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Dead Man Walking (His Beat)

T he full moon illuminated Cauldron Falls Cemetery, showcasing aged tombstones and the shadowy form of Butcher, the zombie caretaker.

Despite being a typical zombie with decaying skin stretched over bones, sunken eyes, and tattered clothes, Butcher took pride in his cemetery, checking each plot and monument.

His nightly rounds, a comforting ritual for decades, involved a slow, careful stroll through the cemetery's winding paths, ensuring the headstones remained upright and occasionally acknowledging the deceased.

Most nights were peacefully silent, occasionally punctuated by an owl's hoot or the rustle of a forest creature.

Having watched over aged tombstones for many years, Butcher was not easily startled.

Countless full moons had cast their ethereal glow on him as he bore witness to a variety of strange happenings, including ghostly figures dancing between graves, shapeshifters morphing into mythical forms, and secretive warlocks chanting near the cemetery.

Rasping an evening greeting to the ornately engraved headstone of Mrs. Mills, he delicately brushed away the scattered leaves with his thin fingers. "Garden club meeting tomorrow. I hear they're discussing night-blooming roses. Right up your alley."

He carried on with his unhurried stroll, halting by an unassuming gray stone bearing the inscription "Lily McBride, Adored Orchardist and Friend.

" He patted the top of the hard slab of marble.

"Evening, Miss Lily. Moon's waxing, nearly full tonight," Butcher murmured.

"Reminds me of your orchard. I sure do miss you.

" The memory gave him pause. Lily died shortly before the last major event in Cauldron Falls.

The last murder. The thought chilled Butcher with a strange feeling.

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling his decaying skin tingling as if being pricked by countless tiny needles.

Midway through the cemetery, a strange rustling sound disturbed the quiet of the night, emanating from a far corner.

Butcher paused, tilting his head to listen closely.

There was additional rustling, a quiet thump, and then the sound of deep, ragged breathing---almost like sobbing.

This something was far from ordinary. Butcher was familiar enough with the dead to spot the behavior of the living when they entered his domain.

"Hello? Cemetery's closed to the living after sundown," he called out, lumbering toward the disturbance with more purpose than his usual patrol, his joints softly creaking.

He arrived at the cemetery's oldest part, where the town's founding families lay buried. There, stumbling between the markers, was a figure---a woman with tangled hair and tattered clothes. Moving unsteadily, as if hurt or confused, she weaved a path between the monuments.

As Butcher drew closer, he could see more clearly in the moonlight.

Her clothes weren't just tattered---they were shredded in places, revealing angry red welts and deep scratches along her arms. Dark bruises mottled her exposed skin, some fresh, others yellowed with age.

Her feet were bare and bloodied, leaving faint crimson prints on the cemetery grass.

"Excuse me," Butcher called, approaching cautiously. "The living aren't permitted after dark. Safety regulations." Despite his official-sounding warning, concern colored his tone. Something was wrong; she wasn't your average trespasser.

The woman spun at his voice, her entire body jerking as if struck. Her eyes were wild, darting frantically from shadow to shadow, never settling on any one point. She pressed herself against a tall headstone, her fingers clawing at the marble as if trying to merge with it.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice raw as if from screaming. "Don't let them...they're coming. They're always coming."

Butcher slowed his approach, noting how she flinched when a cloud passed over the moon, casting moving shadows across the graves. Her whole body trembled, not just from the cold but from something deeper---a bone-deep terror that radiated from her in waves.

"Who's coming, miss? And who are you?" He kept his voice gentle, the way he might speak to a frightened animal.

The woman's legs gave way suddenly, as if the last of her strength had finally abandoned her. As Butcher moved to catch her, she recoiled, throwing her arms up to protect her face.

"No! Don't---don't---" She scrambled backward on her hands. "The blood moon rises, and they'll follow. They always follow."

That's when Butcher noticed the marks on her neck---deep scratches and bruising, some scarred over, others looking disturbingly fresh. Her wrists bore similar marks, along with what appeared to be rope burns, as if she'd been repeatedly bound.

"Easy now," Butcher said, maintaining his distance. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just the caretaker."

She stared at him, really seeing him for the first time. Her gaze traveled over his decaying features, and surprisingly, she seemed to relax slightly. "Dead," she murmured. "You're dead. They can't use the dead."

Before Butcher could respond, a small bat suddenly swooped down from a nearby tree and began circling them frantically.

"Mind your manners with her," the bat advised, his voice crisply British. "She's had a dreadfully long journey."

The woman's reaction to the bat was immediate and visceral. She pressed herself flat against the ground, covering her head with her arms. "No more bats, please, no more---"

"It's all right!" the bat said quickly, landing a respectful distance away. "I'm not one of them. I helped you escape, remember? Bartholomew? Bartie?"

Slowly, the woman lifted her head, recognition dawning in her exhausted eyes. "Bartie?" she whispered. "You're... you're not like the others."

Butcher wasn't surprised by the talking bat, as familiar creatures were common in Cauldron Falls. However, a bat familiar was unusual. Most witches preferred cats, ravens, or occasionally a toad. And a British bat was considerably more exotic, especially in these parts.

"A British bat," Butcher observed, carefully studying the terrified woman. "The perfect addition to my night."

When the woman struggled to stand, Butcher noticed more details---her fingernails were torn and bloody, as if she'd clawed her way through something.

Her hair wasn't just tangled but matted with what might have been dried blood.

When she moved, she winced, suggesting injuries hidden beneath her torn clothing.

"The blood moon rises, and they'll follow," she repeated, her voice growing fainter. Her hand clutched something at her neck---a silver chain that caught the moonlight. "Have to warn... have to find..."

Her eyes rolled back, and this time, when her legs gave out, she couldn’t resist Butcher's help. As he caught her, she mumbled one more thing before losing consciousness, "Blood moon… the water."

Butcher readjusted his grip on the woman, noting how light she felt---too light, as if she hadn't eaten properly in weeks.

Her breathing was shallow but steady, and up close, he could see the full extent of her condition.

Scars crisscrossed her arms in strange patterns, and her skin had an unhealthy pallor beneath the dirt and bruises.

"Looks like the pub is our next stop," he decided, heading for the cemetery gates. The bat familiar fluttered alongside, keeping a watchful eye on his charge.

"Careful with her," Bartie instructed. "She's been through more than you can imagine. Those monsters... what they did to her..." The bat's voice trailed off, unable to finish.

A creeping dread settled in Butcher's creaking bones. Something was coming to their town---something that understood patience and planning. And judging by this woman's warning---and her condition---they didn't have long to prepare.

As he carried her through the cemetery gates, the woman stirred slightly, caught in the grip of some nightmare. "Ronald," she whimpered. "Please, not again. Not the chains..."

Butcher quickened his pace toward The Boozy Cauldron, knowing that whatever horrors this woman had escaped, they were likely following close behind.