Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson, your host, narrator and author. We here at the ten Minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales are rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human condition as ten minutes will permit mini novels on steroids. This week we meet Jack. Jack is about to turn ten. His family has just arrived at their airbnb on the coast of Maine. Right next door to their seafront cottage is a graveyard with gravestones dating back to the eighteenth century. Jack stumbles upon one stone that sends a shiver of terror down his spine. The graveyard. The airbnb right up hadn't mentioned the graveyard. Over one hundred picks of the lovely seafront cottage and its picturesque views of dead Man's Bay and the mighty Atlantic beyond, but not a single shot of the ancient cemetery right next door. The Smiths arrived last night after dark, a ten hour drive from Jersey to this cozy cottage on the craggy Main coast. Mom, Dad, Jack and his little twin sisters, and of course Max, their faithful hound. Jack, as always a bubbling fountain of energy and curateosity, is up and at it early, ready to go, eager to explore, Max too ready to roll. All these new smells have the hound half out of his mind. They're at the front door, chafing at the bit. Just hang on, Jack calls his father John from the first floor bedroom. I'll be right with you, okay, Just let me get some clothes on. So cool, says Jack as they step out onto the front stoop and take in the wild, otherworldly scenery. The rolling hills down to the bay, the islands shrouded in fog, the ocean stretching far off to the horizon. Max races around the yard, sniffing and peeing every two feet, laying claim to this fresh piece of real estate. A squirrel or maybe a rabbit, grabs his attention, and off he scampers straight into the graveyard. Jack and his dad follow. The cemetery occupies steep, hilly ground. All land rolls down to the sea, nothing flat till you reach the water, several hundred feet below. Ancient gravestones, some dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Isaiah Cole born January eighth, seventeen ninety six died September fifteenth, eighteen fifty two. Alice Courtright Conrad, wife of Michael Conrad, born June one, seventeen eighty eight died December twenty second, eighteen thirty seven. And groundhog holes everywhere. Watch your step, calls Dad, you'll bust an ankle. Max close to madness, races from hole to hole, pushing his snout deep into each, eager for an encounter with the musty smelling beast that lies within. Dad calls Jack, look at this. One kid only lived a week. How can you only live a week? Baby? Henry Ahler born November twenty eighth, eighteen forty one died December seventh, eighteen forty one. Ah, you know, back in those days, lots of infant mortality, says Dad. What's infant mortality? Asks Jack? Early death explains Dad, you know, lots of infections and diseases back in those days could take you away long before you reached adulthood. Take take you away, ask Jaq's what do you mean You mean you mean like kill you? Yep, that's exactly right, son, But nothing like that kills us anymore, right, I mean, I mean, now we live forever. Dad laughs. Well, let's just say it's a whole lot more likely you'll live to a ripe old age these days. Jack looks concerned till his attention gets diverted. Look at this, he says, excitedly. Whole family died on the same day. Moses Craig born April twenty two, eighteen twenty eight. Hannah Henderson Craig born June twenty seventh, eighteen thirty one, Rachel Craig born January seventh, eighteen fifty two, Horace Craig born August twenty fourth, eighteen fifty three. Barton Greig born February second, eighteen fifty five. All died December thirty first, eighteen fifty nine. Now, that says Dad is a tragedy. What do you think happened? It's hard to say. Son could have been a collar outbreaker, maybe swamp fever, or maybe the house burnt down, could have been a house fire. Who knows, Well, we're not going to die of stuff like that, are we? No? No way good? Because because you know, I gotta tell you I'm kind of afraid of death. Oh yeah, I didn't know that how so ah, I don't know. It's like starting a new year of school, or I guess going off to summer camp, or like lying awake at night in the dark. You know, the unknown. Death is like the unknown. It's spooky, Dad, Dang, Jack says Dad. That's some heavy stuff for a ten year old. I'm not ten yet, Dad, not till tomorrow. Right, that's correct, Jack, that's correct. They circle through the hilly graveyard and start to make their way back to the cottage, where they can see Mom standing on the front stoop waving. Max is already back at the cottage. At the sight of Mom, the hound knows breakfast will soon be in his bowl. Come on, Jack says Dad, I need some coffee. Jack follow but soon stops and stares at a small gravestone covered with moss and half toppled over. Jack stares and stares. His father stops and turns around. What is it, Jack, what's the problem? Jack swallows hard. He points at the gravestone, his hand shakes. Dad retreats and takes a look. Jack Smith born July fourth, nineteen ten died July fourth, nineteen twenty, age ten years. They both stare father and son. Well, now, that, says Dad, after a time, is a hell of a coincidence, one hundred years ago to the day tomorrow, Dad, Tomorrow is the fourth of