Midnight tolled from a distant clock tower, its echoes drifting across the English countryside. In the shadowed hush of St. Carlisle’s churchyard, tombstones loomed like silent sentries.

Nothing stirred here but a lone figure cloaked in burgundy, dragging a stolen shovel that glinted with the promise of mischief, pilfered earlier from sexton Charlie Jacobson’s shed.

This was Michael, a thief with greedy eyes, prowling for a cross encrusted with jewels.

Known as Magpie Mike, he was obsessed with anything that sparkled. No act was too low-thievery, arson, even threats of murder-to feed his glittering hoard. Every crime only made his collection grow.

The ornate cross, rumored to rival the Crown Jewels, became his latest obsession. For three weeks, he played the part of a devoted usher, weaving false kindness into the congregation. Occasionally, a flicker of decency surfaced, but greed always smothered it.

He discovered the cross lay buried with the villager’s first vicar, Johnathan Rowels. Tonight, after Jacobson left for supper, Mike seized his chance and stole the tool.

Now, trudging over wet ground, he grinned with giddiness.

Grave markers, angels, and cairns surrounded him. Silent spectators in this sacrilegious parade. For a moment, Mike felt the statues condemning him. The wind picked up, swirling leaves. Its whistle was a mournful choir. Owls screeched. Unease settled in his heart.

Yet, greed swept away his doubts like dust.

I’ll retrieve my treasure, then leave this bloody town. I wish I’d witness their reactions when they find out Magnificent Magpie Mike duped them!

Finally, Rowels’ tombstone appeared. Magpie dug. Noises from earlier returned louder, joined by barking and howling.

A neighbor’s pooch. Focus, Mikey; I can almost taste those jewels!

He unearthed a coffin. Inside, a skeleton clasped a bejeweled cross. Sapphires, pearls, opals, and amethysts glittered in the flashlight.

He wrenched it from the bony corpse. The noises intensified to a deafening cacophony that made Michael shield his ears.

SHUT UP! I WON’T BE TAUNTED!

Rage overtook him. He pulled down his trousers and urinated over Rowel’s remains in defiance.

See? You can’t do anything about that!

He climbed out and patted the soil down. A low growl sounded. Magpie Mike turned to observe two red eyes glaring. He aimed with his flashlight and saw a large black dog with pointed ears. It growled, but Magpie was unfazed.

All bark but no bite. I know how to handle anyone who gets in my way.

Michael hefted the shovel and swung hard, but the blade sliced through empty air. The dog’s lips curled into a sneer, mocking his feeble attempt.

Magpie Mike gasped as the canine walked forward, ready to pounce.

“Stay away, you beast! Don’t come any closer! Help, somebody!”

No one heard his cries as he slipped into the open mouth of a freshly dug grave.

The haunting symphony reached crescendo. The black dog pounced upon him.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

.                                                                      . .

Dawn broke. An ambulance carried Mike’s lifeless body back to London, for a private funeral. Vicar Daniels and Sexton Jacobson restored Rowel’s disturbed grave, returning the cross to its sacred resting place. Once work was finished, they prayed in silence.

Daniels sighed. “If only that man repented before passing. I feel guilty for not counseling him.”

Charlie patted his back. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, sir; human hearts hold many secrets even from the keenest of eyes. Besides, anyone who would pee on a dead man’s skeleton doesn’t have respect for others.”

“I suppose you’re right, but Michael’s body was contorted and ripped to bones. It’s odd to think of wild boars doing it alone.”

“Maybe it’s our church grim.”

“Our grim? You mean the dog that is a guardian spirit of churches and graveyards?”

“Exactly. It may have looked out for us.”

“It could be. Let’s not dwell on superstitions. I’ll prepare a sermon for Sunday on humanity’s folly of thievery. Care to join me for a cup of tea?”

“That sounds fine.”

The two men stepped inside the church, never noticing the black dog, watching outside as it gnawed on a skeletal hand.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero