The old gravedigger leaned back against the cypress tree, leaning his mud covered shovel by his side.  A rusted kerosene lantern sat flickering on the ground nearby.  Rainwater dripped from the brim of his black cowboy hat as he reached down to strike a wooden match off of the side of his boot.  His dark eyes reflected the dancing flame for a moment as he lit his cigarette and took a long drag.

Smoke curled from his lips as he began to speak, “Ya know, someone asked me one time about ghosts, if I believed in them or not.”  He let a little of the smoke leak out before taking a breath pulling some of it back in through his nicotine stained teeth.  "I told ‘em yeah.  I know enough to believe in 'em.“

He tapped the cigarette, some of the ashes floating away on the light breeze blowing through the graveyard.  He put the butt in his lips and started to wipe the mud off the blade of his shovel.  "Then, they asked me why I believe in 'em.  I just told 'em that I’ve been here long enough to know.  You can feel 'em from time to time, ya know.  Or hear 'em talkin’, or singin’.  Sometimes cryin’.  Mostly that one.”

When he was satisfied his shovel was clean he wiped his hands on his muddy jeans and took another long drag on his smoke.  He blew a few smoke rings before one sharp exhale scattered them.  He was about to take another puff when a fat raindrop fell right on the glowing tip of the cigarette, putting it out with a spitting hiss.  He let out a soft chuckle before breaking into a wet, phlegm filled coughing fit, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief dotted with tiny spots of old, dried blood.  "That’s a good example right there.  They been tryin’ to get me to quit smokin’.“

The gravedigger looked tired as he looked over at the hole he’d dug, fishing the pack of cigarettes from his pocket again before thinking better of it and tucking it away.  "They asked me if I had ever actually seen one, and I told 'em nah.  You can’t see 'em, you just know they’re there.”  He sighed as he pushed off of the old tree, his old joints creaking as he stretched, “"But if you can’t see it, is it really there?” is what they asked me after that.“  He picked up his shovel, resting it on his stooped shoulder.  He looked out at the rows of headstones as they were lit by a flash of lightning and shook his head slowly, "I told 'em if that was the case, then I spent my life diggin’ a lot of empty holes.”