Hare's Cemetery

‘You should have thought about your epitaphs beforehand,’ Coffin Maker’s falsetto rings reproachfully over the silent graves. ‘As many of you have already learned, nothing you say will matter in half a century. Besides, marble is sensitive to the weather.’

Coffin Maker has a point. The inscriptions on the old graves are barely visible in the moonlight. In any other light, too.

‘Humour, absurdity, and the darkest depths of despair — that’s what visitors will remember. Not your short-lived sentiments. At our cemetery, we work on epitaphs of the highest quality. And remember: all visitors are potential future residents. We need those.’

The deadies whisper in agreement. Coffin Maker’s thin, pale finger points invitingly at a fresh plaque on the rusty gate:

Hare’s Cemetery — time-proof epitaphs, cemetery diaries, rotten gossip passed from coffin to coffin, mortuary wisdom, fog, bones, ashes, and other decayed fragments.

Inspired by Gothic Hare, imagined by Hyacinth Broom (and already outgrowing its original burrow).

When the coffin lid closes, the real work begins.

Death is the busiest time of all. Expecting peace once the coffin lid has slammed shut and the wailing relatives have been left behind on the surface of the earth is a great delusion. One must use this long-awaited eternity wisely.

Auntie Zhen is absolutely convinced of that.

To begin with, take the neighboring graves. Pay them courtesy visits. Make it clear from the start who’s in charge. Once you’re dead, you can’t move about, so alliances matter. Influence must be established early.

Auntie Zhen tosses and turns restlessly in her coffin, fingers twisting the strap of her favorite handbag. Night will come soon, and with it, the first of many crucial meetings.

Notes from a well-maintained winter cemetery.

The cold is wonderful.

Frost, ice, snow - they keep life at a safe distance. No buzzing, no chirping, no chatter. No greenery to spoil the clean perfection of white graves.

Night Watcher rubs his bony palms. A dry crunch follows. At last, he can sit for as long as he likes on the stone bench at the crypt entrance, free from cemetery obligations.

The moss tea has frozen over. He breaks the surface with a blue-tinged nail and takes a careful sip.

The silence holds. Only the trees protest, creaking in the cold.

Another perfectly perfect night.

Goose Fog

It’s dark. It’s thick. It coils around black trees.

Inside its shroud, geese strip the farm fields bare. It settles on their wings, clings to crosses and gravestones.

Lose everything you want to lose. (Not that it helps — but it keeps you busy.)

If you need to hide, it will hide you. Those with nothing to hide may still wish to hide from those who do.

Honorary Residents of Hare’s Cemetery

Midnight is not a time. It is a status change.

Tonight is a night of crows. The young ones have grown, fed on biscuits and other treats left on the graves. The adults have cawed their share of misfortune all summer – enough to last the rest of the year. Both generations can now fly wherever they please. Still, most will return. Being a cemetery crow has its advantages.

All the graves are covered tonight. The gathering will last until midnight. Everyone is invited. Widows have baked thirteen meat pies for the occasion. The most voracious will stuff themselves so full they won’t be able to leave.

The smartest ones will stay, too. They know that more is less. Fewer relatives around – more pie. More biscuits. More room on the tops of crooked crosses.

No one remembered when the trying began.

Yes, they look edible. No, they aren’t.

Cemetery Rules for the Living (temporary visitors only).

Thank you for your uncooperative cooperation.

Tonight, Gothic Hare wants Nothing. Not to move a single paw. Not to busy himself with Important Cemetery Business. Just Nothing.

He lies on a pile of wet, withered grass left over from Night Watcher's last scything and stares into the distance. Nothing is all around him…

From this nothingness sprout puffballs and gravestones. Those two have much in common. Only gravestones grow taller, more deliberate, and breed more slowly. Nothing smells of wet soil, mushroom spores, and timeworn granite.

Above Hare’s head, a black bird circles in the grey blur, lost in its own thoughts. Lying on wet grass is freezing, but if Gothic Hare rises, the hawk will surely spot him. Hare will have to either run or hide. The world is always craving your attention.

And yet, Nothing stays. Nothing waits.

Whatever you say, dead trees are more beautiful than living ones. Wim Krullenberg peers eagerly through the crack in the tomb slab, the one he has been waiting ten years to appear. Above him looms the black, crooked silhouette of a dead maple, full of rotten hollows, spirits, proudly wearing not a single leaf.

Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.

Just look at it. All those branches framed in dim mist. That sneaky, soggy web. Art.

Wim bumps his bare skull against the stone, trying to get closer. That character… that strength… that majestic silence of something that has truly given up on life.

Five more years, he estimates. Five more years of rain, rot, drought, frost—nature’s patient chiseling—and the slab will finally surrender. Then Wim can climb out, stretch his bones, admire the tree properly, and read his own epitaph without having to eavesdrop like a creep on bored visitors.

His life was a statement. Nonsense. A statement is something that remains after death. A dry maple is a statement. His life was a complete waste of time.

A clump of wet soil slides into the crack and blocks the view. Typical.

Cemetery Rules for the Living. Because you keep making the same mistakes.

Signed, Deadly Root

Beloved feeders and grave-kin, The moon has ALMOST ripened. Brace yourselves.

ALMOST - FOG ALARM. The air is misty, christy, creepsy, thick with everything long buried, never meant to be felt again. The fog is hungry for forgotten grief, misplaced hopes, and all the “almosts”. Feel free to feed him. Dare to feed upon him.

The deadies will mutter all night again. The living will be painfully aware of the transience of their lives.

I almost made it. I almost lived the life I wanted. I almost became a damn rock star...

The night is expected to be noisy. We hope for a generous number of visitors.

Enter if you are re-evaluating.

Optional alarm: sighing and sobbing behind your back (ignore it).

Fog Watch Advisory: Monitor your depth. Knee-deep = second thoughts. Waist-deep = crying and revelations. Headfirst = inadvisable unless already undead.