I am more dead than alive in a world that fears mortality. What they don’t see is the life after death. While the body releases its last breath and the heart takes its final beat, there is still life within them. Muscles relax and contract in response to a symphony of chemical reactions now hitting their crescendo. Humans are not immune to the cyclicity of nature. The cry of a newborn exposed to the light of a world too harsh for their eyes. The final breath of an old man as he reflects on things left undone. Eyes open, pupils now abandoned wells. Dilated orbs accepting the light they’ve filtered since birth. The body temperature drops like clockwork. A slow decay. One point five degrees every hour, until it matches mine. All the while, I surround them, nurture them as we become one.

While the world below is filled with life, the world above moves at a slower pace. I rest nestled between the sharp terrain of the San Bruno Mountain and the tranquility of the Gulf of the Farallones. The combination of the sea breeze and the mountains allows the rolling green slopes to hide behind a late summer fog. I breed rarity. Fauna that only grows in climates such as mine. I protect the vulnerable as species hide from extinction. On my surface, there is beauty in the miles of green I still possess, untarnished by gray looming buildings piled on top of each other. But this is not my legacy. No. It’s the thousands of unwanted souls. Each gravestone reflects the moonlight like silver scars against my skin. I am Colma, city of the dead, and these are the stories of the silent.

The year is 1849. Gold sparkles in the eyes of men seeking fortune in San Francisco, but opportunity always comes with a price. There’s a saying that the grass is always greener on the other side. The idea that by giving up what one already has, one can achieve something greater. But what is greater than family? Greater than life? For some, it’s a chance at unimaginable wealth.

Murdoch Doherty

“I ain’t got that kind of money to lend you.”

Murdoch’s head drops in exasperation as he rubs the bridge of his nose. He’d worked for Mr. Steele for over five years now, and not once had Murdoch asked him for anything. With one hundred dollars, he could join the next wagon train out of Independence, Missouri for the six-month trip to California. He just needed the money, and Mr. Steele was the only person he knew that would have it to spare.

“I told you I’ll pay you back tenfold.”

Mr. Steele turns away from the window overlooking the factory workers below. He shakes his head and removes his pocket watch, ringing the bell to indicate it was time to end the day.

“You can’t guarantee me shit, Murdoch. Ain’t nobody I’ve known come back yet. It ain’t right bringin’ your family on that death trail.”

Aileen had said the same thing, but Murdoch couldn’t imagine leaving without her and their boys. Maybe taking them wasn’t right, but leaving them didn’t feel any better. He brushes away the thought and stands, placing his hat on Mr. Steele’s cherry hardwood desk. The desk alone was worth more than what Murdoch was asking for.

“Sir, I can feel it in my being. This is the journey I’m meant to take. Tell me, what did you risk to get here?”

Mr. Steele’s face softens. “I’ll give you the money if you’re brave enough to do this on your own. We’ll bring your family to the house and your wife can work around the farm to pay for her and the boys to stay. That’s my offer.”

An impossible choice. Walk away from his family for a chance to give them everything they could ever need or want. Or stay and admit he isn’t brave enough to take the risk for them. Murdoch stares at the floor, thumbing the shamrock charm around his neck. He hates that he can’t answer something he was so sure about just a minute ago.

“The wagon train leaves town in a week. My offer stands ‘til then,” Mr. Steele says with an empathetic smile. He pats Murdoch on the back and walks towards the metal stairs, each step echoing through the office.

Murdoch couldn’t let Mr. Steele walk away. If he didn’t take the offer, Aileen would find the words to convince him to stay, and he’d die wondering what their life could have been.

“Mr. Steele,” Murdoch shouts, rushing down the steps. “I’ll take your offer, sir.”

Murdoch puts out his hand and Mr. Steele eyes it with dejection. “May God watch over you.”

His rough hand finds Murdoch’s, sealing his fate. “Thank you, sir. I won’t come back ‘til I can pay you what I promised.”

A week later, Murdoch kisses Aileen goodbye. He bends down and tells the boys to be good and watch over their mother. Anything to keep from looking into Aileen’s eyes. She was strong, stronger than him, but not strong enough to keep the tears from welling. He mounts his horse and kisses his charm for good luck, giving a final wave as he starts towards town. By joining the wagon train, he’d have protection against bandit attacks that often happen to lone travelers. The company he joins is a group of twenty-three wagons made up mostly of families with children around the ages of his boys. Murdoch aches to hear his boy’s laughter, but a month into the trip after the second child is run over by a wagon wheel and the third is pulled away by the swift currents of a river, Murdoch is grateful for leaving them behind.

