Her footsteps woke me.
My employer let me live in the sexton's house, in a small bedroom beside the office. I never closed my door at night. Anyone could walk in and find me lying there naked. No one ever had, but I still made sure to rise long before my shift. That morning, I had forgotten the alarm. An early visitor caught me by surprise.
I scrambled out of bed, dragged on my trousers and shirt, and splashed cold water on my face. All the while, she paced the office, each sharp heel strike louder and more impatient than the last. I pictured the black stilettos scraping across the wooden floor and wondered who could be so bold.
When I finally stepped into the office, I recognised her at once. It was the wicked woman from Gabrielle's funeral, minus the veil. She wore tight black mourning clothes that clung to every curve of her slender body. Tailored gloves covered her hands, and her long blonde hair spilled over the darkness of her dress. Her lips were the exact blood-red of the tailflower.
Everything about her was calculated to seduce. Each movement pulled her skirt taut across her thighs with a soft, straining sound, as though the fabric itself might surrender. I couldn't stop staring at her hips, half expecting the seam to split and reveal pale skin.
"Can I speak to the sexton, please?" she asked, her voice low and velvet smooth.
I met her dark eyes and realised she had caught me staring. There was no embarrassment on her face — only satisfaction. Of course there wasn't. She had chosen those clothes for exactly this reaction.
"I am the sexton, ma'am," I replied, my voice hoarse.
"Oh?" Her lips curved. "I bet you chose this profession on purpose. Sexton. I do like that word."
She studied me slowly, from head to toe. The same intense, devouring gaze I had felt at the funeral. I shuddered.
"It's only a word, ma'am. I prefer 'caretaker'. That's what I do — I take care of the dead and their resting places."
"I'm sure you do. People speak of your dedication. And I saw you in action yesterday… at Gabrielle's funeral."
"Yes, Gabrielle," I said before I could stop myself. "She was so young. How did she die?"
Heat flooded my face. The question had slipped out, naked and clumsy.
The woman didn't flinch. "The poor thing was always a frail child," she replied lightly, as though reciting rehearsed lines. "After her mother died two years ago, her health failed completely. She faded a little more each day… until one morning we simply couldn't wake her."
Not a trace of genuine sorrow touched her voice.
"How sad," I managed. "Are you family?"
"Yes and no. I'm her stepmother."
"So… how can I help you, ma'am?"
She smiled and stepped closer, so close I could smell her expensive lipstick. "You tell me, caretaker. You devote so much time and energy to looking after the dead. But who looks after you?"
Her gloved hand slid between my legs and squeezed. "I have a confession," she whispered. "I saw you twice yesterday. At the funeral… and later that night when you were pleasuring yourself over my stepdaughter's grave."
Her pupils swelled, black and bottomless. Her breath carried cigarettes and cloying strawberry gum.
She had been watching me.
She knew.
Mortification crashed over me like ice water. For one desperate second, I wished the earth would open and swallow me whole.
"What were you doing there?" I burst out. "Who gave you permission to enter the cemetery at night?"
She laughed, breathing strawberry heat across my flushed face. "That will be our little secret. I won't tell anyone what you did at Gabrielle's grave… if you keep quiet about my own nightly visits."
She shoved me backwards into the bedroom. My legs hit the bed frame, and I fell onto the mattress. Before I could recover, she was on top of me, peeling off her gloves. With a sharp tug she ripped my shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor.
"Come on, don't look so shocked," she purred. "I promise this will be much better than jerking off on a grave."
Her red nails raked down my chest. I grabbed her wrists, but she twisted free and began unbuttoning her blouse with deliberate, teasing slowness.
She expected hunger, lust, urgency — some sign I wanted her. Instead, I lay there, frozen, as if nailed to the sheets.
"Oh… so you want me to do all the work, caretaker?" she whispered, her lips brushing my ear. She yanked my trousers down.
I couldn't look at her. Silence stretched between us. Then came her laugh — brittle, frustrated, edged with real anger.
"So, it's true what they say about you. You're impotent. Only the dead get you hard. How pathetic."
The burning slap across my face was almost a relief. She climbed off me, blouse still hanging open, and hissed between her teeth, "Your secret is safe with me—as long as you keep your mouth shut about mine."
The screech of her car tyres tearing out of the graveyard was the sweetest sound I had heard all morning. The moment she was gone, I locked the main gate. The sign clearly stated that only hearses were permitted to enter, but rules had never seemed to apply to women like Gabrielle's stepmother.
Still, I left the pedestrian gate unlocked for legitimate visitors.
At least, I told myself, she wouldn't return that day.