Prologue

Few have seen as much of the life as the ancient Mordecai Griffith, the gravedigger of little Texas town of Caballo, a town relatively aged with its roots reaching over ninety years back when these lands still belonged to Mexico.

So long had the gravedigger lived that no one knew of his true origins but he alone. Even the old Mordecai Griffith could only remember his youth barely, his old mind fractured and withered.

The old man lived in a small house behind the town church. It was nothing too special; some of the fancier folks at the town would consider it more of a dirty garden shack than a home.

Next to that little shack which was barely standing, was a mighty oak, ascending even higher up than the church bell tower. For as long as the town had existed, that oak had been standing there, its roots going thru and round the cemetery, feeding off the dead.

 While being a relatively well doing town with its own coal mining operation and their very own train station, Caballo never had a proper undertakers office.

Those who had been relieved from their worldly trials were usually buried right away, though a certain persistent widower did once keep his wife stuffed in a barrel of whiskey for a whole year before the man himself dropped dead.

They found the old lady days after he had already been buried. Some miner had taken the barrel from the estate in secret, expecting to fill his belly with whiskey that night. Alcohol wasn’t that cheap after all, not for a badly paid miner anyway at least.

It dreads me to imagine the ghastly shock of the unfortunate individual who opened that barrel, wishing to fill his belly with whiskey that night.

Now, both of them can sleep six feet under, together. Another two lives have ended, another two customers for the gravedigger.

 People are afraid of things which they don’t know much about and this being a superstitious area didn’t help it. Naturally, this led to many chilling stories about the aged man living behind the church, the shepherd of the dead who would lay each one of us unto the cold ground someday. So old was he, that he felt almost timeless to us, as if he had always been here; even the withered doctor with white, messy moustache could not tell us anything. Only person who ever had the privilege of hearing the mysterious figure mutter words was the priest, who was the only human being here daring enough to even get close to Griffith.

The few children of the town were strictly prohibited from going to the cemetery and not under any circumstances were they allowed to interact with Mordecai Griffith. For a man whose absence would’ve meant an abominable stench of the deceased taking over the town, as the fine folks of Caballo surely would’ve been reluctant to do the job themselves, he sure was treated horrendously.

 Some of the wakeful individuals sometimes tell stories of weeping from the cemetery during the late nights. Of course it needs not to be mentioned that no person even somewhat in their senses would go investigate cries in the dark graveyard during the night. This however raised more questions, none of them being of friendly manner.

 We as human beings are more like flock animals than we’d like to admit; we’ll tell one another that individuality is a mighty treasure of mankind to uphold, but when one truly differs from the society, the society shuns them like a black sheep.

The local community just loved it, didn’t they? Judging the man they knew naught of, who for most of his long life had been the one giving those whom had passed away their last favor. A town filled to the brim with wicked ones needed him to make themselves feel easier with their burden of sin, which was crushing this place down beneath its great weight, like a elephant stepping on a grape. 

I do have to wonder how many people left the church last Sunday, just to continue their wicked lives of adultery while pouring a mugful down their throats.

But I do suppose it would be sanctimonious of me to keep rambling of what others do with their limited time in this life, when I too possess such an ample share of guilt.

 Dear reader, I will have left this world by the time you are reading this. This is not a story about me, but of a man more deserving of it and whose name should not remain in oblivion. My name is Samuel Hudson, the last resident of the town of Caballo and allow me to tell you a story which I wish to my guts will never disappear from memory of men. Many tales and rumors circled about this man, but only one of these tales is a true tale.

Author's Note

English is not my mother tongue, so, I hope to hear if my grammar is good enough or if it needs to be worked on.