As soon as dusk falls, the ground starts to pulse. Barely noticeable at first, but they are determined, and the surface is quickly disturbed. Little piles of dirt shift and move, stray pebbles tumble, sandy soil parts. Making way for what’s underneath.

The first to appear is the distal, then the middle. Each phalanx moving upward and pushing through like solid worms until the whole hand can grip the surface and pull up, up, up.

As they rise, the radius and ulna twist in tandem. Bare patches of dirt, sparse grass, it’s all disturbed in front of each marker. The dandelions, the ferns, the fiddleheads shake, each frond twitching like a tentacle.

The skull comes next, grit between the plates. A quick shake to release the largest clumps, raining dirt through each socket. Their chins tilt upward, meeting fresh air, faces to the sky.

Soon the graveyard is full of bones uprising from below.

Every night they work alone and side by side in front of their resting place, until they’ve emerged, from top to bottom. They creak and crack, but don’t need to stretch. They twist and pop, and settle to their full heights, each vertebrae stacked one over the other.

Stars twinkle, glittering bright, the moon shines, full and rising. The air is cool, the leaves are changing. Red and orange and golden yellow. Autumn is their favorite season; each night gets longer, and they have more time to roam before they’re called back to rest.

They start to move, almost noiselessly, an army of ivory and shadow. The ground is damp, but not too muddy. Through the graveyard, down the paths. They pick a flower from a strewn bouquet. Maybe two flowers, one for each eye socket.

Making their way through the gate, they slip right through. They climb up the pine covered floor of the woods. An owl hoots and twists her head, her beady gaze tracking each form. A crow shifts, flaps her wings, settles back over her eggs. This is a sight the creatures have seen before.

Through the forest, they emerge in a meadow. Tumbling and rolling down the flower covered hill, the prairie grass blows as each skeleton makes their way over it. While they can’t giggle and shout like the children they once were, they still revel in the play.

Down the street, their bones start to clatter louder now. Making soft noises on the pavement of the street as each calcaneus makes contact. Arm in arm, their elbows hooked, they reverberate like musical wooden windchimes.

There are no cars, there’s no one walking. Just the long dead group, but they mean no harm. They skip and dance down the sidewalk, around the corner. Pause at the light post to spin around, twirl in a circle, leap off with barely a sound.

Past the thrift store and the donut shop. Past the discount books and the mom and pop. Empty gas station with lights blazing bright. The big box parking lot abandoned at night.

They roam and wander, never getting tired. Each night a different route, wherever they feel drawn. Every skeleton will get their chance to return to places they once knew. To remember and reminisce. To celebrate or commiserate.

A dive bar open late, patrons inside and a neon sign to tell everyone Good Times Inside. The light glows from the windows, bass beats thump like the hearts they used to have. Laughter like a song, clinking of glasses. Everyone inside oblivious to the bones.

They turn again, around another corner, a group of them, some straggling in back. When the last one’s almost gone, a man steps out of the bar. He’s lighting a cigarette, his hand cupped against the breeze. His shoulders shrugged up, braced for the cold.

His lighter flicks and he exhales. He thinks he hears a racket, but when he looks, there’s nothing there. A preternatural whisper slinks over his skin, a tingle creeps down his spine, a shudder takes over his muscles. He’s just missed them, the last one disappearing around the corner before he can see it. Maybe he’s had a few too many. He shakes his head and makes sure to pay his tab when he goes back in. Time to head home, he’s imagining things.

The bones keep going until they find a neighborhood. It’s familiar to some of them, but not all, but they always travel in solidarity. Small fences border the yards, the flower beds are tended, and porches are swept. The lights are off, and there’s pumpkins lined up on steps, waiting to be carved.

Some houses are more welcoming than others. Some have only a friendly façade, with more sinister insides. Those are the houses of the unlucky. A somber stillness settles over the bunch whenever a skeleton is called to them.

One skeleton leaves the rest and pushes open the gate to the fence.

