Sarah is a self-professed accidental hipster (who refuses to apologize for this). She has published two books so far (https://mybook.to/ek4LSmH) and is currently working (procrastinating) on the next one.
Sarah holds a Master’s Degree from the University of Huddersfield, in addition to a BA (Hons) and Qualified Teacher Status. After realizing teaching wasn’t for her, Sarah took to the internet to find a job that allowed her to stay home in her pyjamas and stumbled serendipitously across freelance writing. From there, Sarah Jules Writing Services was born. She still can’t believe how lucky she is that this is her real-life, adult, job!
If Sarah isn’t working, you can find her with her nose stuck in a book, travelling the UK with her partner, and her rescue pup, or sweating it out in the gym. She is a mental health advocate, and coffee addict, and loves all things spooky and/or creepy.
Sarah blogs (super-hipster, she knows) about all things books, writing and publishing on both her Instagram (@sarahjuleswriting) and on her website www.sarahjuleswriting.com.
ROTTEN LAND
by
Sarah Jules
If wildflowers grow atop a grave, the soul has gone to Heaven.
If nothing grows, the soul is suffering in Hell.
Long-stemmed wildflowers with gangly purple heads fill the cemetery. The flowers congregate so closely that from the gates, it’s impossible to see the headstones demarcating the long-since deceased. No fresh bodies are buried here. The land is too full of old bones to welcome any more, is the official party line, but I know better. I know the real reason St Mary’s Church won’t embrace any more of the dead. The land is rotten. I know it. Father Joseph knows it, but yet he hides it, wrapping the secret up in his vestments and hiding it from view.
It’s only a matter of time, I tell him. I tell him so often that my voice is hoarse, and yet he still won’t listen to me. They buried one depraved soul here, and one is enough to spread poison throughout the yard, leaking and seeking and invading. Even God can’t forgive some of the sinners.
There’s a plot in the far north of the cemetery, along the dry-stone wall that leans precariously into the street, like an old man stooped with age. That’s where they buried him. That’s where the wildflowers no longer grow. The land above it is barren and desiccated; sand rather than soil. Nothing will grow there, no matter how much I try. I’ve toiled for years, only to watch that barren waste of land spread, wider, wider, closer to the other graves.
Father Joseph should have listened to me. I’m older than him. Wiser. I’ve seen things that faux-pious bastard couldn’t dream of. I’ve lived in this town my whole life. Been the caretaker of St Mary’s since I was sixteen, over sixty years. I’ve seen many a false prophet come and go, but Father Joseph is something else.
‘Exhume the body,’ I told him. ‘Burn it. Bury it elsewhere.’
Father Joseph thinks I’m insane. That I believe in silly superstitions and folklore. What he doesn’t seem to realise is that all superstitions are built on truths, truths that have kept generation after generation from falling into the lap of evil. It is my job to protect the church. It is my job to protect the dead that rest here. I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands.
I use my cane to walk before his grave. His name is perfectly ordinary, too ordinary for what he did. James Henry Jones. 2.2.03 – 14.3.22. In his short life, James Henry Jones, raped, murdered, and drained the blood from fourteen little girls. They’re buried at the south side of the cemetery, as far away as the surrounding walls would allow. They lie silently, next to one another, under the earth, as the rot eats ever closer to them. The wilted, browning flowers show James Henry Jones’ rot marching ever closer. He will not allow his victims to rest. To get to them, the rot would fill the graveyard. I won’t allow that to happen.
I wasn’t always a superstitious man, but working around the dead has a way of altering a person’s perception of life and death. I often find myself trapped in riddles and illusions, grasping at any semblance of reason. The dead flowers, the barren grave, that rot tiptoeing closer to those poor innocent girls is reason enough for me.
I slam my shovel into the ground. The dirt is loose, powdery, not like the rest of the healthy soil in the graveyard. Soil I’ve tended to for my whole life. I dig. I dig. I dig. The coffin is the cheapest money could buy. Everybody deserves to be buried, Father Joseph had said. It had taken everything in me not to spit at him in disgust.
I pull out the crowbar and get to work prying the lid from the coffin. It comes away too easily. It wanted to be open. It wanted to be rid of the wretched creature stewing inside of it. James Henry Jones lays there. His eyes are closed. His body is starting to decay. I turn to reach for the lighter fluid I’ve brought with me. I peel off the cap and position the bottle above the grave.
His eyes are open.
It happens in a rush of movement. So quickly that I can barely comprehend what’s happening as teeth are clamped onto my neck, a tongue running across the wound. I am lowered to the ground gently as the dead body of James Henry Jones drinks deeply from me. The world spins and flips. I see stars and shapes. White hot fire burns at my skin. My eyes try to close. I force them open.
James Henry Jones has stopped drinking from my neck. His body is smeared with my blood. A too-wide smile splits his face in too.
‘Finally,’ he says. ‘Father Joseph and those fucking iron nails. Time to pay him a visit.’
A single word flashes before my eyes as I finally give in to the overwhelming exhaustion.
Vampire.