The night air was crisp, and smelled of rain. There had been a downpour about 45 minutes ago, but it had softened into a light rainfall. Francis was making his way to his work, a few supplies in hand. It might be shocking that someone like him had a job, but it was a very fulfilling one. Since the murder of Norma Stein, he had taken up residence in a forgotten cabin in the October Mountains. It was peaceful, and most importantly, it was far from humans.

As he walked along the pathway he had made after numerous journeys over the years, a few of his friends came to keep him company. A few chickadees settled on his shoulder, and chipmunks scurried into his pocket for a brief ride. Down at his feet, a little red fox patted along, followed by her kits. She seemed to be showing them off to him, so Francis humored her for a minute and knelt down to scratch under the kit and their mother’s chins. They weren’t far from his work now.

After he bid his fox friends farewell, he soon arrived at the cemetery. Overgrown and quite forgotten, he discovered this place a few years after he took up residence in the forest. His heart filled with pain at the sight, and he decided he would become its caretaker. He knew it wouldn’t mean anything to the humans today, but perhaps it would help the souls sleep easier knowing they had been found again. He knew Norma would have taken pity on the forgotten dead too.

He found where he had left off yesterday, and went down on one knee. All he did for the stones was cut away the over-growth, and clean the stone with water from the creeks. If a stone had cracked, he would fix it with a tree sap and charcoal mixture. He wanted to respect the buried, not trample on them. Whenever he was able to read a name, he would write it down in a notebook along with their birth and death year. Tonight, he cleaned the grave of a girl named Mary, who had died when she was only six years old.

He had almost finished with little Mary’s headstone, when he heard voices. He froze, and went still so he could listen closer. Just to be safe, he slowly stood and moved behind the treeline. Not long after he had obscured himself, silhouettes entered the cemetery. They were a group of young adults, and seemed to be joking and laughing, flashlights burning through the darkness. Then he saw the shovel, and anger began to simmer in his core.

He was correct in his assumption. Soon, the group stopped in front of a headstone belonging to a young gentleman named Sawyer Pines. He had died when he was 30, and on his grave it said it was because of a heart disease. The strangers’ shovel hit the earth and began to rip up the grass and mud. He couldn’t let this disgraceful act sully Sawyer’s memory.

“You shouldn’t disturb the dead,” Francis spoke, his voice deep but smooth. “For the dead are always watching.”

He stepped out from the treeline, revealing himself. He knew he would scare them, and that’s what he wanted. After all, he was made to be a “beast”. His 7’0 foot frame towered above the humans, and his long black hair fell messily around his face, shrouding it in a savage air. The shovel he wielded himself only added to the effect, though unlike the strangers, he only used it to dig vines away from the stones. Though he was not a monster, he could still act like one to protect what was important to him.