Don’t Feed the Ghosts

By Bryan Thomas Woods

In the parking lot of the Saint Labre Cemetery, Officer Carter stood underneath the only working streetlight. He scribbled into a notepad as the pages flailed in the winter winds.

“Can I see some ID?” Officer Carter asked. He shined his flashlight on a man sitting in the darkness.

“Don’t have any,” the man said and looked towards the ground. He sat on a small stool and leaned against the cemetery’s stone wall.  

“How about a name?”

The man ducked his head below the collar of his faded wool coat to protect himself from the cold. Next to him, a folding table rattled with the breeze. 

“What’s this?” Officer Carter asked and moved his flashlight along the table that was littered with food. A pile of bagged sandwiches. Picked-through trays of vegetables. An old Crockpot of soup.

“Feeding the ghosts,” the man said.

“And I guess they get cold too.” The officer shined his light on a pile of blankets underneath the table.

“Sure do. When the snow starts to fall, those holes can turn into an icebox.” The man pointed through the cemetery gate.

Officer Carter rolled his eyes. He shook the wrought iron that led into the cemetery. Wrapped in thick chains and securely padlocked, the gate didn’t budge. He leaned against the frame. Cold metal pressed up against his face as he shined his light around the pitch-black graveyard. Empty.

“I’m sorry,” Officer Carter said, even though he wasn’t. “We’ve received multiple calls, including one from the owner of the cemetery. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to arrest you for trespassing.”

“Can’t,” the man said. “This time of year, most people stop coming to the cemetery because of the cold. The ghosts have nothing to eat.”

“And why can’t they go get their own food? They can walk through walls. Can’t they just zip right down to Shop Rite after it closes?”

“Doesn’t work like that. Most of them need to stay here, in this area.”

“And if they’re already dead, how do they feel the cold?”

“If you’re cold,” the man said and pointed to Officer Carter’s thermal jacket. “Why can’t they be cold?”

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Officer Carter asked. He scribbled something onto his notepad and pulled the radio from his belt. “Like family, a caretaker, a doctor –”

“Hi there,” a voice called from behind Officer Carter. A girl walked next to the wall, tracing her fingers along the stone outline. She walked right passed the officer and never strayed from the darkness. “What do you have tonight?”

Officer Carter stared at the girl. She wore a long flowery dress with ruffled sleeves and her blonde hair curled around her ears. Young, maybe 12, he thought. She grabbed a few sandwiches from the table and giggled. Her laugh echoed in the empty parking lot.

He shined his light over the cemetery gate. The chains still snaked around the posts and the padlock was firmly shut. For a moment, he fought the urge to reach out and touch her.

“You know the problem with feeding ghosts?” the man said to Officer Carter. “They all need different things. Bologna didn’t arrive in America until the 1900s, so anyone who died before that won’t even touch the sandwiches.”

The girl grabbed a stack of blankets from underneath the table. “Do you have anything so I can read at night?” she asked. 

The man shook his head no. 

“I might,” Officer Carter said and fumbled through his pockets. He pulled out a pair of glowsticks and placed them on the table. 

The girl looked at the man on the stool. He smiled and nodded. She grabbed them from the table and slid them into blankets.

“I actually have a whole box in the car,” Officer Carter said to the man. “I can give them to you, but you need to leave right away. I really don’t want to bring you in, but I have to.”

Officer Carter went to his squad car and grabbed the box of glowsticks from his glove compartment. In his trunk, he found a few blankets and an old knit hat. He grabbed them and headed back along the stone wall. Underneath the streetlight, Officer Carter shined his flashlight into the darkness. There was nothing. He looked around. No man. No girl. No table. 

At the iron gates, he wriggled the padlock and check the chain for breaks. Still, the gate didn’t open. Again, he shined his light into the cemetery. This time, he saw them. Among the headstones, they huddled together. Some lay in tents and others on the cold ground. There were all types. Big. Small. Young. Old. They ignored the flashlight.

For a few moments, Officer Carter froze, paralyzed with uncertainty. He clicked off the light and reached for his radio, to call it in. Then, like a hand grabbed him from the darkness, he stopped. In front of the locked gate, he set down the box and blanket and left.

Bryan Thomas Woods writes speculative fiction, suspense, and horror. He is studying creative writing at Full Sail University. After serving in the military, Bryan settled in Orlando, Florida with his wife and children.