Chapter 4 Chapter 3 Suspicious Clouds in the Cemetery

one There was a sweeper at Castle Rock, and Steven Holt was in charge, and everyone called him "The Gravedigger."The nickname is shared by thousands of cleaners in thousands of small towns across New England.Holt's workload is enormous, and his staff is very small.There are two baseball fields in town to tend; there is a large public land that needs to be planted in the spring, mowed in the summer, and cleared of leaves in the fall (not to mention the trees to be trimmed and the bandstand and surrounding seats to be kept clean); There is a park where countless children in love have had trysts for a long time.

The jobs he was doing were mediocre, and he was going to be a mediocre old Steven Holt to the end of his life.However, there are three other cemeteries in Castle Rock, which are also under his control.In the daily work of the cemetery, grave digging is the most rare.Daily work includes: planting flowers and grass, cleaning fallen leaves, laying turf.Sometimes inspections are required.After the holidays, you have to remove the wilted flowers and faded flags – Memorial Day sheds the most of this kind of stuff and needs to be removed, but Fourth of July, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day are also busy.You also have to be aware of children's scribbles on tombstones.

Of course, the people in the small town are not interested in these.It is the very work of digging graves that has earned the nickname for people like Holt.His mother calls him Steven, but he's been called Gravedigger Holt since he started doing it in 1964, and he'll be Gravedigger Holt to the end of his life, even if he changes jobs - and that's not quite Possibly, since he was sixty-one. At 7 o'clock in the morning on the first Wednesday in June, gravedigger Holt drove his truck to the gate of "Hometown Cemetery". He jumped out of the car and pushed open the iron gate.There's a lock on the door, but it's only used twice a year—high school graduation night and Halloween.After the door opened, he drove slowly along the middle road.

This morning was purely a preparatory work.He keeps a clipboard by his side, and he'll jot down which parts of the cemetery need fixing between now and Father's Day.After "Hometown Cemetery" he'll go to "Mercy Cemetery" and then "Star cemetery."This afternoon, he and his men will start to do the work they should do.The work would not be heavy, for the heavy work was finished at the end of April, which Holt, the gravedigger, considered a spring break. For two weeks he worked ten hours a day, with David Phillips and Deck Bradford, every spring.They cleared clogged gutters, re-sowed areas washed away by spring rains, and erected tombstones and monuments that had been toppled by the earthquake.In the spring, there are thousands of big and small jobs to do. Huot barely made a light meal when he got home from get off work, drank a can of beer, couldn't keep his eyes open, and fell asleep on the bed.Spring renovations always ended on the same day: On that day, he felt that the constant back pain was driving him crazy.

The June refurbishment wasn't heavy, but it was important.At the end of June, the summer people began to come, and with them, the old residents and their children, who had all moved to warmer and more convenient places, but still had property in town.Holt, the gravedigger, thought they were the most annoying people, who would make a scene if a blade fell off the old waterwheel at the sawmill, or if Uncle Leonard's tombstone fell over.Well, winter is coming, he thought.Throughout the year, he always comforted himself with these words, and it is the same now, although winter is still as far away as a dream.

"Hometown Cemetery" is the largest and most beautiful cemetery in town.Its middle road, as wide as a standard road, is intersected by four slightly narrower paths for pushing carts, with manicured grass growing between them.Gravedigger Holt was driving on the middle road of "Hometown Cemetery", passed the first intersection, passed the second intersection, and reached the third intersection... He slammed on the brakes. "Oh my God!" he yelled, turning off the truck's engine and jumping out.He went down the trail, and fifty feet to the left of the intersection there was a rough hole in the grass.Brown dirt piled around the crater like shrapnel from an exploding grenade. "Those damned kids!"

He stood by the edge of the hole, his large, callused hands on the hips of his faded green work pants.It's a mess here.More than once, he and his colleagues were forced to clean up children's graves.These kids were either blowing their heads out of bragging, or drinking out of their heads, and came to rob graves in the middle of the night-this is usually a kind of showing off and being crazy.As far as Gravedigger Holt knew, no matter how drunk these fart kids were, they'd never actually dug up a coffin or a dead body.They usually just dig a hole two or three feet deep, and then get tired of the game and run away.Digging a pit in a local cemetery is mean, but it's usually not taken too far.

However, this incident was unusual. This hole has no clear outline, it is just a hole, it doesn't look like a tomb, it is not a neat rectangle.It was deeper than drunken schoolboys usually dug, but it wasn't the same depth from top to bottom; it had a conical shape, and there was a chill when Holt, the gravedigger, realized what the hole really looked like. rise from his back. It looked like a man who had been buried there before he died, came to life, and dug his way out of the grave with his two hands. "Oh, stop thinking about it," he whispered. "Damn the prank. Damn the kids."

