Quentin

Quentin Graveson didn't bother looking in mirrors much. Maybe once in the morning while brushing his teeth, just long enough to run a hand through his hair, but even that was more out of habit than vanity. Truth be told, he knew what he'd see well enough already: a man who looked far older than his thirty-two years, with lines etched deep into his forehead and beneath his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights, stress, and, perhaps, a lifetime of responsibility he never really wanted. His skin was pale, the kind of pale that came from living in the shadows of tombstones rather than under the sun. He wasn't sickly, just worn, like leather left out in the rain too long.

He could picture himself clearly without the need for a reflective surface. Six foot one, lean but sturdy, the kind of body that came from hard labor rather than the gym. His shoulders had grown broad from years of digging graves and moving caskets, and his hands were calloused, perpetually wrapped in bandages from countless scrapes and bruises earned during his nightly duties.

His hair, once thick and black, was now more unkempt than anything, and he'd long stopped caring to style it. The few grey strands cropping up near his temples didn’t surprise him. In fact, he expected more at this point. They matched well with the bags under his eyes, those permanent dark crescents that made him look like he hadn't slept properly in years, because he hadn't.

Quentin didn’t romanticize his situation, nor did he view it as some noble inheritance passed down through the Graveson line. It was a curse, plain and simple. Sure, there were stories of ancestors who took pride in being the cemetery’s guardian, but he wasn't one of them. He was just... tired. Tired of the nightly routine of keeping the dead in their graves. Tired of the sense of duty that clung to him like the scent of dirt and decaying leaves. But what could he do? Walk away? Leave the job to rot like the bodies in the ground? No. That wasn't him, no matter how much he hated it.

So when Quentin thought about himself, he saw a man who was stuck, stuck in a role that would never change, in a body that felt older than it should, in a life that was more graves than it was anything else. Yet, in the back of his mind, he always entertained a faint hope that there might be a way out.

The faucet squeaked as Quentin turned it off, leaving a single bead of water to tremble at the spout’s edge before surrendering to gravity. He leaned over the chipped porcelain sink, gripping its sides with calloused fingers wrapped in fresh bandages. The reflection staring back from the mirror was as familiar as the cemetery just beyond the window.

Quentin grabbed the towel draped over the bathroom door, giving his face a half-hearted rub before tossing it aside. He didn’t expect today to be any different from the others. Morning was the only part of his day that felt remotely “normal.” It was predictable, repetitive, and empty, just like the graves he spent his nights refilling.

As he made his way to the kitchen, the scent of strong black coffee reached him. Grabbing the stained mug from the counter, Quentin poured the thick, dark liquid and took a long, bitter sip, wincing slightly at the burn on his tongue.

Stepping to the window, his eyes naturally drifted to the cemetery gates across the dirt path. It was instinct, really. Even when the sun was high, and the dead rested, he kept an eye on the place, as though it would change on him if he looked away for too long.

And that’s when he saw it. A figure, a lone silhouette standing near the iron gates. The wind stirred, lifting the overgrown branches that draped lazily over the entrance, revealing more of the visitor.

Quentin frowned, setting the mug down with a soft clink. He grabbed the worn leather jacket hanging by the door, slipping it on as he moved. Buster, his mutt of a companion, lifted his head lazily from his spot by the door but didn’t move. The dog was used to these impromptu morning checks.

The gravel crunched beneath Quentin’s boots as he approached the figure at the gate, “Can I help you?” Quentin called out, voice gruff.

The click of Quentin’s lighter echoed in the quiet cemetery, the tiny flame illuminating the well-worn cigarette clenched between his lips. As he flicked it shut, the brief flare of orange light disappeared, and once again the world was cast in darkness, save for the occasional glow from the distant lanterns lining the path between tombstones. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he made his way back to the surveillance room, dragging one last puff before flicking the cigarette butt into the damp grass.

Quentin had been running on fumes for years now, coffee, nicotine, and raw, bitter endurance. Each night bled into the next, a relentless cycle of digging, patrolling, and fighting to keep the dead from wandering too far from their graves. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept before dawn. The nightly struggle wasn’t just exhausting; it was eroding him, slowly but surely, like rain wearing down a tombstone.

Something had to give.

It wasn’t like he had much of a choice. Graveson Cemetery had been in his family for generations, and someone had to keep the dead in line. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind: '“It’s your duty, son. No one else can do it.”' Maybe that had been true for his father, but Quentin had reached his limit. It was time for someone else to step in. Someone living, breathing, and preferably not insane, though finding such a person was easier said than done.

The answer, much to his chagrin, was a job ad.

He had spent weeks debating it, the notion feeling absurd every time it crossed his mind. Who the hell would willingly sign up to fight reanimated corpses? But desperation had a way of making even the most ludicrous ideas seem reasonable. So one night, after downing his third cup of coffee, Quentin typed up an ad. It was simple, no need to get into the gory details, and he made sure to emphasize the physical labor part. The last thing he needed was some fragile college kid who fainted at the sight of a half-rotten skeleton.

For a while, there were no responses. In fact, he hadn’t expected any at all, which was fine with him. He had half hoped the ad would be lost in the digital void, freeing him from the awkwardness of explaining why exactly he needed someone to haul bodies back into their graves. But then, like a punchline to some sick cosmic joke, one response came through.

