Watcher

Now it is that time of night,

That the graves all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way paths to glide.

(from A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare)

~

Joe stumbled in the moonlight, the laces of his trainers snagging on a bramble. After untangling them, he picked a couple of tasty looking blackberries from the hedge, adjusted his headphones and wandered on along the footpath.

A tall gangly form, weaving in and through long moonlit shadows, he hummed along to his favourite album, the beats of the song faintly audible to the darkness around him. He loved the walk home from the hotel. It gave him time to forget the clash and noise of the kitchens, the heat and sweat of grills, and the organised chaos of the preparation areas. He savoured the taste of the sweet berries in his mouth and started thinking about food again, looking up at the far distant stars. All he'd ever wanted to do was cook, and the job in the hotel had been a dream come true. But the hectic pace of evening service always wound him up to an adrenaline high that only the walk home helped dissipate enough to allow him to sleep.

Joe sighed contentedly and meandered on home, the tall Devon hedges looming darkly either side of him, and trees shrouding the sky above with their latticework of branches. The shadows cast by the bright moonlight made him look like a hooded fisherman wading through an ink dark sea, the moonlight swallowed by the black waves. All was still, calm and clear; only the occasional silver cloud drifted across the starlit sky, and every now and again a bat zipped past in haphazard hunt through the night. Everything was at peace.

He'd been walking the route along the old greenway between the two villages for two months now, ever since finishing school. At first the darkness and lack of street lights had spooked him, but he'd learned to love the calm, even if the occasional sheep coughing sounded like a murderer waiting in the shadows for the unwary. Once his imagination had worked past the idea of a haunted path, the night sounds of foxes calling, owls screaming and creatures rustling through the hedgerows, he'd provided his own soundtrack to the night with the addition of an MP3 player bought with his first wage packet.

Although comfortable in himself and enjoying school, he'd known for a long time what he wanted to do, and now at 16 he could live his dream. Being obsessed with food wasn't a common thing for a teenage boy and he'd taken his fair share of bullying when he had been the only lad in his year to take Home Economics. But the hard work had paid off and, after pestering the chef in the hotel to let him cook for him one night, he'd been promoted from sometime pot washer and vegetable chopper to junior chef. Michelin Stars sparkled in the happy dreams of his future.

A few hundred yards on, he slowed. On a bench tucked into the hedge was the shadowed figure of a man. Pushing his hair out of his eyes he moved forwards to get a better look. As he got closer, he recognised him as Archie, one of the regulars in the pub that nestled in ramshackle companionship next door to his own home: a gentle, quietly spoken old man who tended to sit in the corner with his terrier, he seemed unchanged for decades. Tonight though, he looked very different. As he approached, he noticed the old man was a deathly white, his pallor highlighted by the cold silvery light of the moon, and he appeared drunk, slumped back into the hedge. Or maybe it was something worse.

Joe stooped, and with some trepidation tapped him gently on the arm. "Archie... Archie. Are you okay?"

"Eh? What? Oh, hello Joe. What're you doing here?"

Joe breathed out, his worries dissipating into the night. "Sorry to wake you Mr Fields, but I was concerned. It's late and you look a bit pale if you don't mind me saying. Can I walk you home?"

"Good grief. Don't start calling me 'mister' now boy, I've known you far too long for that. Come, sit here a moment and keep an old man company."

Joe sat, placing the large cans of his headphones around his neck, the music beating quietly into the night. Archie looked at him, and smiled slightly.

"I'd hoped it would be you. Good choice." Archie bowed his head as if in prayer and looked at Joe again. "I'm sorry son. You're in for a tough time tonight. Are you ready?"

"Ready? I... I don't understand. Archie, what's going on?"

Archie sat upright and grabbed Joe's arm with sudden manic strength, fingers clawing deep into the bicep of his arm.

"You need to listen to me now. I'm not sure how much time I have. When all this is over son, I need you to go to my house before you do anything else. Don't call the ambulance, your parents or anything, just go. There's a package on my kitchen table; what's in there will explain everything. Take it, read it and then you'll understand, show it to no-one else. The keys are in my jacket pocket. Oh, and look after the dog for me."

Archie slumped back, all strength gone and breathing heavily, his thin frame shadowed and scrawny in the wan moonlight.

Joe half rose from the bench, feeling apprehensive and uncomfortable, all his fears rushing back. "Archie, you're scaring me a bit here. If you want me to look after Angus, that's fine, but we need to get you to a hospital. Now."

The bells of the churches in both villages struck eleven and Archie lifted his head at the sound. "I'm sorry son, it's too late. You'd better make yourself comfortable."

Compelled by the concern in Archie's voice, Joe sat, his eyes on the old man's face.

As the bells faded into the night the music from his headphones crackled and hissed, the bickering noise at odds with the quiet surrounding them. Joe automatically reached into his pocket and looked at the brightly lit screen of his MP3 player. As he did, the display changed, a pale ghostly face appearing briefly. It grimaced and faded away only to be replaced by another silvery persona, then another, and another.

"What the hell...?"

There was a pause and the air filled with bats, thousands of tiny forms flinging themselves down the greenway between the hedges, the leathery smacks of wings deafening in the chaotic darkness. Joe pressed himself deep into the hedge with Archie as the winged creatures flooded past, the MP3 player forgotten. A few seconds later, silence and the moonlight lit the bench with faint relief.

"Archie?"

"Hang on boy. We've got a lot more to get through yet." Archie's hoarse whisper rasped through the summer night's stillness. "The vigil lasts 'til the village clocks strike one."