Despite his relief, he still misses his family. He spends the nights looking up at the sky, wondering if Aileen is looking at the same stars. It’s only been a little over three months, but he longs to be home again. Murdoch pushes himself up from his sleeping mat to get a sip of water. The wagon train stopped next to a river for the night, and the stillness of the water from the lack of rain reflects the moonlight. He bends, splashing the cold water onto his face before taking a drink.

The next morning, Murdoch is hit with a sharp pain in his stomach, forcing his step to stagger. His horse stands next to him eating leaves from a tree growing next to the river. It hasn’t taken a sip of the water yet. The pain returns with more intensity, and the burn of bile slowly works up the back of his throat. Murdoch understands what’s coming. Mr. Casper had been unfortunate enough to catch this the first week on the trail. Death could be swift like it was for Mr. Casper, or it could be long and painful. A wave of terror washes over Murdoch as he looks back at the camp. Mr. Casper had wandered off to keep his family safe, but Murdoch fears dying alone. He gives a quick prayer and kisses his shamrock charm, hoping for any luck it can bring. The selfish need for comfort in his last hours pushes him back towards camp, where he knows he brings death to everyone.

Murdoch Doherty and his wagon camp are found by the next wagon train to pass. They’re buried as unnamed grave markers guiding travelers along the two-thousand-mile stretch of trail.

Samuel Ketterman

Those who survived the journey arrived in the lawless world of the gold mining towns. Dirt roads lined with supply stores for work, and saloons and brothels for entertainment. The buoyant tunes of the saloon piano and raucous laughter provided a false sense of security as men sat at gambling tables with shifty eyes. These men — the Forty-Niners — knew what they were willing to risk for wealth. They cheated death once; they could do it again.

Samuel looks down at his cards — first bad hand all night. Sweat drips down his brow and he quickly wipes it away, hoping no one took notice. The California summer heat could be enough of an explanation. But nobody asks, which means he doesn’t have to lie. There’s no opportunity without risk, which Samuel knows well. Each night he walks in with his earnings from the gold mines and doubles them before stumbling out after one too many glasses.

“Lucky son of a bitch,” the bartender says, each time Samuel returns. Earning Samuel the nickname “Lucky.”

He lowers his cards with a grin, pushing everything he has into the pot. One bad hand isn’t enough for Lucky Ketterman to walk away.

“I’ve heard of you around town and I ain’t lookin’ to lose my shirt today,” one man says as he folds.

The man next to him follows, but the last remains fixated on the cards in his hand. His hat sits low, casting a shadow over his eyes.

Another bead of sweat rolls down Samuel’s hairline. The man in the hat notices.

“Why don’t you take off that hat and keep things fair here?” Samuel asks, hoping to create a distraction.

His hand reaches for a shamrock charm around his neck. Something he had picked off a traveler on his way to California.

“You got luck. I got my hat. I think that’s fair enough,” the man says with a rotten grin.

Samuel’s stomach drops at the familiar rough voice of the man next to him. Luck wasn’t something he only had at the tables. It had followed him since picking the charm off of a man he had been traveling with. Samuel was the sole survivor of a twenty-three-wagon massacre. Murdoch Doherty had caught cholera, spreading it through the camp like wildfire. Samuel only knew the asshole’s name because it was etched into the back of the charm.

Since then, Samuel had walked away from more than one dispute untouched yet surrounded by bodies, had wandered to failed dig sites to find pockets full of gold, but it was a tunnel collapse two months back that almost ended his luck. Thirty men were not so fortunate. One of them being Jacob Tinley, the man now sitting next to him.

“I thought you were dead,” Samuel says, as the room shrinks around him.

Jacob pushes his earnings to join Samuel’s. “With friends like you, I should be.”

They had arrived in Hangtown the same day and decided it was safer to work together than try to survive on their own. However, Jacob seemed to have a black cloud following him wherever he went. This, of course, made him envious of Samuel’s inexplicable luck. And understanding the monsters that jealousy can create, Samuel grew cautious of Jacob’s intentions. The day the mine collapsed was their last day together. Samuel had asked Jacob to take his spot in the mine. He had filled his cart with dirt and rocks, which he hoped to pan for gold.