It must be.There is no coffin below, no fallen tombstone above, which is completely understandable, since no body is buried here.He was so sure of it that he didn't need to look up the detailed map of the cemetery pinned to the wall of the tool shed.The six plots in this area are owned by Executive Committee Buster.But actually only Buster's father and uncle are buried in the field.Their tombs are on the right, with their tombstones standing upright and intact. Gravedigger Holt remembered the land for another reason.It was here that the men from New York erected their fake tombstones while they were reporting on Ted Beaumont.Beaumont and his wife had a summer home in this town, on Castle Rock Lake.David Phillips tended their house, and Holt himself helped David pave their family driveway last fall, before the leaves fell and the business started again.This spring, Beaumont asked, somewhat sheepishly, if he could have a photographer erect a fake tombstone in the cemetery and take a few “prank shots.”

"If it doesn't work, just say it," Beaumont told him, sounding more embarrassed, "it's not a big deal." "Exactly," Holt replied genially. "You mean Popular Magazine?" Ted nodded. "Wow, that's amazing, isn't it? The guy from Popular Magazine! I'm going to have to buy that issue!" "I dare not say I want that issue," Ted said. "Thank you, Mr. Holt." Gravedigger Holt liked Beaumont, even though he was a writer.Holt himself was only in eighth grade—and had to pass the exam twice, and besides, not everyone in town called him "Sir."

