The Graveyard Grim

Callum Fraser first saw the black dog at the eastern gate of Eternal Escapes Cemetery.

At the time, he thought it was a cheap trick of heat and travel fatigue, one last bit of strangeness which clung to him after a month of football, borrowed couches, cheap hotels, and weak beer.

He’d come to America with the Tartan Army. That was how the whole foolish thing started. Scotland in the World Cup. His brothers, cousins, two men from the old pub where his father used to drink, and a cheerful menace named Dougie who owned three kilts and no indoor voice. They crossed the ocean in a wave of blue shirts, saltire flags, stubborn hope, and the hard-earned knowledge that hope was best carried where others could help hold it up. They made many new friends on the adventure from many different countries. By the end of their first week in Boston, even Dougie admitted Americans were better company than their beer suggested.

The matches ended. But the partying, singing and drinking did not, at least not right away. Now, the others had returned home, and Callum stayed.

He’d told himself he wanted to see more of the country. He told his mother the return flight was changed. He told Dougie, who always had a sense of when someone lied, that he needed a bit of space before returning to the old cemetery in Perthshire where he’d worked for almost eleven years. It was close enough to the truth that Dougie didn’t call him on it. He’d only raised his glass in salute.

To be completely honest, he was following a pull he couldn’t explain.

It began as a restlessness after the last match. It grew stronger when he reached New Orleans. By the time he passed through the city and found himself on a narrow rural road, the pull became so clear that ignoring it felt less sensible than following it.

Eternal Escapes stood behind wrought-iron gates on a broad piece of land well outside the city. A place where live oak trees covered in Spanish moss lined both sides of the narrow road to the main gate.

The sign was polished but not gaudy. Eternal Escapes Cemetery and Funeral Home. The grounds beyond were kept with obvious care: swept walks, clean crypt fronts, fresh flowers, old tombs washed but not stripped of their age, newer memorials placed with respect rather than sterile precision. The cemetery was active. Visitors moved along the paths carrying roses, lilies, folded notes, balloons tied with ribbon. Somewhere deeper in the grounds, a mower hummed. Near the funeral home, two staff members guided a family toward a chapel entrance.

Callum stopped at the eastern gate because that was where the pull ended.

The dog stood just inside the bars. Large. Black. Still. It wasn’t a stray. And it didn’t appear to be a guard dog. No collar, no tags, no tension in the shoulders that suggested hunger or fear. It stood with its head lowered slightly as it watched Callum through the ironwork.

Callum had known dogs all his life. Farm dogs, shepherds, old terriers gone white around the muzzle, sleek hounds that regarded men as beneath them. This dog had the shape of memory more than muscle. Its edges seemed to blur and fade in the sunlight, its shadow too deep beneath its feet.

Callum blinked. The dog was gone.