I hate my job. I absolutely hate it. I hate the creakiness of the steel gates and the icy fingers of the cool nighttime wrapping around me as I close them. I hate the eerie silence and the fog that’s always there. But the worst part of my job is that feeling. That feeling that someone is watching me.

I walk between the rows and rows of gravestones, looking for grave robbers or ghost hunters or kids playing truth or dare. As always, my flashlight lingers on the weathered gravestone under the oak tree for a bit longer than normal, and as always, there’s nothing unusual. I read the inscription aloud to myself, looking for a change.

“A.W. 1902-1934. J.W. Jr 1920-1934. R.W. 1926-1934. C.W. 1926-1934. John D. Wilkes 1900-1989.”

I don’t like this gravestone. It could be because John D. Wilkes is the only one who has his full name on it or because he’s the only one who didn’t die in 1934 or because it’s under the oak tree, so far away from the other gravestones, or because all the grass around it is always dead, no matter the season. The real reason why I don’t like it is that I have the same last name as John D. Wilkes. I spent the first month of my job trying to convince myself it was a common name and a weird coincidence. But as the nights passed, I couldn’t look at the gravestone without being reminded of the memory.

I used to think the memory was a dream that I didn’t remember having, but I think I would’ve woken up. I remember the woman holding me, and I remember her telling the girl to be quiet as she sobbed in the corner. I remember the boy staring at me. I remember the footsteps, and the woman telling the girl that if she didn’t stop crying now we were all going to die and that Ruby was fine. I remember the footsteps growing louder and louder and louder and the woman looking down at me.

“I love you,” she’d whispered to me. “Please remember that.” The footsteps got louder and louder. Claire, you jump first, and then John, you jump.” she’d said.

“What about you, Mom?” asked the boy.

“I’ll come down last.”

“Annie, where are you?” said a deep voice from outside. “I know you’re in there.” Something heavy slammed against the door. The broom that was stuck in the door handle shook. There was another thud, and the woman opened the window. There was a loud crash. The door flew open. The woman tossed me out of the window.

I remember hitting the ground and not being able to move. I remember hearing the woman scream, and I remember starting to cry. I think the crying is what saved me, because next thing I remember, I was at the hospital with a lady I’d never seen before. That lady, I was later told, had adopted me. I never told her about the memory. I never told anyone.

My flashlight illuminated the gravestone, and I could’ve sworn I heard a knock. I ignored it. When you’re a graveyard security guard working the night shift, your imagination does work in mysterious ways. I moved on from the gravestone, examining the next row. After determining there were no trespassers, I walked past the gravestone again. Nothing unusual. I left the graveyard, and I pulled the gates closed. As I dug through my pockets, I heard a scream. A familiar scream.