Morning Poppy awoke feeling under the weather. Just the day before shed been traipsing around the old churchyard in Yorkshire, cleaning up the grave of her husband Stans grandmother at her husbands request. While Stan was hunting for the exact plot, Victoria (whod been tagging along) spotted a gaggle of crows perched on a rusty fence. As if the birds were giving her the onceover, she turned her gaze to the metal headstone. The blackandwhite photograph showed an elderly lady in a kerchief. Suddenly a stern, masculine voice boomed in Poppys head: What are you staring at? Get on with it!
Confused but obedient, Victoria swept the foreign grave. And that wasnt the end of the oddities. When Stan finally located his grannys plot, the onceweathered stone had been swapped for a sleek marble marker, and the portrait had changed too instead of the wrinkled greataunt, a young woman beamed back at them.
I havent the foggiest idea! Stan stammered. Who could have done this? There are no relatives left. Everyones down here already.
I cant fathom how it happened, Poppy muttered, wincing.
***
Victorias hands throbbed like theyd been knotted up. What bothered her most was who had replaced the monument at Stans beloved grannys grave.
Could it be a hallucination or witchcraft? she asked Stan.
Off to the doctor, love, Stan suggested. As for the headstone, Im at a loss myself.
At the clinic, Poppys saga went fulltilt. The surgeon recommended joint injections, which she promptly declined. An Xray came back clean, and the doctor sent her off with a prescription for ointments and painkillers. Her arm pains were joined by fatigue and a worrying dip in blood pressure. It felt as if every organ in her body had taken a holiday. Days slipped by, the medics found nothing, and Poppy began to brace herself for the inevitable. When her neighbour, Mrs. Vera, popped in for a pinch of salt, she didnt even recognise her.
Darling, what on earth has happened to you? Mrs. Vera asked, eyes wide. You look rather pale.
Poppy recounted the mysterious male voice that had ordered her to tidy a strangers grave and the sudden makeover of the grannys monument.
A voice, you say? A shifting headstone and a new portrait? Mrs. Vera mused. That sounds like the caretaker of the cemetery meddling, maybe taking on someone elses misery. Could be a favour, could be a bribe.
Explain, please, Poppy sobbed.
Black magic! Mrs. Vera gasped. You need a church service, dear.
The church offered no miracle. Poppy endured the baffling ailment for a whole year, eventually having to quit her job. She shuffled around the flat like a tired ghost. After Easter, on the commemorative day, Stan suggested she pay a visit to the departed relatives.
Think you can manage?
Ill give it a go, she replied, halfheartedly.
Youre the cemeterys master! Poppy wailed, her voice cracking. Take my gift back! I dont want to die! I have children, a husband! Give those stray illnesses back where they belong!
She burst into tears, feeling the eyes of every longgone soul on her skinny, unhappy self. A flicker of sympathy crossed a moustachetoting gentleman in the photograph.
Take the money! a whisper rustled in Poppys ear. Go with God! The one who summoned you will get a taste of her own medicine.
Why are you crying at someone elses grave? Stan shouted, his voice tinged with panic. Come on!
The grannys headstone returned to its original, somber state, the old ladys mournful expression staring out from the photo.
No way! Stan shrieked, half in horror, half in disbelief.
I want to live! Victoria howled again. Guardian, protect me!
***
The next morning Poppy woke up completely fine. Her mind whirred with yesterdays oddities. She guessed who among the family had caused the trouble: Stans sister, whod never liked her from the moment they met, had fallen ill and passed away shortly after. It was a tough pill to swallow, but she decided not to dwell on the ghostly drama any longer.
