Graveyard Keeper Stories Novels & Stories

I heard a hoarse voice from behind. I knew it was the guardian of the cemetery. He had special powers, such as the power to cripple grave burglars who seek treasure in the graves of the nobles. I turned to him. He was old and trickish, and he had his way to obtaining reasons for a visit from the lips of those who visit the graves of their loved ones in the cemetery.

It was cool beneath the earth, the air heavy with the scent of dusk petals and old parchment, filtered sunlight tracing uncertain paths through veins of rootglass and living bark. Here, the Keeper dwelled. Older than roots, or perhaps not old at all—simply enduring, as all true memories do. He bore no name that would be remembered in song or written in ink. He was a silent steward of stories: the first to witness Elara’s rise, and the last who ever wrote her name by hand. He had chronicled everything. The child who wept beside the roots, hoping for someone to call her name. The queen who shattered her crown, so others might have the courage to lift their voices.

More jewels and gowns than I could count. Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex. Five years. 999 times. There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me. Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman. I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover. Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me.

The scene in the bedroom was too horrifying to see: a naked man and woman on the bed. Lydia was straddling a middle-aged man, rocking back and forth, while drenched in sweat. Her pretty face was flushed, and she was moaning incessantly. My sudden appearance startled both of them. "Derrick, how… how did you get here?" Lydia scrambled off the man in a panic, and I charged at them, seething with rage. The middle-aged man tried to sit up in fear, but I kicked him squarely in the face. With a scream of agony, he clutched his face and collapsed back onto the bed. I was about to strike again when Lydia grabbed me tightly, pleading for me to calm down.

Anne wished they hadn’t spoken to that batty old man, listening to his riddles and dead-end tales. The later discovery of alternate tales, crude folklore and legends betrayed by a handful of the old or wandering mad reinforced Damon’s suspicions of an ancient grave site, though there was no recorded information of its existence until Damon’s final research paper. There Damon recounted it by name, “The Mourner’s Cradle.”

Now that I was back at work, I often showed up in several villas. The residents loved me, some even taking their arrangement with me seriously. Claire from Villa No. 2 expressed her thoughts about eloping with me. I told Emmy about it, prompting an immediate reproach on Claire. Emmy’s trust in me grew, and I was tasked with more responsibilities. Slowly but gradually, I learned about the founder of the Caged Canary community. I also found out about Emmy’s past. Emmy was the previous resident of Villa No. 1.

"The Keeper of Memories... that title hasn't been used in generations, but I know of one who might have inherited the role, even unknowingly." "Who?" Garrick demanded. "An old wolf who lives in solitude near the Crystal Falls," Sin explained. "He was once called Thorne, though he goes by other names now. He's said to be the last living descendant of the Emberfang record-keepers—those who preserved knowledge rather than wielding elemental power." "How far are the Crystal Falls from here?" I asked, hope rising within me. "Half a day's journey," Sin replied. "But Ailith, he's reclusive, mistrustful. He may not help us, even if he has the Veil."

He said matter of factly. She shuddered and grasped Roger’s hand tightly. But the story was captivating and she had to know. “Tell me.” She whispered. “I guess it makes sense that it was a door that shouldn’t be opened.” Roger contemplated. “Legend says that a keeper is a servant of the king. It is released on someone’s enemies and will devour an entire village. They are stealthy and we would not have known about them had you not survived the first attack. We have to be thankful for that.”

Later, I heard he had somehow gotten Mary's number and had called her like a madman, begging her to help set up a meeting with me. Mary told me about it, and I had her pass a message to Dennis: "If you want to see me, fine. Go kneel at my mother's grave for three days and three nights." My mother had passed away early, heartbroken after she had found out about Dennis and his mother. That was something he owed her. I didn't think he would actually do it. He had always been a spoiled, selfish child, after all. But to my surprise, he really did.

“This presence feels older than the Creator.” A chill ran through me. Older than the Creator? I had believed nothing could exist before the being that dreamed reality into existence. Yet every instinct inside me insisted that my wolf was right. The heartbeat echoed again. Each beat sent ripples through every reality. The repaired stars shimmered. The broken heavens stretched. Far beyond the battlefield, entire worlds seemed to lift their heads toward the mysterious presence. The Keeper slowly raised its eyes. “There are stories even I was never allowed to remember.” The First Wolf looked at the Keeper in surprise. “You never told us that.” The Keeper smiled sadly, “because I only remembered