UK-based author Stephen Barnard has been writing and self-publishing both fiction and non-fiction for a number of years. He predominantly writes horror/suspense, and has a number of short story collections and novels available. He has also written the science fantasy trilogy, 'Portentous' and the sports biography 'Calamity Cricket'. His latest release is the novella 'They Let Themselves In' - an inventive take on the home invasion sub-genre. When he's not writing he sometimes teaches, parents, reads and binge-watches horror films.

Read more from Stephen right HERE.

THE DEAD MAKE ROOM

by

Stephen Barnard

Constable Watney waited until the train above finished rattling across the bridge which shared a name with the cemetery. When the bricks stopped thrumming and the tracks settled, he asked again. ‘So you think someone has moved dozens of graves overnight?’

The aged sexton of Heaton Bridge Cemetery shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple. I need to show you.’ Watney sighed, tucked his notepad away, and followed the old man along a gravel path.

When they stopped it was on the edge of a tract of land perhaps two hundred feet square, neatly mowed and even, flanked by headstones and markers in the distance and to the sides, but without a single grave on its pristine turf. Watney shrugged. ‘This land’s untouched. Nothing’s been moved from here.’

‘Aye,’ nodded the sexton. ‘That’s how it looks. But you see, we had no room here at all yesterday. No available plots in this part of the cemetery. And today, this.’ He waved a gnarled hand at the grass.

The constable stepped off the path and onto the neat lawn. For a second he felt disorientated, like leaving a ride too hastily at the fairground. It feels like the ground’s moving. The sensation subsided slightly. He walked further. There were no signs of disturbance, of foul play. ‘I’m not sure what you want to report. No headstones have been moved. No graves robbed.’ That being said, Watney felt better when he was back on the gravel.

The sexton hadn’t strayed from the path; now he walked further along it and beckoned the constable to follow. ‘Come talk to old Bert; he saw it all last night.’

Watney smirked at the idea that the sexton could refer to someone else as old. He’d listen to whatever tale was coming, make notes, then grab himself a coffee. There was no crime here.

Old Bert sat in a shelter across the cemetery, overlooking ranks upon ranks of graves. It was for visitors to sit in, to contemplate and reflect on life and loss. Instead it was clear that the old vagrant had made it his bed, at least for a night or two. He wore his filthy clothes like wrapping; the cardboard sprawled around him looked like he’d just been unboxed. He was shaky, but his spirits revived at seeing the uniform. ‘He’s going to be able to stop it?’ he asked hopefully.

The sexton huffed. ‘Just tell him what you saw last night.’

The homeless man sat forward on the bench. ‘It was clear as day, although it was night o’course. I saw the dead make room.’

The sexton looked at the constable as if that explained everything. Watney sighed and took out his notepad. ‘Go on then. Tell.’

What followed was a fantastical account. Bert had been crossing the cemetery to reach his chosen shelter when he apparently saw ghostly figures rise from their plots and stand by their headstones. Dozens of them. And then they all faced outwards, towards the four points of the compass and waited. Next, they seemed to move without walking – their grave markers too – like they were on conveyor belts at the airport. They pushed outwards, and behind them formed the new tract of land that Watney had stood on earlier. ‘The ground bloomed up behind ‘em, and there it was: more room in the cemetery.’

Watney tried to put it delicately. ‘You might think that’s what you saw, but the cemetery can’t just get bigger.’ He looked at the plots around them: everything seemed uniformly spaced. ‘There must be plans, a system… rules. This apparently new field will be mapped out there, perhaps scheduled for next use?’

The sexton crinkled his already creased face. ‘You might think so, but the original plans have been useless for some years now. They’re not worth consulting, so we don’t.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because… this has happened before.’

Watney shot a glance between the two elderly gentlemen. Bert picked up the narrative. ‘Back in ’53, there was the stadium disaster.’ That was common knowledge: a stand had collapsed during a local derby game. Over 60 people had died.

‘And 70 years before that,’ added the sexton. ‘When the Bradshaw mine caved in. 58 men lost.’

Watney tried to piece it together. ‘If you… believe in this phenomenon yourself, why have you called us out?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? To put the town on alert! There’s a disaster every 70 years, and when the dead make room there’s little time left to prevent it. As soon as the ground itself starts to shift then tragedy is imminent!’

Watney thought back to when he stepped on the grass; the sensation of the ground moving beneath his feet. He stared back towards the empty field.

He gasped.

Every gravestone along the periphery of the virgin tract had company: charcoal figures – like smoke blown into human moulds – shuffled, swayed and stared. Not at them, but up towards the horizon.

‘I told you!’ croaked Bert.

And then yet more ghosts appeared, fanning out from the central spot.  At the rate at which they were materialising the three of them would soon be rubbing grubby shoulders with the dead. ‘The path!’ barked Watney.

They took to the gravel and moved off towards Heaton Bridge. No graves under there, he thought.

Except that the closer they got, the more apparent it was that they were moving into the gaze of the ghosts. Bert hesitated, then stumbled. ‘Not… not that way!’

The sexton helped him up. ‘We should leave.’

‘Not under the bridge.’

They both looked for the constable. Watney was already there. He could feel the thrumming in the brick once more, could hear the track rattling above him. Too loud? Too intense? He looked up at the bridge’s looming height. A stone shook itself loose and fell by his feet.

The train was close. And shrieking against its imminent demise.

Watney didn’t see it derail: the collapsing arch took him first.