Everything is Fine

The old cemetery outside of town, tucked just past the knotted woods and beneath the endless, judging sky, is a place of whispers. No one goes there - not out of fear, exactly, but because of the way it feels. Uncanny, they call it. As if the air hums too low to hear but too deep to ignore. There’s the old watchtower, straight and unnervingly sturdy, its stones unweathered despite the years, as if it’s anchored by something more than mortar. And the collapsed mausoleum, where shadows gather long after the sun moves on.

Then there’s Thornton, the town idiot, who came staggering into the square this morning, yelping like a dog that’s seen a ghost. Thornton’s good for a laugh, but no one likes to hear him talk too much; his voice has a way of sticking in your head like a bad song. He said there was a mattress out there in the cemetery. A mattress, of all things, covered in a faded red sheet with marks that “looked like blood.”

Blood? Oh, come on now. It’s probably just the wear, they say. Old fabric fades unevenly, Thornton - don’t be a fool. And this is a peaceful town. No one’s missing, not really. Sure, outsiders pass through now and then, looking for a cheap stay and a quiet road, but they always leave. Of course, they leave. Why wouldn’t they? The town sees to it that everything stays quiet.

Still, the mattress doesn’t belong. The thought of it festers in the mind like a sliver under the skin. Tomorrow, someone will burn it, or bury it, or toss it down the old well where everything unwanted goes. That’ll be the end of it.

Everything is fine. The cemetery stays outside the town, and the town stays outside the cemetery. It’s always been that way. Peaceful. Normal. Uncanny only if you let it be. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything... is fine.