe all of you are. Holding on to a life that has nothing left to offer. You consider going downstairs, entering the fray. Maybe you can figure out some way to reassemble what’s been broken. But nothing will bring Alicia back, and this whole thing is your fault. Instead, you stand at your window with your palms pressed against the cold glass, remembering the smell of wet earth and the taste of it in your mouth. You remember earthworms, burrowing in close, and your sister, cold company in the ground next to you. You watch the bone men, and consider

the ease with which they connect. Like the language of the dead is carved into their bones.

And finally, you understand.

The bone men can’t speak with the dead because they have some gift that you don’t.

It’s because they’ve lost something you still have.

You’ve made a decision that pleases the bone men.

They’d have suggested this course of action straight away, but people tend to value their lives more than their deaths. It’s a notion foreign to them, but one they’ve come to accept over the centuries. The bone men know the truth of things. They understand. Life is quick and loud, like snapping your fingers. Death is beautiful and serene. Death is a slow boat down a peaceful river. Existence is eternal. The bone men don’t understand why anyone would value a fleeting moment of sharp, bright pain over the endless repose of death.

Your grave beckons. The bone men hold your hand, help you down into the hole, all the while reassuring you that now everything will be okay. You’re so grateful for their gentle ministrations. This time you’re ready. The bone men cover you entirely. Fill the grave. Erect a tombstone. Leave orchids in a brass vase.

They swaddle you in the earth.

Your lungs grow still, and there’s nothing to distract you anymore. The dead invite you into the conversation.

Alicia is there. Alicia speaks.

This whole thing is your fault.

And, of course, she’s right.

But at least you have forever to make amends.

Host Commentary

Host script for “See that My Grave Is Kept Clean”

Host: Chelsea Davis

Narrator: Kyle Akers

Author: Josh Rountree

Release date: 9/8/23

Welcome to Pseudopod. Just a heads-up that this week’s story has a content warning for suicide.

Pseudopod, Episode 882. September 8, 2023. “See that My Grave Is Kept Clean,” by Josh Rountree. Hey there. I’m Chelsea Davis, your host for this week. I’m also Pseudopod’s audio producer, and a film and literary critic. You get one guess as to which genre I tend to write about.

This Friday, we’re thrilled to bring you a Pseudopod original by Josh Rountree. Josh has published short fiction in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies, including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Realms of Fantasy, The Deadlands, Bourbon Penn, Escape Pod, PodCastle, Weird Horror, and Found: An Anthology of Found Footage Horror.  This is his third story in PseudoPod. His latest short fiction collection is Fantastic Americana from Fairwood Press. His novel The Legend of Charlie Fish was published by Tachyon Publications in July 2023.

This week’s story is brought to life by narrator Kyle Akers, a versatile talent from Kansas City, Missouri. He’s worn many hats throughout his journey, from touring the nation as a musician with the electro-pop band Antennas Up, gaining recognition through television placements, to becoming a respected voice actor featured on The NoSleep Podcast, Pseudopod, Audiobooks, and more. Recently, Kyle embraced a new role as a full-time ICU nurse. On top of that, he serves as a Host Volunteer Co-Coordinator for Games Done Quick, where he actively contributes to their charitable mission.

Now, we’ve got a story for you. And we promise you it’s true.

HOST COMMENTARY:

What power the dead hold over us. What presence they have, even in their absence. In Josh’s magnificent story, death has transformed a little girl from a sisterly pest into an invisible queen, a sovereign from beyond the veil. Our grieving main character begs her on hands and knees for one last audience. “SEE THAT MY GRAVE IS KEPT CLEAN,” Alicia commands in the story’s title, a regal, formal grammar. The second-person mode of the story that follows comes to feel not just imperative, but imperious. Alicia’s new servants—the bone men, and her older sibling—humbly obey whatever she asks, or at least whatever they think she’s asking.

There’s a role-reversal at play, here, a kind of kid sister’s revenge. When she was alive, Alicia’s endless chatter was a mosquito buzz, a nuisance to be tuned out and batted away. But now that she’s gone, the main character would do anything—will do anything—to hear her voice again. And Alicia’s stories of mermaids and bone men, which were once so easy to dismiss as a child’s frivolous fancies—well, those creatures have become not just real, to her surviving sibling, but desperately important. He or she (he’s never given the honor of a gender or a name), believes in the bone men. Or maybe just wants to believe. Not that there’s much of a difference. Our yearning for the people we’ve lost can be so potent that it actually bends our material reality around it. We really do see the ghost of our beloved in the hall. We really do bury ourselves in the ground just to be with them once more.

As I was reading this story, I thought often of the 2008 film Rachel Getting Married. Anne Hathaway plays Kym, a recovering addict who accidentally killed her younger brother when she was high, years ago. Technically, there’s nothing supernatural about that movie, but the absent presence of that little boy who never got to grow up—it does more than haunt Kym. That dead brother has become Kym, become the only thing the rest of her family sees when they look at her, and when she looks at herself.

Of course, the double tragedy of these stories is that the killers are practically kids themselves when they do what kids do: they get wasted and they make a mistake. In these cases, it happens to be a mistake that will snuff out their siblings’ lives forever, and their own lives, too. Josh’s protagonist tries to heal the karmic wound they’ve caused with a kind of eye-for-an-eye logic, a human sacrifice of one. I find the story’s ending so deft and delicate because it tempers the unspeakable darkness of the main character’s choice with just a glimmer of light: “at least you have forever to make amends.” Of course, even if atonement is to be found in the everlasting tête-à-tête between siblings that follows the story’s end, it’s an atonement that has already come at hideous cost.

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PseudoPod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license.

PseudoPod will be back next week with episode 883, “Ba’alat Ov,” by Brenda S. Tolian. Victoria Marklew will narrate, I’ll be on audio production, and Alasdair will be back as your host.

In the meantime, here’s an ending quote to keep you cold at night. It comes to us from Talk to Me, an Australian horror film that’s still in theaters.

Riley: What did the hand feel like?

Mia: It felt amazing. I could see and feel everything on the other side. I could feel my mom. She was trying to reach out.