Joe turned his head to reply, and came face to face with the ghostly form he'd seen in the screen of his MP3 player moments before. It hung in the air before him, mere inches from his nose. Lank silvery hair framed a pale face he could clearly see through. A tri-horned hat topped his features, oddly patterned clothes adorning the constantly moving body. It grimaced at him, capered madly in front of Archie, the bells on his hat dancing silently in the still air, and moved away down the lane.

Numb with fear, Joe could only watch in unmoving terror as, in absolute silence, the lane filled with the shades of the dead. Following the leering man was a stately yet silent procession of horses drawing a black carriage, the ghostly windows of the funeral bier showing the coffin inside. Children danced joyfully through the throng, ghostly and ethereal; old men shuffled slowly along, occasionally proffering a semi-transparent arm to a similarly shuffling old lady. Couples danced in the moonlight, the long dead gentlemen doffing their hats to the watching pair on the bench. The old man was calmer now, watching with bright eyes: his younger companion had withdrawn in terror as far as he could into the hedge, heedless of the brambles digging into his back.

"Archie...." The terror-stricken whisper brought the old man round to face the young man next to him.

"Hang in there son, we're almost done now."

Joe watched as the procession tailed off, the suicides and the executed the last to wander wretchedly past them: they were the worst, with body parts missing, mauled or deformed, occasionally carrying a head or shuffling along in noiseless chains.

"That's almost it now." Archie whispered. He had slumped back into the hedge, his breath rattling in his throat. Joe was stiff with fear, unmoving and wretched.

"All that's left is the Watchers now; they'll be along in a moment. I think I have a few minutes to try and explain.

"Did you ever wonder about this lane, why so few people use it? Well, everyone knows it's reputed to be haunted, but this happens only once a year: St Mark's E'en. This is no country greenway or footpath. It's a Corpse Way. At one time they linked churches all over the country. As villages grew into small towns, the congregations grew more crowded and smaller churches were built on the edges to support them. When people died, the smaller church would send its dead back to the mother-church for burial. Since the time of the new church, someone has always been here to watch to make sure the shades of the dead pass by. That someone is me, and will very soon be you.

"In a moment I will join them and then you need to get back home." Archie raised his hand, and instinctively Joe grasped it.

"Good luck son. Remember what I said earlier. Get back to my place first. What's there will explain everything. We'll speak again... in time."

The old man smiled. Archie had kept hold of Joe's hand and as Joe watched a faint silvery glow enveloped their intertwined fingers. Archie bowed his head in concentration for a few seconds, gasped, and fell back against the hedge, a last breath rattling with finality from his throat.

As his grip relaxed, Joe looked at his hand. It was still glowing faintly, the silvery effervescence matching the sheen cast by the moonlight. Shock froze him for a few seconds, and then he came back to himself and gently shook the old man, hoping to elicit some response.

"Archie... Archie?" Joe checked his breathing and heartbeat, and finally, with tears forming in his eyes, he carefully closed the old man's eyelids.

It was then that he became aware of another presence. A tall elegantly dressed man stood nearby. Another ghost. The style of his clothing was immensely old and he stood looking at Joe, respect in his shimmering eyes. The man bowed and walked past and into the darkness. A procession of old men followed, all in different styles of dress, and all stopping one by one next to Joe and bowing or nodding at him in passing.

Finally, the procession stopped and an old man in what looked like Victorian attire stopped, looked at Joe, nodded, and moved over to the now still form of Archie.

"Can you help?" said Joe.

The figure shook his head, and before Joe could say anything else, put a finger to his lips, leaning forward to grab Archie's hand. The same silvery glow that had enveloped Joe's hand coalesced in shimmering silver around Archie, and Archie's ghost stood up, grinning in the moonlight, his body left slumped in death behind him. The two ghosts hugged and conversed silently, any words lost in the ether of night and death's silent kiss. The older of the two ghosts nodded at Joe and moved off leaving Archie's shade to face Joe.

The ghost of Archie smiled broadly, tapped his pocket in reminder, waved a silent goodbye and moved away down the lane, leaving the shaking teenager on the bench, the platinum tracks of drying tears still glistening on his cheeks in the dappled light of the moon.

~

Seventy years later Joe's ghost stood up from his cooling body to face the ever grinning Archie. For seven decades he'd kept the vigil on St Mark's E'en. Seven decades of watching the old Corpse Way running between the two villages. Many years of knowledge burned in his brain, knowledge that had been written down for the next terrified Watcher to come into the fold.

"Well done Joe." Archie beamed at him. "This kid ready to go?" They both turned and looked at the shaven-headed, half-naked youth who sat on the bench, light implants flickering sickly in the presence of the two entities who stood near him.

"Aye, he'll be ok. He thinks he's God's gift to everything, but tonight will probably have calmed him down a little."

"So, what now?"

"Well, you catch up with me a bit further down the way and we'll have a chat with the other Watchers. But for now, you need to say goodbye to the shaking weirdo on the bench there."

As Archie moved off down the lane, Joe turned back to face the boy he'd been watching for some fifteen years. He smiled at him, patting his jacket pocket to remind him to pick up the memory cube he'd left there.

Joe looked down the lane, shadows dappling the night in dark pools. He still loved this walk and from this point on would join in the moonlit procession to mark St Marks E'en. For now though he was free of pain and sorrow, free of obligation and bodily constraint. The ghost of the recently dead Watcher moved serenely along the corpse way, the ghost of a tune haunting his memory.

~~~ The End ~~~