Dig, dig, dig. It was the only thing on his mind. Dig, dig, dig. It consumed him; the memory of the horrible thing he had done pounding mercilessly in his head. It hurt so badly. He was a sergeant! How could he do this to a private in his company, even if he was a secesh? Dig, dig, dig. Lousy confederate sympathizer.

He remembered the day well, his company perfectly in position, ready to attack the confederate graybacks. He gave the order, and his soldiers charged!

All except one.

Private Adams remained motionless. His face had a blank expression that wasn't fear or pride. He flicked a lit cigarette into the grass, then stood frozen, standing with his lips pressed together in a smug smile. They had an argument later that night - a fistfight, really. The sergeant beat the mudsill until his shoddy was soaked with blood. That was one of the voices in his head'¦ he could still hear Private Adams scream. Adams claimed it was respect for human life that stopped him from charging. The battle was lost that day, and although Adams was only one man amongst many who caused the loss, the sergeant blamed none other.

Dig, dig, dig. He had to make sure Adams was really dead. Two weeks he had searched for his grave, two weeks he had lived with Adams's screams in his head. Adams had plagued more than his dreams. The sergeant would see him looking in the windows at his office and behind him in his reflection in the mirror. He had to shut him up! Now he finally found his grave: number A-170 at the Fort Snelling cemetery in Minnesota. He didn't doubt Adams' death, but he had to see for himself. Searching - being totally reclusive for two weeks - caused a stir among the officers; they began to question what he was looking for. Now it wouldn't matter that he had been AWOL for the last few days, let the consequences fall where they may. He had found what he was looking for.

A full moon had risen high into the sky, causing shadows from the grave markers to stretch across the cold dirt. "We finally found him, Maibe!" the sergeant gloated, glancing down into the eyes of his trusted companion, not slowing the digging.

The red-haired Labrador just wagged her tail and licked her chops while beads of sweat dripped from her master's forehead. She was deftly trained, ready to do her job on her master's command. She waited patiently, knowing full well that her time would come. Maibe knew what to do. She yapped playfully, acknowledging her master.

The moon became darkened as a soft cloud obscured it. Eerie fog-like mist crawled along the ground. The trees whispered their secrets to each other in the wind while the night grew darker under a blackened sky.

"We'll take care of it, Sergeant," he remembered his two trusted confidants saying - not even he would dare to do something like this alone. It had to look like an accident, and with Private Adams being so bruised from the night before, his murder had to be taken care of quickly. The Sergeant could trust these two to take care of his problem; they were the type of men that liked devising new ways to murder. Guys like that came in handy from time to time.

"Make sure you do," was his response. He didn't know what they were going to do, and he didn't want to know where they were going to do it. He didn't want to care'¦ until the deed was done. The sergeant tried to justify it to himself. War is a justifiable cause, and after beating Private Adams he had to lock him away so no one would know. If a general found out that he had lost his temper, he would lose his status. It had to be done.

Private Adams disappeared, and even the sergeant didn't know to where he had vanished. Then the pounding started. Why? Because he knew Adams was dead. Should he feel guilty? No. He didn't, he wouldn't; his pride wouldn't let him. The pounding continued to grow intensely until tonight when he could hear nothing else. Even when his trusted dog yelped, the sergeant didn't hear it. All he heard was death. All he heard was Private Adams screaming death!

So he frantically scoured paperwork, trained his dog, and searched cemeteries. Finally, after two weeks of constant hunting amongst the pounding death, death, death, he found him! Dig, dig, dig. He knew he could end the pounding. He had a plan to make the pounding stop, even if he had to beat Adams until his spirit felt it in the afterlife!

The sergeant had visited someone earlier that week, an old friend, someone who he could trust with this kind of matter. He asked her how to get a spirit to cross over that didn't want to ' how to force them.

Dig, dig, clunk! He let out an audible sigh of respite. By this time his blacker-than-night hair clung to his forehead, wet with the sweat that continuously poured down his face. His hands were coarse, blistered by the shovel handle, and splinters of wood had chewed his hands to the point of drawing blood. He didn't feel the pain in his hands; the constant thumping in his head numbed them.

He tapped the shovel in a few different places, satisfied to hear "thump, thump, thump." A slight grin curled his lips, and after just a moment of hesitation, he dropped to his knees and began excitedly brushing the remaining soil off of the plain pine box. The night fog crept into the freshly dug hole, reaching its smoky tentacles to aid the sergeant. Its icy fingers touched his hands, like a soul with no body, lost and confused.

Private Adams wasn't lost, wasn't confused. The sergeant knew Adams was plotting against him, trying to drive him to insanity. What a beast! What a horrid person. What a man too much like himself.

The pine box coffin was now fully exposed. It glowed almost white under the gloomy moonlight. The sergeant lit a small lantern, the kind with only one window that directed the light. He examined the surface of the coffin carefully. "A-170," he read aloud. That was all that was carved into the wood. "Is it you in there?" the sergeant scoffed, knocking on the coffin surface. He waited, halfway expecting a knock in response, but heard none.

The twisted trees seemed to bend over and peer into the open grave as the sergeant pulled a large knife from his tall boot. He tapped the blade on the edge of the box a few times, as if pensively deciding whether or not he should open the lid. A blank look crossed his face as he glanced wildly around him. "See that, Maibe? We're all alone, right?"

The dog stood, and wagged her tail frantically with excitement.

In almost a stabbing motion the sergeant thrust the knife under the wooden lid. Using his weight he pried the lid upward. The nails holding down the lid shrieked under the pressure of being disturbed, while the box seemed to breathe in the fresh air with a deep swoosh.

