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Hey there, I'm Ben. I take care of things out here. Night shift stuff mostly.
If you're planning to get into this line of work, I figure it's best you know who's talking to you.
I didn't start out in this line of work, though. Back in the day, I was a successful banker at McKinley's.
I had this desk that was walnut and longer than most dining room tables.
I kept a bottle of 20 year old scotch in the bottom drawer and only poured it when someone got fired.
And I made sure that happened often. I had a view of the river and a girl who brought me coffee before I asked for it.
Her name was Jenna. She wasn't my assistant. She was my assistance assistant
I still don't know who my actual assistant was. There was a stretch, maybe three years, where I didn't carry a wallet.
Didn't need one. Everything was comped. Restaurants knew me by name.
Clubs didn't check my ID. The elevator at my building skipped the lobby if I was on it.
I was the kind of man who walked into a boardroom and made the CFO shout out with one look.
Now, power, it's not some vague idea. It's real.
It's your name in bold at the top of a memo. It's private car rides.
It's signing someone else's raise or firing them before lunch because you felt like snake that day.
You can smell money when you're in it deep enough.
It's in the glue of the leather seeds. It's in the ink of your signature
And I soaked it in. They say I slipped up.
They say I made the wrong call, insulted the wrong person.
touched something I wasn't supposed to. And that's all true.
But everyone does that. The difference is I didn't kiss the right ass afterward.
I didn't beg. So they kicked me out.
quietly.
the next I was getting bounced from my own email account. My badge stopped working.
I called building security and they said, we were told not to let you in.
And that was ten years ago.
Now, I walk in boots through wet grass, a flashlight duct taped to a plastic stick in my hand.
They call me a night watchman. They pay me in cash every two weeks.
The job's simple. Walk the fence, check the logs, report anything unusual.
This is the edge of nowhere. One road in, one road out.
The graveyard stretches wider than you'd think. They bury people cheap out here.
No gates. Just iron chains looped between stone posts.
The kind of place where nobody visits the dead. It's like they're dumped.
forgotten, which is perfect for what I do.
See, I don't care about peace. I care about profit.
There's good money in cadavers. Real money.
Not that corporate garbage with bonuses and taxes. I'm talking untraceable, unreported, sealed envelope cash.
The kind that smells like plastic and rubber bands. Medical schools want fresh tissue.
Rich weirdos want bones. People pay thousands for a real skull.
You know that? I bet you didn't know that. The first time I dug one up, I was shaking.
Not from fear from excitement from relief
It wasn't hard. I already had the keys to the storage shut. I borrowed a spade and some bolt cutters.
took a look at the burial map, found a name that sounded recent.
They put a little plastic tag on the post when it's fresh. Easier than headstones.
saves the family money. Well, it took me maybe three hours.
That dirt peels back like cake if you hit it right after a rain.
The coffin was thin. Budget wood. Didn't even need to pry.
I just cracked it with a crowbar and reached in.
The body was still soft. And that's the best time.
before the rot starts, when the muscle's still stretched like jerky and the skin hasn't gone too black.
That's when the schools want them. That's when the collectors pay the most.
Well, I wrapped it in tarp, drove it out in my trunk.
dumped it in a freezer I bought from a retired butcher.
You should have seen the look on the guy's face when I asked if it could hold a whole deer.
I paid him double and he didn't ask again. The buyer came a week later.
Quiet guy. Thick glasses. They smelled like... paper.
He peeled off 20 50s and stuffed them in an envelope.
Said he'd be back next week if I could get another. Oh, that night I drank scotch from a chipped mug and sat on the floor of my trailer and
They're counting out ten grand in perfect silence.
You wouldn't believe it, but it felt better than any promotion I had ever got.
Now I've got a system. I only pull bodies on cloudy nights, and I rotate the areas.
I mark the headstones with chalk so I don't hit the same row twice. I keep track of name, age, date.
You get more for a full adult, especially male, especially recent.
Teeth intact is a bonus. I don't drink much anymore.
I don't need to. The sound of the shovel slicing down clean into a new patch of earth.
That's better than a buzz the first tap of metal on cheap pine
The way the body shifts when you lift it, and the joints pop like bubble wrap.
That's the kind of thing that sticks with you.
I've had this itch to write things down. I don't want to confess.
And no, I'm not done. It's like what they say about killers going back to the scene, you know?
It's not because they feel bad. It's because well they feel proud
It's that cold little thrill that comes from knowing you're better than the people trying to catch you
You don't want to get caught, but deep down, you want someone to know how good you really are.
And so that's why I'm telling you this. These are the rules of the trade I have come to know.
and now I'm passing them on to you. So listen well.
Because there are some strange rules to follow.
Alright, so let's get to it. Rule number one.
Don't crack open sealed crypts. You'll know them when you see them
Stone boxes, usually above ground, were half buried into hillside's
Big brass nameplates, marble lids with bolts sunk deep.
They're sealed for a reason. And it's not just for works.
The inside pressure builds after a while. Gases, fluids, whatever the hell happens in there, once the rot starts baking in.
One winter about six years ago, I got a little cocky and I decided to try one.
We were still figuring things out back then. Me and Danny, my first partner, he was smaller than me, wiry. Never shut up.
Thought this job was some big horror movie. Kept quoting books and saying creepy stuff to sound
smart. I tolerated him because he could work fast.
Well, we got a tip that this one crypt at the back of the south lot had a woman in it who died young
Enrich? Some kind of embalming test case, supposedly.
I don't know. They said she was almost perfect, Stel.
The kind of thing medical labs would pay double for. We hit it at midnight.
Fog in the air, boots crunching under gravel. We brought bolt cutters.
chisels and a car jack just in case. Took us 40 minutes to get the bolts loose.
I kept checking over my shoulder, not for cops, you know, just out of instinct.
Danny unhooked the last bolt and wedged the lid up with a jack.
The second it gave, we heard a low, wet crack.
And then it blew. That was a few feet back. Digging through the tool bag.
He was right in front. The sound was sharp, like snapping a water balloon with a nail gun.
Brown red fluid shot out across his arms and face.
Steam rose off it. I remember the way he screamed.
Not loud. More like gritting his teeth through it.
We dragged him to the truck, stripped his jacket off.
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