“This ain’t a good spot,” Jacob argued. “I already told you I’ve dug here twice and come out with nothin’.”

Samuel patted him on the back, giving him a confident grin. “I got a good feelin’ about this spot today. Just trust me.”

Samuel had barely cleared the mine when the tunnel collapsed. Nothing more than a cloud of dirt escaped.

“I should’ve known better than to trust you,” Jacob says, tipping back the brim of his hat and exposing a left eye patch. “You ain’t ever looked out for anybody but yourself.”

Samuel forces a laugh, leaning back from the poker table. He tucks the charm under his shirt and gives it a pat for good luck. “Come on now. Looks like some of my good luck finally rubbed off on you.”

Jacob nods slowly. “Or maybe you were my bad luck all along.”

The click of a gun sounds under the table and the saloon goes quiet.

Samuel “Lucky” Ketterman wasn’t lucky enough to appreciate the irony of his tombstone.

Father Bowers

Father Bowers stands at the grave. According to the tombstone, it had been over sixty years since Samuel had met his demise. The world he knew was long gone. The gold picked clean from the earth and replaced by the miners, now tucked away in caskets. Unwanted residents, six feet deep in rich California soil. Father Bowers continues down the row of tombstones no longer maintained. Once the vacant plots ran out, so did the money. And no one would care for the dead for free. Statues vandalized. Gravestones cracked in half. Bronze mausoleum doors removed from their hinges. This was how they honored their fallen. Even in death, their souls had no peace.

When Father Bowers graduated from All Hallows College in Dublin, he was eager to spread the word of God. As a missionary, he found himself traveling to what they knew as the Wild West. He arrived to find a world of sin, with men allowing their darkest desires to take hold. Drunks, thieves, and men committing murder in the name of justice. It was enough to make many of his fellow missionaries question their purpose, but not Father Bowers. He saw a chance at redemption and repentance in each man, regardless of their sins. Desperation created monsters of men. This he understood after seeing what it had done to his father during the Great Famine. Men who knew nothing of the Lord would crawl to him in their last hours. Fear emanated from their eyes as they confessed, begging for forgiveness. Father Bowers never turned them away, not if they were willing to open their hearts to the Lord.

He had promised the families of those buried in the Catholic cemetery of San Francisco that he would watch over them and keep them safe. It never occurred to him how difficult it would be to keep that promise. Each day, the price of San Francisco’s land grew, and so did the lies of the dead. The power the government wielded with nothing more than words was astounding. So much so, they were able to overrule the Catholic Church’s argument to allow their cemetery to remain untouched. Greed was somehow greater than God, and now Father Bowers was tasked with watching over the exhumations of each body within his cemetery. So began the solemn procession of one hundred and fifty thousand bodies from San Francisco to Colma.

Father Bowers whispers silent prayers for each soul disrupted from their eternal slumber. Men, paid for the number of bodies moved rather than the care they took, allow caskets to crack and fall, exposing what is left of the remains. Despite the years that had passed since the bodies disappeared into the earth, the smell of death resurfaces with them. The wealthy had been embalmed, preserved in cast-iron coffins, but Samuel Ketterman’s remains had become nothing more than dust. Father Bowers places a small redwood box next to his grave, asking the men to transfer the remains from the mangled wooden casket. They don’t argue, but their faces say enough for him to discern their thoughts. They toss a shamrock necklace into the box and Father Bowers lifts it to the soft light of the setting sun. Murdoch Doherty’s name glints back at him. Another forgotten soul, deserving of his own burial. Father Bowers opens a second box and places the charm inside.

With two small redwood boxes tucked under his arm, Father Bowers stands. The gravediggers throw Samuel’s tombstone into a pile they would later dump into the Bay. Peace came at the price of $10 per grave. Those whose families couldn’t — or wouldn’t — pay found themselves in the company of others abandoned in mass graves. The sun begins its descent into the horizon, which means the gravediggers would be heading home soon to rinse the stench of death from their skin. For Father Bowers, his day is far from over. He continues to the last horse-drawn hearse, as they prepare to travel the ten miles south to deliver the bodies to Colma.

