Emma Lee Brown lived in a trailer next door to the cemetery.
Her living situation was meant to be temporary, a brief landing spot while she fled her father’s burgeoning violence. But it turned out she liked the trailer. She liked that it was small, at once easy to clutter and easy to clean, sometimes in a daily cycle. She liked eating at the picnic table under the striped awning, and she did so most days, except in the most inclement weather. She liked how Mr. Matsuo, her best friend’s father and the trailer’s owner, shared maintenance duties with her so she wouldn’t feel guilty for living rent-free.
And she loved living next to the cemetery.
Most mornings and evenings, even in inclement weather, even during the school year, she climbed down the cramped, metal steps of the trailer and strolled across the yard to the gate in the far corner.
The gate was secured by an old padlock. Mr. Matsuo had—somewhat reluctantly, she thought—given her the key shortly after she’d moved in. He’d explained that he’d replaced the lock because the cemetery staff were always leaving the gate open, and he hated people wandering into his yard. “People actually came into your yard?” she’d asked. “No,” he’d said, “but they could have.” He’d answered with such emphasis that she’d looked up in surprise and found him watching her intently, as if to be sure she understood the gravity of his trust.
The key worked the first time she tried it, but only with a lot of effort. The lock had been hanging untouched for months, maybe years, and it was rusted and gritty. She took it back to the trailer and watched a couple YouTube videos about how to clean a padlock. She spread newspapers and paper towels out on the picnic table, and, despite what the videos said, cleaned it with WD-40.
Now, the lock snapped crisply open as, most mornings and evenings, even in inclement weather, and even during the school year, she stepped through the gate and into the cemetery grounds.
The cemetery seemed pretty big to her. It took a bit over 45 minutes to stroll the perimeter. Not as big as the Old Money cemeteries she’d seen on TV, but bigger than the fenced graveyards connected to churches in the small, Southern town where she’d grown up. She’d tried, once, to calculate its area, but had given up; its irregular shape exceeded her mathematical patience.
A paved driveway led from the front gate to the center of the cemetery’s newest section, splitting into a wide circle, with a statue of an angel at the far end, its arms and wings spread wide, watching over rows and rows of evenly spaced graves.
The front gate—a wrought-iron affair, hung between two tall, brick columns—was rather basic, consisting of simple posts topped by fleurs-de-lis. An arch spanned the columns as well, announcing the cemetery’s name: Redwood Memorial Gardens. She found the name amusing. Gardens? There was grass, and there were trees, but there were no flowers or decorative plants to speak of. What were they growing here? What do you get when you plant corpses? Zombies?
The gate was just uphill from a sharp curve on an otherwise leisurely winding, two-lane road. Drivers often took that curve too quickly, drifting into the opposite lane, but there hadn’t been any accidents there. At least, she hadn’t heard of any, though she’d once seen a tricked-out Porsche fishtail wildly, a frenzy of squealing tires and smoke. The skid marks had remained for months.
Every morning at 8:00, a beat-up old pickup truck would wheeze down the hill and swing a wide U, easing to the side of the road. A bent old man in jeans and a cowboy hat would limp around to unlock the gate. He’d push each leaf inward, fastening it to its post, then limp back and drive off, his truck coughing and grinding up the hill. Each evening, also at 8:00, he’d return to reverse the process. Depending on the time of year and the status of Daylight Saving Time, Emma Lee might be wandering the grounds when he arrived. But he never looked at her. Indeed, he never seemed to look around at all. She wondered if he’d ever locked someone in for the night.
Story by Greg Kemble. Art and animation by John David Irvine (thejohnirvine.com).
In addition to reading the series on the blog, you can enjoy “Emily’s Grave” in a few other formats (you’ll find links to all of these versions at the Emily’s Grave (a story) page):
- Videobook (YouTube) – I commissioned my friend and former student John David Irvine—now an award-winning animator—to create an atmospheric animation to accompany the audio version of the story.
- Audiobook (mp3) – Recorded by the author (that’s me!). You can listen to it on the blog or download it.
- Print version (PDF) – If you prefer to read written text, you can view or download a PDF version.
Tip Jar – Pay what you like, if you like.
A-and there’s merch! If you like John’s cover art, check out the shirts, coffee mugs, stickers (and more!) at Redbubble.
About the author (that’s me!)
Close-to-retirement English prof.
Occasional musician, blogger, and writer.
Mildly Introverted, mostly harmless.
About the artist
Multi award-winning artist/animator/filmmaker John David Irvine is known for his unique style of handcrafted animation and darkly surreal imagery. His cryptic work explores identity, queerness, and generational trauma, wading into the everyday horrors that undulate beneath the veneer of the mundane. His award-winning short film COMMON MONSTERS is currently being expanded into his feature film directorial debut.
Check him out at https://thejohnirvine.com.
“Emily’s Grave” © 2021 (text) and © 2023 (audio and video) by Greg Kemble are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0