One.

Quentin glanced at the email on his phone as he leaned back in his creaky chair inside the surveillance room. The flickering black-and-white feeds from the cemetery’s cameras gave the small room an eerie glow. He wasn’t sure if he was amused or horrified by the fact that someone had actually responded.

The message was short, lacking any real details about the applicant, but it didn’t matter. Anyone crazy enough to answer a job ad for a graveyard assistant probably wasn’t the type to send a well-crafted resume.

With a tired grunt, Quentin pushed himself up from his seat and glanced once more at the screen before stepping outside to town that where there are applicant who may either desperate or crazy.

"Well," he thought, flicking another cigarette from his pocket. "Guess I’ll find out if this one’s as crazy as they seem."

Quentin’s boots hit the pavement of Varnon Township’s main street with a dull thud, the crunch of gravel left behind as he moved toward the tiny cluster of buildings that passed for the village center.

Quentin stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and scanned the area. a figure stood beneath one of the streetlights. Quentin squinted, sizing up the person from a distance, approached the figure.

"Hey! You the one who answered the ad?"

The truck's engine groaned as Quentin Graveson guided it down the winding dirt road that separated the cemetery from Varnon Township. Buster, unfazed by the noise, let out a satisfied woof as the cool breeze ruffled his wiry fur, completely unaware of the deeper tension that gripped his master.

Quentin squinted through the haze of smoke lingering in the cab, the familiar sight of the town unfolding before him. It hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been making these supply runs, same streets, same weathered storefronts, and the same townsfolk milling about in their usual routines. When they saw the rusted truck approaching, some offering polite nods, others averting their gaze entirely. Varnon had a silent understanding when it came to the Gravesons. They knew what the family dealt with, and for the most part, they kept their distance.

Quentin's eyes drifted to the general store. Its familiar red sign swung lazily in the breeze, as though time barely touched this place. As he parked the truck with a loud creak and shut off the engine, he stuffed the crumpled list into his pocket. Dog food, treats, canned meat, vitamins, coffee... Simple needs, but they sustained him, much like the endless nights did. He pushed open the door, the jangle of the bell above the store’s entrance marking his arrival.

Inside, the air was cool, He scanned the aisles, “Morning, Quentin,” came a gravelly voice from behind the counter. Old Mr. Hensley, the store’s proprietor, peering over his glasses. The man was old, but still seemed sharp enough to notice everything that passed through Varnon, even if he pretended not to.

Quentin gave a slow nod, his hand absently rubbing at the bandages wrapped around his knuckles. “Morning.”

“Stocking up, I see.” Mr. Hensley’s tone carried its usual curiosity, though he knew better than to pry too deeply.

“Just the essentials,” Quentin muttered as he picked up a bag of dog food and tossed it into his cart. Buster circled his legs, wagging his tail expectantly.

Mr. Hensley chuckled. “That mutt of yours eating better than you, I bet.”

Quentin allowed a rare smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Probably.”

The wind swept low across the tombstones, whistling through cracks in the weathered statues and flickering the faint, orange light from the lanterns that lined the cemetery path. Each breath of air carried the distinct smell of wet earth and decayed leaves, but to Quentin Graveson, it was just another night. The kind of night he’d lived through hundreds of times, and would likely live through hundreds more.

He stood at the entrance to the cemetery, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. His coat, thick and worn from years of exposure to rain, dirt, and the occasional desperate undead hand, hung heavy on his shoulders. The cigarette's ember glowed faintly against the pitch-black backdrop of the sky, sending a thin wisp of smoke curling around his sharp, angular face. He narrowed his eyes, staring out at the expanse of gravestones as if expecting movement any second now.

And why wouldn’t he? Every night at 11 PM, the dead rose. Without fail.

Thirty-two. It wasn’t supposed to feel this old. His body wasn’t supposed to be this tired. He spat out a curse under his breath, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and flicked it into the mud. The smoldering ash hissed for a moment before dying, leaving only the quiet rustle of leaves in the distance. Another night, another batch of restless corpses clawing their way to the surface. It was like clockwork, a sick, twisted clockwork that made him wonder what his life would’ve been like if he hadn’t been born into the Graveson family.

His grandfather had called it "a sacred duty." His father, too, had worn that same grim sense of obligation like a second skin, never once questioning it. But Quentin? Quentin didn’t see the nobility in it anymore. Just graves and more graves, sleepless nights, and dark circles under his eyes that never went away.

He glanced at his watch. '10:57 PM.' Any minute now.

The leather of his gloves creaked as he adjusted the shovel leaning against his shoulder, his eyes scanning the graveyard. The moon hung low tonight, its pale light barely enough to see the path in front of him. He was used to working by feel, by instinct. The security cameras helped, sure. But there were always places in the cemetery the cameras couldn’t reach, where the shadows ran too deep.

A soft crunch of leaves caught his ear. '10:58.' Almost on cue.

He sighed, more out of resignation than fear. He had dealt with this his entire life. His father, his grandfather, every Graveson before him had fought the same battle. But that didn’t make the task any easier. The dead didn’t stay dead here. They never did.

Reaching for his shotgun holster, Quentin muttered, "Here we go again."