The Graveyard Shift
Every Halloween night, Harold worked the graveyard shift, literally. He was the night janitor at Maplewood Cemetery, where his job was to clean the tombstones and keep vandals away. Most people thought he was crazy for taking the shift every year, but Harold liked the quiet. The dead, he said, were easier company than the living.
That night, the air was colder than usual. The moon was a pale coin, half hidden by drifting clouds. As Harold scrubbed the moss from an old marble grave, he noticed something strange , the name carved on the stone was his own.
He chuckled nervously. “Funny prank,” he muttered, running his fingers over the fresh-cut letters. But when he pulled his hand away, it wasn’t moss staining his fingers , it was blood. The stone was bleeding.
One by one, the other tombstones began to weep dark red tears, soaking the ground. The air grew heavy with whispers, voices calling his name. Harold stumbled back, dropping his brush, heart hammering. Then, from behind him, a shovel clanged to the ground.
The caretaker’s shack door creaked open by itself. Inside, his timecard hung on the wall , stamped October 31, 2025 Final Shift.
id: smate
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