The hour journey is one of silence. Father Bowers sits in the carriage next to a casket. It allows him too much time to think, and he wonders if this is what he was put on this earth to do. A shepherd of unwanted souls. He looks down at the redwood boxes on the seat next to him, wondering if anyone will do the same for him when he’s gone. They arrive in Colma just as the city comes alive. The living residents work solely in the business of the dead.

He hears the whistles of the gravediggers as they make their way to the cemeteries to begin their work for the evening. Bodies arrive in the thousands, not just by horse and carriage, but from streetcars and trains with stops at each cemetery. Father Bowers knows the people of this town well. Dirt-covered faces of the living, waiting to welcome the next group of the dead.

Agatha, the local florist, tends to her gardens during the day and delivers each beautiful arrangement at night. Benton, the monument maker, carefully chips away at the granite, unwilling to allow a mistake to pass in his work. Even the barkeep at Molloy’s understands his role as he pours the mourners a pint, listening attentively to their stories of the deceased. The tavern isn’t a place for sadness, but a chance to honor loved ones. Father Bowers pats the wooden lid of the remains, honored to provide Samuel “Lucky” Ketterman and Murdoch Doherty such a peaceful place for their souls to finally rest.

Harold Poulter

Harold Poulter is a grateful man. One who appreciates the warmth of the sun on his face, the songs of the birds hidden in century-old trees, and the sight of another funeral procession slowly making its way to his cemetery. People who didn’t understand Colma would find his world to be morbid and distasteful, but Harold takes pride in his work as the groundskeeper of Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery. It’s the same work his father did before him — a family tradition.

“Good afternoon, Harold,” Bonnie says, wiping her brow with the back of her gloved hand.

She adjusts her straw hat, looking up at him. Bonnie arrived in Colma just two years ago, and according to the rumors, it was because her fiancé — a nameless man who had died tragically in a motorcycle accident — had been buried here. Harold often wondered if that was true, but he was a firm believer in minding his own damn business. So, the two worked side-by-side day after day, him tending to the grounds while she maintained the grave flowers, ensuring they weren’t wilted or missing when the families arrived. He appreciated that despite her being decades younger than him, she put the same amount of effort and care into her work as he did, often arriving before him with her contagious smile and two black coffees in hand.

“The Bowers family will like the new yellow tulips,” Harold says, watching Bonnie adjust them in a vase.

He hovers next to her, leaning on his rake to take some of the weight off his bad knee. The sound of children laughing and playing travel from behind him. Sunday Mass had just finished, which meant that Father Bowers, Samuel “Lucky” Ketterman, and Murdoch Doherty’s graves resting side-by-side, would be receiving their normal visits from the Bowers family. Bonnie stands, brushing the dirt from her knees.

“Listen, I wanted to see if you had time to join me for lunch today?” she asks, loading her dirt and shovel back into her wagon.

Harold, being a creature of habit, hesitates to respond. The thought of changing his daily lunch routine makes him suddenly anxious. Every day at noon, he eats his ham and cheese sandwich with an apple on a bench outside of the Holy Cross Mausoleum. The town is small — a little over fifteen hundred living — but at 1.5 million dead and counting, Harold found more comfort in the deceased.

“Would it be okay if we saved it for another day?”

Bonnie grabs the handle of her wagon. “Yeah, another day works. Just let me know when.”

Harold knows he won’t schedule that other day, but he gives her a reassuring nod, nonetheless. Bonnie waves to the children as they approach, and continues to the next set of graves. Harold struggles to bend towards Father Bowers’s grave, removing a towel from his back pocket and wiping the dirt from the base. A shamrock is etched into the stone and Harold rubs his thumb across it, not for luck, but just out of habit.

He tips his hat to the Bowers family as they approach and continues up the road towards the mausoleum.

Weeks pass and Bonnie hasn’t brought up her request to meet for lunch again. Harold hopes this means he can stop feeling guilty about it, but each time he sees her, her words find their way into his memory. Over and over, haunting him. Each day he sits on his bench and watches her drag the wagon down the road. She disappears out of sight to eat her lunch somewhere alone. The heaviness of guilt ruins his appetite yet again, and he decides to follow her so he can get back some peace. His pace is much slower than hers, but he’s able to follow the tracks of the wagon in the dirt. He eventually arrives to find her sitting and talking to two tombstones. His shadow tips her off to his presence and she jumps to her feet.