"The guys at the magazine would probably like to have a picture of you robbing a bank van with a pistol, if they could?" Beaumont burst into a rare laugh. "Yeah, I think that's what they want," he said, patting Holt on the shoulder. The photographer turned out to be a woman whom Holt, the gravedigger, called "a high-class whore from the city."Of course, the city refers to New York.As she walked, her breasts and hips swayed violently, as if on an axle.It was a miracle that she and her assistant managed to get in the station wagon she rented from the airport, which was packed full of camera equipment.If the truck was too full and she had to choose between her assistant and some equipment, Holt figured she would choose the camera equipment and let her assistant go back to the airport on his own.The Beaumonts, driving their own car, followed the station wagon and parked behind it, looking both embarrassed and amused.Since they volunteered to hang out with the "high-class whore from town," Gravedigger Holt guessed maybe they thought it was funny. "Is everything all right, Mr. Ted?" he asked. "Jesus, it's not good, but I guess it'll be fine," he replied, winking at Holt, the gravedigger.Holt immediately blinked at him too. Once he understood that the Beaumonts were voluntary, Holt settled down to be an audience.He was glad he was so close to a free show.Among the things the woman was carrying was an old-fashioned fake tombstone with a round top that looked more like the ones in the comics than the real one that Holt had recently erected.She fumbled around the fake tombstone, having her assistants put it up again and again.Holt walked up to him and asked if he wanted to help, but she arrogantly refused, so Holt backed away. Finally, she got it set up and left her assistant busy with lighting.All the while Mr. Beaumont stood watching, sometimes touching the little white scar on his forehead.His eyes fascinated Holt. (He's in the picture,) thought Holt. (Maybe better than that bitch, and more durable. He's storing her up to be in a book someday without her knowing it.) Finally, everything is ready to take pictures.The woman made the Beaumonts shake hands at the fake tombstone a dozen times, and on a cold day she commanded them as she commanded the sissy assistant.Because the light is wrong or their faces are wrong or she herself is not fucking right, she orders them to redo again and again in her high, husky voice, Holt heard that Mr. Beaumont is not a very patient type of person, and he expects him Get mad at her.But Mr. Beaumont--and his wife--seemed rather amused than offended, and they did what the "high-class bitch from town" said again and again, even though it was a very cold day.Gravedigger Holt believed that if he had done it himself, he would have had less than fifteen seconds to lose his temper with the woman. It was here, in the place of the damned pit, that they erected that fake tombstone.Ah, and if he needed further proof, there were still circular footprints in the turf, from the heels of the "senior bitch."She was from New York, and only New York women wear high heels at that season, and walk around the cemetery in them for pictures.If that's not— His train of thought was suddenly cut off, and the chill surged up again.He was contemplating the somewhat blurred footprints left by the photographer's heels, and as he stared at them his eyes stumbled across other, newer footprints. two footprint?Are those footprints? (Of course not, the guy who dug the hole threw some dirt a little further than others, that's all.) Not so, Holt knew not so.Before he reached the first clod on the green grass, he saw a deep footprint in the mound of dirt closest to the pit. (So, that's footprints, what next? You think the guy who did it was wandering around with a shovel in his hand like a friendly ghost?) There are many people in the world who like to lie to themselves, but Gravedigger Holt is not that kind of person.The nervous, mocking voice in his mind couldn't change what he saw.He had chased many wild animals in his life, and this footprint was too obvious for him to ignore.He prayed to God that it wasn't footprints. In the mound of dirt near the tomb, there were not only footprints but a circular indentation almost the size of a dinner plate.This indentation is to the left of the footprint.On both sides of the circular dent and the footprint (but further back) there were grooves in the mud, apparently the marks of a finger that had slipped before grasping. He looked up and saw another after the first footprint.On the grass behind that, is the third half, which was formed when the dirt from the shoes fell in clumps.It had fallen, but there was still enough humidity to keep the print... and so did the three or four footprints that had begun to catch his attention.If he hadn't come so early and the grass was still wet, she would have crumbled into little specks and there would be nothing to see. He wished he'd come later, wished he'd gone to Mercy Cemetery first, that's what he'd planned to do when he left the house. But he didn't, that's all. The footprints fade away to within twenty feet of the pit (grave) in the ground.Holt, the gravedigger, suspected that there might be footprints in the wet grass in the distance, and thought he should check it out, although he was reluctant.Now he turned his eyes again to the clearest marks, which were in a small mound of earth near the pit. A groove made by a finger; the original indentation slightly forward; a footprint next to the circular indentation.What do these indicate? Before the gravedigger Holt asked himself, the answer had already fallen into his heart.He could see it clearly, as if he had been there when it happened, which is why he didn't want to have anything to do with it anymore.So fucking creepy.Because from the looks of it: here's a man standing in a freshly dug pit. Yes, but how did he get down there? Yes, but did he dig the hole himself, or someone else? Yes, but judging from the twisting, wear and tear of these small grass roots, it seems that the turf was ripped apart by hand, rather than neatly shoveled with a shovel. How to explain this? Never mind those but.Leave them alone.Maybe it's better not to think about them.Just imagine that this person is standing in a pit. The pit is too deep to jump out.So what is he doing?He placed his palm in the nearest mound, drawing himself up.It wouldn't be that hard to do if he was an adult and not a child.Gravedigger Holt looked at the clear and complete footprints and thought, (If this is a child, he has a pair of terrifyingly large feet. These feet must be at least a size twelve.) Hands out, pull-ups.In the process, the hand slipped a bit in the loose dirt, leaving those short grooves.And then you come out and you balance on one knee and you make that circular indentation.You put one foot next to your knee, shift your weight from your knee to your foot, stand up, and walk away.Simply incredible. (Somebody popped out of his grave and walked away, right? Maybe he got a little hungry and decided to go to the fast food joint in town for a cheeseburger and a beer?) "Damn it, it's not a grave, it's a bloody hole in the ground!" he exclaimed, startled when a sparrow yelled at him. Yes, just a hole in the ground - he told himself.But how could he see no trace of the shovel at all?Why only a series of footprints leaving the pit, but no footprints going around and towards it?If a man is digging, he will often step into the soil he has dug, and should leave those footprints. Gravedigger Holt didn't know what to do.Technically, he thought a crime had been committed, but you can't accuse criminals of grave robbery - because there were no bodies in the dirt that was dug up.The best you can call it sabotage, and if you take it a step further, the gravedigger thinks it's none of his business. Maybe it's best to fill in the hole, patch up the sod, and forget about the whole affair. (After all,) he told himself for the third time, (Nobody's buried there.) In his memory, that rainy spring day flashed dimly.OMG, that tombstone looks real!You know it's fake when you watch that effeminate helper handle it, but when they put it upright and put those fake flowers in front, you'll swear it's real, what's there really people-- Goosebumps began to form on his arms. "Don't you think about it," he told himself sternly, when the sparrow began to cry again, and Gravedigger Holt welcomed its unlovable but perfectly real and ordinary voice. "Go on," he said, and then To those last footprints. As he guessed, he could see other footprints in the grass.They are far apart.Looking at them, the gravedigger didn't think the guy was running anymore, but he wasted no time.Forty yards away, he could see the guy's path another way: a big flower basket had been kicked over.Although he couldn't see the footprints so far, the flower basket should be on the road where he could see the footprints, so he simply kicked it aside and continued to move forward. From Gravedigger Holt's point of view, you'd better leave him alone unless you have a good reason. He crossed the cemetery diagonally, as if towards the low wall between the cemetery and the road.He acts like a man with a place to go and something to do. Although the gravedigger Holt is not good at imagining, but for a moment, he really saw him: a big man with big feet, striding in this dark and quiet suburb, with a calm and confident gait, kicking out of the way The flower basket, even the pace has not changed.He wasn't afraid either—the man wasn't afraid of anything.Because if there was anything alive there, they'd be afraid of him.Move, walk, stride, God bless whoever gets in his way. The sparrow screamed. Gravedigger Holt was taken aback. "Forget it, friend," he told himself again, "fill that damn hole and never think about it again!" He filled the pit and tried to forget it, but, that afternoon, Deke Bradford found him at Star Cemetery with news of Homer Gamache, who had Discovered on Route 35 one mile from "Hometown Cemetery."The whole town was wildly excited, and rumors and speculation were flying everywhere. So the gravedigger Holt reluctantly went to talk to Sergeant Pangbo.He didn't know whether Gamache's killing had anything to do with the pit and footprints, but he thought it best to tell what he knew, and let those who eat this bowl of food judge.