17 June 2027
Thursday. Couple at the gate tonight, she was expecting, they’d booked months back before they knew. Asked if they could still go under.
The staff said no, gently, and I’d have said the same. A coffin’s no place for that. You’re lying flat in a tight box, there’s crawling, there’s the dark, there’s the frights. The management are very clear about it, and they’re right to be.
Same goes, I’m told, for anybody with fits or who can’t abide flashing light, and anybody who goes funny in a small space. There’s no shame in any of it. The plots aren’t built for everybody. They’re built for a very particular sort of person, and I’ve met enough of them to know I’m not one.
The couple were sweet about it. They played something else, and said they’d be back for the plots in a couple of years, with a babysitter. I said I’d keep the soil warm.
Tally: plots disturbed, two, by other folk. Promises to come back, one. I believe it.
— H., groundskeeper