“Harold, you scared me,” she says, clutching her chest.

She isn’t scared. She’s embarrassed for being caught talking to the graves. Harold’s eyes travel down to the tombstones. Anita Rossi & Daniel Rossi. Both with the same date of death two years ago.

Bonnie tucks her hands into her pockets, her hat covering whatever expression she’s trying to hide.

“My parents,” she whispers. She motions to the grave next to them. “And my little sister, Nadine.”

The same date of death. Harold always treated these graves the same as the other three hundred and fifty thousand he polished and maintained. They never had flowers or visitors, and he always assumed whatever tragedy occurred had taken them all together to the next life.

“I’m so sorry, Bonnie,” Harold says, the guilt burrowing deeper.

Bonnie shakes her head and grabs a small folding chair from her wagon, placing it across from her.

He takes his seat, sinking into the soft grass and placing his paper bag on his lap.

“I should have asked if today was a good day,” he says, looking down at the dirt caked under his fingernails.

“Today is a perfect day.”

Even without looking up, Harold can hear the smile in her voice.

“I remember the day they arrived,” he says.

It wasn’t a lie. There was no procession, just three cars with three caskets. The bodies were buried with no words spoken over them except for Harold’s silent prayers. He watched the graves for days after they arrived, hoping someone would eventually come looking for them. But each day he passed, they sat alone. A month later, Bonnie arrived as the newest member of the grounds crew. Her face was pale and worn, but many city dwellers looked like that, so he thought nothing of it.

Bonnie took a bite of her sandwich and Harold could hear her sniffle beneath her hat.

“I tried,” she chokes out.

Harold had consoled hundreds of families throughout his years maintaining these grounds. He never minded the tears soaking through the shoulders of his shirt as they grieved, watching their loved ones disappear into the earth. Those that were closest to the departed would often stay long after the rest of the party had left. They would laugh with him as they recounted stories of better times. It was those connections that gave him fulfillment in life. Being able to care for people in their darkest times, and bringing comfort to them by watching over their loved ones when they left.

Harold removes his sandwich from the paper bag and allows Bonnie to work through her thoughts as she continues eating her sandwich in silence.

“I tried to come to their funeral that day, but I couldn’t.” Another sniffle and a quick wipe of a rogue tear tell Harold she’s just beginning her story. “There were days I would park my car on Old Mission Road and just sit there for hours trying to convince myself to see them. That if I just saw them, maybe it would make it easier to breathe. Maybe it would lessen the ache that had settled in the center of my chest since they passed. But I couldn’t.”

Bonnie finishes her sandwich and takes a sip from her bright pink metal water bottle. The dents and chipping paint tell Harold she holds onto things that she should have moved past. She wipes her mouth and sighs.

“You know how the rumor got started about me having a fiancé in a motorcycle accident?” Her curt laugh makes it obvious she doesn’t appreciate said rumor.

“No,” Harold says, knowing more words aren’t needed.

“Have you met Gretchen?”

Harold nods. A money-hungry woman from the city who had bought up several homes in Colma when the housing market crashed in 2008. At no point did she try to make friends in the small town. Harold smiles, remembering the day she was pulled over for speeding around a funeral procession. If there was one thing you didn’t mess with in Colma, it was their funerals.

“She saw the newspaper clipping I had left on the front table of the rental and assumed the man on the motorcycle who had cut off my parents was my fiancé. I suppose it was better than assuming it was the family that had died instead.”

Harold’s cheeks grow hot as his dislike for Gretchen deepens. “She had no right starting rumors like that.”

Bonnie finally looks up and Harold sees the red in her now puffy eyes. “I just wanted you to know the truth. It’s stupid, but I worry that if something happened to me, no one else would know about them.”

Harold pauses mid-bite, shocked by her words. She’s too young to be concerned about her mortality, but Nadine’s grave next to him is even younger. He had seen fractures of sadness break through her cheerful demeanor, but he never thought it was because of this.

“Your fears aren’t stupid and I promise if anything happens, I’ll care for you as I do for them.”

Only in Colma were these words of comfort. Bonnie smiles up at him, the same radiant smile she had given a hundred times before; and Harold feels the warmth in his heart, like the sun against his face. There was always hope in the darkness. A light that would never extinguish and they would always preserve that. Colma’s legacy is to be a sanctuary for the silent and a place for their stories to be heard.