The sergeant shined the light into the coffin, partially choking on the smell of rotting flesh that begun to permeate the air.

The body looked familiar, even with the flesh rotting off in chunks. It had to be Adams's twisted body in the box. His legs were dislocated at the knees. Ominously haunting, his eyes were still open, now dry, shriveled, and as cloudy as the sergeant's judgment. A clearly broken jaw hung loosely from Adam's swollen face, and the cold flesh on his cheek hung limply in chunks. His face appeared twisted in horror, no doubt frozen from the moment of his death. The sergeant chuckled slightly, happy that this soldier's last memory was of two brutes murdering him.

"Do you know the grief you have caused me, Adams?" the sergeant said, looking at the tip of his knife in the moonlight. He tapped it lightly on his temple, feeling its cold point. "Do you know what it feels like!?" he cried, slamming the knife through the dead body's head. "That's what it feels like."

The body only twitched in response.

The sergeant whimpered. Using one hand to brace the head, he pulled the knife from the skull with the other. Then, after closing the lid of the coffin quietly, he began almost nonchalantly chipping a shape deeply into the wood. It was something she had taught him: a symbol, a banishment. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," was all he could say while he carved the pentagram. When he finished he pulled a crumple paper from his deep pocket. On it was a sprawled incantation she had given him. He wasn't sure he'd need it, but he was going to try. He placed his hand on the center of the pentagram:

"Ashes to ashes dust to dust
On the power of three I call
Take this spirit, seal his fate
Away with him and all his hate.
Darkness leave! Darkness fall!
In the gods I place my trust."

With a cry and a quick flash, the sergeant slashed the knife through his flesh. He yelped in pain, his dog barked, and blood began to fill the fissures of the pentagram, outlining it in ghoulish red. As the streams of blood completed staining the pentagram, the throbbing in his head ceased, and, momentarily, he felt the pain of the blade of the knife still buried in his flesh.

The sergeant cried with joy. "Silence, Maibe! Sweet silence!"

But no. It started softly at first, lower than a whisper: death, death, death.

"No," the sergeant cursed, slapping his bloody hand to his forehead. "It's returning. We'll need the sacrifice."

The dog slumped, as if knowing what her master had said.

The sergeant threw open the lid, and started stabbing the body, screaming "Shut up, shut up! You secesh! You secesh! Why won't you be silent?"

In the coffin now, straddling the body, the sergeant continued his assault. By the time he had grown tired, his face was red with blood and his own clothes stained. He reached for the shovel, and placed it next to the coffin. After returning the knife to his boot, he picked up the lantern again, turning its light to the face of Adams. "I'll silence you one way or another."

Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

"Maibe," he said, sounding slightly pleasant, "you know what to do."

The dog jumped down into the grave, and bumped her wet nose kindly against her master. The sergeant unbuckled the dog's collar, and kissed her lightly on the head. "You're a good girl. I'll just put your collar here in the coffin so they'll never find it."

Then the sergeant put his plan into motion: he laid down in the coffin, and slid the cover over him. The dog jumped out of the grave, and went to the pile of dirt that had been created when the sergeant started digging. The sergeant was soon listening to the sound of soft dirt raining down on the coffin. Maibe worked frantically, as she had been trained to do. The exercise was always the same: dig, dig, dig.

When the sergeant could no longer hear the dirt burying him, he tried pushing up on the lid to see if he could get it to budge. He was surprised at the speed of his wonderful dog; it was so quickly that he was unable to push open the cover. After getting used to the smell of the rotting Private Adams, the fresh scent of newly turned dirt filled the coffin, and the sergeant began to relax. It would all be over soon. He turned the lantern toward the body, startled to find Private Adams on his side, one arm propping up his head, his eyes staring deeply into the sergeants. "You know I find it interesting," he said, "that you would really think I'd waste my time haunting a man such as yourself."

An uneasy feeling collected into the pit of the sergeant's stomach, but the lack of oxygen clouded his mind. "Shut up!"

"Just look at you now," the private continued with the sinews of his jaw half hanging out of his mouth, "sharing my coffin."

"You drove me to it!"

Adams laughed. "This is your civil war."

The sergeant's jaw tightened as his eyes became wild with furry.

"Having second thoughts?" the body asked. "Let me out, let me out," he mocked.

"I'll defeat you!"

"In death?"

"That's what you wanted!"

"Then'¦ I have won."

Death, death, death! "No!" the sergeant screamed, thrashing about. "Maibe! Let me out! Maibe!"

The lantern rolled toward the bottom of the coffin where the sergeant was unable to reach it. His body grew tense as he saw it tipped over, rolling toward his feet. The light grew dimmer; he watched it flicker in utter dread.

The sergeant's eyes grew large'¦

"You're finished. Just like that light, your life is growing dimmer'¦."

'¦ then they became heavy'¦.

"'¦ dimmer'¦"

'¦ then they glowed for a moment as the lantern's flame danced off the wick.

"'¦ and is gone."



Maibe's large brown eyes surveyed her surroundings. The large wrought iron fence that surrounded the graveyard cast prison stripes across her back. Her feet were swathed in mud, but she had done her job. The freshly dug grave would appear as nothing more than a stray dog's night of fun. She just had to wait for her master to come and get her. She didn't know that, this time, he would never come.

She licked her chops, and whined quietly to herself as a gloved hand patted her lightly on the head. A man whose bruised face looked grotesque in the pale moonlight flicked a lit cigarette into the grass, pressed his lips together in a smug smile, and turned to walk away.

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