He knows this house; he’s lived here before. Long ago, maybe fifty years now. It was a happy home, but it’s no longer his to claim.

It’s a different color; someone has painted it. The oak tree is bigger, but the tire swing he hung for his kids is still there.

Someone has fixed the creak on the steps. They’ve hung a sign by the door Welcome to Our Home. He pauses and turns, gazes toward a replica of himself sitting on a rattan chair. Hunching forward, he studies it curiously. A tilt of his head, nearly nose to nose, if either of them had a nose. He picks up the skeleton’s wrist, releases his grasp, and the arm falls in a clatter of plastic.

Standing up straight, he scratches his chin. His chest shakes with a soundless chuckle. How curious and amusing, how interesting the living are, decorating with death.

He leaves his life-size look alike to return to his mission. He doesn’t need a key; he just turns the knob. The house knows him and lets him in. He won’t scare anyone, won’t disturb them. He won’t cause any trouble. He just wants a look around. To see what he used to, to see where he lived.

There’s a different family sleeping in it now, but he still remembers when it used to be his.

He tip toes across the hardwood floor. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.
The shock it would cause for someone to see a skeleton standing in their kitchen. Gazing out the window above the sink, thinking about when he used to sip coffee as he watched the sun rise, before grabbing his coat and his hat and driving to work each day.

And now all he can do is lie in the earth, while the sun beats down. It helps melt the frost, but it’s not enough to bring him back.

Sometimes the melancholy creeps over; they want more time to do it again. To not rush through and wait for tomorrow. To wake with less alarm, to ease into the day. To ruffle the hair on their little boys heads. To tell the ones they hold dear how much they mean. To hug a little tighter, to laugh a little louder, to dance a little slower.

But it’s over now, and this is all they have.

They can walk down the streets each night, remembering what they used to do, and the lives they used to live. Their time isn’t over, but it’s different now.

The days are long and restless. Night helps ease the pain of any regret.
Most have lives well lived, they’ve done all the things they’ve ever wanted. No harsh words spoken, no bridges burned. Babies were born and celebrations were had. Summers and winters, graduations and weddings. Glasses were clinked and candles were lit. There was laughter and smiles. There was pride and delight.

But even still, there’s always more. Isn’t there always more that we could have done? A world we could have seen? If only we weren’t so focused on the day to day, if only we knew it would turn out like this? Destined for the earth for the rest of eternity?

The moonlight beams through the window, bathing the bones in an ethereal glow.

A cat slinks out, her tail twitching. She winds around his ankles, slinking in a figure eight, her cheeks rubbing on his tibia. She mews and it’s sweet, begging for a scratch. The bones crouch down, creaking as they go, the cats wet nose sniffs. He picks up the cat, and she starts to purr.

Black fur against white bone.

He pets her as long as she lets him. All too soon, she pushes away, a soft paw pressed to his sternum, so he sets her down.

As he leaves the house, he pulls the door shut, quiet as a whisper. The plastic bones on the chair get a friendly tap on the shoulder, a parting gesture, a see you later.

He looks around the yard, and he knows the house is well loved. There’s joy inside, and maybe one day, someone in there will come back like he is.

A body of bones, no skin or sinew. Nothing inside, but still they know and still they feel.

Still they wonder, if only, what if?

Calm settles to remind them, your best was enough.

Out to the street, they find each other again. They cluster together, safety in numbers.

Back the way they came, retracing their tracks. Around the same corners, skipping off curbs, they shake loose the loss of never living again. This is fun too, the camaraderie and understanding. The marvel of the supernatural existence they partake in now.

To see it all again, even like this, through the fog and dark, it’s more than what they thought they would get.

As they return to the graveyard, they find peace in their bones. Each patch is soft, from being disturbed just hours ago. It’s easy to push back inside their new homes. The sun will rise before they know it, and they have to return before the dawn comes.

Sinking into their places, pulling the dirt back over each limb. They’ll rest and when the next dusk comes, they’ll do it again.