The people of the graves

David walked uphill. Sweat was pouring down his face, although a cold wind played with his clothes. He pulled his jacket closer to his body. A car roared passed him and he could feel the wind trying to throw him off balance for a brief moment. He was somewhere outside the city. The dry grass scratched his trousered legs and the fine, powdered dust settled on his shoes.

David halted and sat down on a huge rock next to the road. He tried to think. He remembered going to a bar the previous night and drinking beer. He thought he must have passed out and somebody must have dropped him at the side of the road. There was a big empty hole in his memory. He was not feeling hung over, but awkward. He checked his pockets and sighed with relief when he found his wallet and cell phone. At least I was not robbed, he thought.

David opened his cell phone and decided to call one of his friends to come and fetch him. No signal. He tried to orientate himself. He was sure he had been on that road before. Maybe driving away from the city? Yes, he was sure. He stood up and started walking in the opposite direction.

To the East, a far stretch into the field, he could see a farm house. He decided to ask somebody there for directions. He climbed through the fence and started making his way through the tall dry grass. He reached a small dirt road. Two dusty lanes going through the field. He followed the road.

A man was sitting next to the dirt road, selling fruits. His merchandise was displayed in groups on the ground. Oranges, apples and prickly pears. David's mouth was becoming dry, and he took out his wallet, ready to buy a nice juicy orange.

"How much for an orange?" David asked.
"These fruits are not for sale," the man answered. He looked at David. "You better get home, young man."

Screw you, David thought and walked down the road again, leaving the man and his fruits behind. The wind was blowing stronger. The road winded through a dense forest of blue gum trees. It was even colder in the shadows and when David cleared the forest, he saw the remains of a graveyard to his left. The road was going away from the farm house. The graves were between David and the house. He decided to take a short cut through the graveyard. It was in the middle of the day, after all. Almost noon.

When David reached the first graves, he suddenly heard voices. Loud voices. "David! Look what have you done! You have done it!"

David became scared, but told himself there were no such thing as ghosts. Probably someone playing a trick on him. He kept on walking. Suddenly he was surrounded by people. They all wore long robes and hoods. Long black robes. They kept the facial parts of their hoods in the shadows and David could not see their faces.

"LOOK what you have done, David! We are dead. We are all dead because of you! Look what you have done! Dead! We are dead!"

David was frightened. Everywhere around him more and more hooded persons gathered. Every person hovered above a grave. "It was not me!" he shouted.

"It was you, David! We are all dead because of you! Dead! Dead! Come with us! We want you! Join us! We are all dead, David! Dead! Dead! Dead!"

David became disorientated. He turned around. His eyes caught the dates on the graves. All of them died in 1862.

Suddenly he was feeling calmer. He was looking down towards a grave overgrown by green moss in front of him. When he looked up, he saw a woman. An old woman, wearing a white robe and her hood was pulled back, revealing her face.

She talked in a commanding, yet friendly voice to the dead people. "It was not David. He had nothing to do with it. Go back and rest now."

The woman faced David. He could see her blue eyes and long, straight silvery hair. "Go back, David. Go home."

David gasped for his breath as he experienced a feeling of accelerating at an unimaginable speed. Everything was dark around him. He tried to make out something, then saw he was inside his bedroom, safely in his apartment. He looked at his watch. 22:14. Friday night.

It couldn't be, he thought. I went to the bar on Friday night. I was walking next to the road on Saturday morning. I walked through the graveyard on Saturday at around noon. He switched on the television. Friday night shows were on. His computer confirmed it was still Friday night.

He looked at the dust on his shoes. Saw the dirt on the back of his jacket. He remembered falling down when the voices at the graves started shouting at him. His legs were tired, the muscles aching, as if he had walked a long distance.