July, says Jack, very softly. Am I going to die tomorrow on my birthday? My tenth birthday? Just like this Jack Smith did? And he points again at the old stone. Oh God knows, says Dad, slightly freaked out, but doing an excellent job of covering it up the way you got to do when you're a father. You're not really even Jack. That's just your nickname. You're John John Smith, after your old man, after me, John Smith Junior. That's you. We just call you Jack, so people don't get us mixed up. Ah, I think, says Jack, even quieter. Now I think I'm going to die tomorrow on my birthday of that infant mortality thing, or that cholera, or maybe the swamp fever or the fire, the house fire you mentioned. Something's gonna get me. Dad puts his arm around his son, reassures him all will be well, tells Jack he's going to live a long and happy and productive life. But that night Jack goes to bed with a stomach a bad stomach ache, bent double and all balled up inside. Dad tells him it's nothing, just the lobster roll and the ice cream Sunday, the cotton candy, and the twenty ounce bottle of coke. But in the morning Jack has a fever one hundred and three burning up. Is it swamp fever? Jack asks his dad in a voice so soft John Smith has to press his ear against his son's lips to hear. All morning, the boy vomits and sweats and practically hallucinates, all while telling his parents every few seconds that he knows he's going to die. My death, he whispers, in a voice not quite like his own, has been foretold by the gravestone in the graveyard. Later, in a voice all together mysterious, he mutters, through dry, cracked lips, I don't want to be here when I die. And still later, in a voice beyond the grave, ten year old Jack Smith philosophizes, live well today, because you have no idea what's coming tomorrow. By late afternoon, Jack is up and back at it, bounding down the hill to the water's edge, splashing in the shallows with Max, shouting and laughing and skipping stones. Across dead Man's Bay, looking forward to hamburgers on the grill and chocolate cake with buttercream icing, and finally fireworks to celebrate his tenth birthday. Thanks for listening to this original audio presentation of the Graveyard. You enjoy today's story, Please take a few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast, and then go to Thomas William Simpson dot com for additional information about the author and to view his extensive canon. The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Plaglici and Josh Colotney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast Network in partnership with Iheartproductions. Until next time, this is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller,

Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson, your host, narrator and author. We here at the ten Minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales are rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human condition as ten minutes will permit mini novels on steroids. This week we meet Jack. Jack is about to turn ten. His family has just arrived at their airbnb on the coast of Maine. Right next door to their seafront cottage is a graveyard with gravestones dating back to the eighteenth century. Jack stumbles upon one stone that sends a shiver of terror down his spine. The graveyard. The airbnb right up hadn't mentioned the graveyard. Over one hundred picks of the lovely seafront cottage and its picturesque views of dead Man's Bay and the mighty Atlantic beyond, but not a single shot of the ancient cemetery right next door. The Smiths arrived last night after dark, a ten hour drive from Jersey to this cozy cottage on the craggy Main coast. Mom, Dad, Jack and his little twin sisters, and of course Max, their faithful hound. Jack, as always a bubbling fountain of energy and curateosity, is up and at it early, ready to go, eager to explore, Max too ready to roll. All these new smells have the hound half out of his mind. They're at the front door, chafing at the bit. Just hang on, Jack calls his father John from the first floor bedroom. I'll be right with you, okay, Just let me get some clothes on. So cool, says Jack as they step out onto the front stoop and take in the wild, otherworldly scenery. The rolling hills down to the bay, the islands shrouded in fog, the ocean stretching far off to the horizon. Max races around the yard, sniffing and peeing every two feet, laying claim to this fresh piece of real estate. A squirrel or maybe a rabbit, grabs his attention, and off he scampers straight into the graveyard. Jack and his dad follow. The cemetery occupies steep, hilly ground. All land rolls down to the sea, nothing flat till you reach the water, several hundred feet below. Ancient gravestones, some dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Isaiah Cole born January eighth, seventeen ninety six died September fifteenth, eighteen fifty two. Alice Courtright Conrad, wife of Michael Conrad, born June one, seventeen eighty eight died December twenty second, eighteen thirty seven. And groundhog holes everywhere. Watch your step, calls Dad, you'll bust an ankle. Max close to madness, races from hole to hole, pushing his snout deep into each, eager for an encounter with the musty smelling beast that lies within. Dad calls Jack, look at this. One kid only lived a week. How can you only live a week? Baby? Henry Ahler born November twenty