The Gravedigger

In the Ambstead Graveyard during the nocturnal hours of the dreary month of May there walks a lonely gravedigger. With only the silvery full moon to light his way and companions of only the ravens and grave angels. Shambling along the rough, twisting road laid in bed between gravesites long forgotten he fulfills his lonesome duty. For in his hands he holds a rough hempen rope tied to a dark birchwood coffin dragging behind him. His thumping footsteps providing a monotonous beat to the scratching sound coming from behind his back, the dragging coffin. The footsteps and the scratching combine perfectly with the whistling of the wind and the cries of ravens, playing an eerie symphony of the night.
The man carries on with his march of the dead, staring at his moving feet, only ever so often lifting his gaze to observe the road ahead. He isn't worried about losing his way in this haunted graveyard as he has laid hundreds of people to their eternal rest within these walls. He lifts his drowsy eyes to the full moon in the sky and ponders on his duty. For he has played the role of Charon for so long, that this eerie graveyard with it's grotesque tombstones and angels has grown boring for him during the daytime. He has grown to cherish the monsters of myth and fantasy over the singing birds and sun of the day.
Coming across a particularly huge crypt he drags the coffin up to a marble bench and takes a seat on it, the rope falling to a coil at his feet. The gravedigger rubs his calloused hands and cups them at this mouth, blowing in to them to warm them up. He inspects the birchwood coffin in sheer silence, gazing at it with a dead stare. After a moment he sighs heavily and taking the hempen rope within his hands he stands up and continues on his journey to the waiting grave. A bit onwards he sights a little beat down bridge crossing a small stream. The end is near. The bridge squeaks as he crosses it, the squeaks piercing the night sharply.
Finally the tired man has reached the waiting gravesite. It is nothing special, a hole in the ground and a haphazardly nailed together crucifix staked into the ground. He lowers the heavy coffin into the earth and picks up the wooden shovel in the ground. The shovel is crude and heavy, the handle rubbed smooth from the long years of use. He shovels the dirt little by little into the hole, each shovelful making a rhythmical thumping on the lid of the coffin. For a while the thumping is all there is to hear, for it seems that even the ravens have quieted down for the ceremony. With the hole filled up the gravedigger throws the shovel over his shoulder and stands there for a moment, watching the crucifix before starting again on his lonely journey through the harrowing graveyard.