That night, the cemetery was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Not even the crickets dared to sing.
I was checking the candles that were still burning when I heard it—
the unmistakable sound of shoveling earth.
But no one else was supposed to be there.
I followed the sound, carefully stepping between the tombs, until I reached the far end of the cemetery. There, in a corner where no one had been buried for years, the dirt was moving.
Something—or someone—was digging.
"Who's there?" I asked.
The sound stopped.
I waited.
A moment later, a figure slowly emerged from the darkness. He was tall, thin, wearing the remains of an old work uniform. His boots were muddy, his shirt torn. And his face…
was covered in dirt.
But what struck me most were his arms.
He had no hands.
Only stumps where his wrists should have been, wrapped in what looked like rusted wire and strips of cloth.
Still, the grave was open.
And the shovel lay on the ground.
"How did you—?" I started to ask, but he raised his head.
"I need to finish," he said. His voice was hoarse, like dry leaves.
"Finish what?"
"My work."
He looked at me with hollow eyes, as if the question was too obvious.
"No one else can do it," he said. "They forgot about me. But I still have graves to dig."
—
I came back the next night, and the next.
Each time, he was there.
Digging.
Not always in the same spot.
Sometimes where no one was buried.
Other times in places where no one should be.
I asked the older spirits about him.
Most remained silent.
But one whispered:
"He dug too deep."
Another added:
"They punished him."
And a third murmured:
"He buried what no one should've found."
—
One night, I found him standing before an empty grave. The air was thick, heavy.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pointed into the pit.
I leaned over the edge.
And saw nothing.
Only darkness.
But then I felt it.
A chill, like fingers crawling up my spine.
A presence watching me from below.
I stepped back.
"You shouldn't be digging here," I said.
"I must," he insisted. "She's down there. She calls me."
"Who?"
He looked at me, and for the first time, his expression shifted.
Fear.
"The one with no name," he whispered. "The one they locked away."
And without another word, he climbed down into the grave.
—
I never saw him again.
But the hole remained.
Open.
No matter how much earth I tried to throw in, it would reappear the next morning.
Dark.
Breathing.
Since then, I avoid that part of the cemetery.
But I hear the sound of shoveling sometimes.
Far away.
As if someone—someone with no hands—is still working beneath the ground.
Digging toward something
none of us
should ever see.