eighth, eighteen forty one died December seventh, eighteen forty one. Ah, you know, back in those days, lots of infant mortality, says Dad. What's infant mortality? Asks Jack? Early death explains Dad, you know, lots of infections and diseases back in those days could take you away long before you reached adulthood. Take take you away, ask Jaq's what do you mean You mean you mean like kill you? Yep, that's exactly right, son, But nothing like that kills us anymore, right, I mean, I mean, now we live forever. Dad laughs. Well, let's just say it's a whole lot more likely you'll live to a ripe old age these days. Jack looks concerned till his attention gets diverted. Look at this, he says, excitedly. Whole family died on the same day. Moses Craig born April twenty two, eighteen twenty eight. Hannah Henderson Craig born June twenty seventh, eighteen thirty one, Rachel Craig born January seventh, eighteen fifty two, Horace Craig born August twenty fourth, eighteen fifty three. Barton Greig born February second, eighteen fifty five. All died December thirty first, eighteen fifty nine. Now, that says Dad is a tragedy. What do you think happened? It's hard to say. Son could have been a collar outbreaker, maybe swamp fever, or maybe the house burnt down, could have been a house fire. Who knows, Well, we're not going to die of stuff like that, are we? No? No way good? Because because you know, I gotta tell you I'm kind of afraid of death. Oh yeah, I didn't know that how so ah, I don't know. It's like starting a new year of school, or I guess going off to summer camp, or like lying awake at night in the dark. You know, the unknown. Death is like the unknown. It's spooky, Dad, Dang, Jack says Dad. That's some heavy stuff for a ten year old. I'm not ten yet, Dad, not till tomorrow. Right, that's correct, Jack, that's correct. They circle through the hilly graveyard and start to make their way back to the cottage, where they can see Mom standing on the front stoop waving. Max is already back at the cottage. At the sight of Mom, the hound knows breakfast will soon be in his bowl. Come on, Jack says Dad, I need some coffee. Jack follow but soon stops and stares at a small gravestone covered with moss and half toppled over. Jack stares and stares. His father stops and turns around. What is it, Jack, what's the problem? Jack swallows hard. He points at the gravestone, his hand shakes. Dad retreats and takes a look. Jack Smith born July fourth, nineteen ten died July fourth, nineteen twenty, age ten years. They both stare father and son. Well, now, that, says Dad, after a time, is a hell of a coincidence, one hundred years ago to the day tomorrow, Dad, Tomorrow is the fourth of July, says Jack, very softly. Am I going to die tomorrow on my birthday? My tenth birthday? Just like this Jack Smith did? And he points again at the old stone. Oh God knows, says Dad, slightly freaked out, but doing an excellent job of covering it up the way you got to do when you're a father. You're not really even Jack. That's just your nickname. You're John John Smith, after your old man, after me, John Smith Junior. That's you. We just call you Jack, so people don't get us mixed up. Ah, I think, says Jack, even quieter. Now I think I'm going to die tomorrow on my birthday of that infant mortality thing, or that cholera, or maybe the swamp fever or the fire, the house fire you mentioned. Something's gonna get me. Dad puts his arm around his son, reassures him all will be well, tells Jack he's going to live a long and happy and productive life. But that night Jack goes to bed with a stomach a bad stomach ache, bent double and all balled up inside. Dad tells him it's nothing, just the lobster roll and the ice cream Sunday, the cotton candy, and the twenty ounce bottle of coke. But in the morning Jack has a fever one hundred and three burning up. Is it swamp fever? Jack asks his dad in a voice so soft John Smith has to press his ear against his son's lips to hear. All morning, the boy vomits and sweats and practically hallucinates, all while telling his parents every few seconds that he knows he's going to die. My death, he whispers, in a voice not quite like his own, has been foretold by the gravestone in the graveyard. Later, in a voice all together mysterious, he mutters, through dry, cracked lips, I don't want to be here when I die. And still later, in a voice beyond the grave, ten year old Jack Smith philosophizes, live well today, because you have no idea what's coming tomorrow. By late afternoon, Jack is up and back at it, bounding down the hill to the water's edge, splashing in the shallows with Max, shouting and laughing and skipping stones. Across dead Man's Bay, looking forward to hamburgers on the grill and chocolate cake with buttercream icing, and finally fireworks to celebrate his tenth birthday. Thanks for listening to this original audio presentation of the Graveyard. You enjoy today's story, Please take a few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast, and then go to Thomas William Simpson dot com for additional information about the author and to view his extensive canon. The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Plaglici and Josh Colotney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast Network in partnership with Iheartproductions. Until next time, this is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller,