"Whatever you do, don't ask the local police about zombies". I was warned before setting on my journey to Mid Wales a few years ago, "they get a bit tetchy about these things". Why I had accepted this assignment I did not know. It was not likely to further my career in journalism, but while acting free-lance you had to take whatever leads you got in the hope of a payment, and perhaps a full time position. There had been more that the usual number of reports of what some called super-natural sightings, and other less objectively referred to as zombie attacks, over the last few months across rural Wales. So I headed off on a bright summer's day to Caersws, a village lying on the Mid Wales railway line in broad flat valley in a subtle patchwork of grazing land. The landlord of the inn where I had booked a room was a pleasant enough fellow, though I suspect he was looking forward to me paying my bill more than being hospitable. He showed me to my room which was basic, but clean and sufficient for my needs. It was near this village that the latest reports of sightings of ghoulish figures came from, together with the inevitable but probably coincidental reports of livestock and wild animal killings. I was, however, wise enough not to start my enquiries here for I did not wish to be run out of town by suspicious and superstitious locals. So I confined myself that rest of the day to reviewing notes I had made, interrupted only by a rather disappointing meal downstairs in the bar. My notes had come from a wide variety of sources; books on folklore, tourist guides, Ordnance Survey maps, newspaper archives and so on. I was probably as learned now about the area as a local person of 60 years of age.

               The next morning I headed out, stopping at small communities and enquiring in the village shops, which are often a better source of local chat than the pubs. The reactions I got ranged from indifference through mind-your-own-business, to veiled hostility. Did no-one want to talk, or was there nothing to talk about? Driving along one valley I spied a small dour chapel, isolated from any immediate dwellings. A few people stood, heads bowed silently, in the graveyard while an elderly priest conducted a funeral service. I stopped and waited until the mourners made their way down the path and headed, I presumed, to a nearby house on foot. A youngish man with a simple but pleasant face and wearing overalls was already filling in the grave with a large spade. I noticed that he had some plants with blue flowers in terracotta pots, so I asked him if these were flowers for the deceased. He, unlike the others I had spoken to so far, was forthcoming with his reply. No, he explained, around these parts it was traditional to plant this weed on the grave as soon as possible after the burial. I looked around and noticed that yes, several other graves displayed the same. He informed me it was called cemetery bindweed, but couldn't tell me exactly why it was done. But he did confide that the previous year he had neglected to place the plant on the grave, and when he went back the next day there was a small group there, including the local policeman, and he got a real telling off. He couldn't help but notice too that the grave seemed to have been disturbed. I was not as he had left it. The priest was just leaving then, so I took the opportunity to ask him about the bindweed. While inclined to talk to me he was rather scathing, saying that Christianity had been the religion for hundreds of years, and still the locals felt the need to act out a pagan tradition that would bind the deceased to the earth. I was aware that many plants get their common and local names because of the purposes they be put to. Did bindweed come into this category? The old cleric continued, saying that the princes of Wales, one thousand years ago, were buried with this plant on their graves ever since Prince Cadoc of Brycheiniog. So the common folk had taken what was good enough for royalty was good enough for them. With that he said a polite but firm goodbye and strode of in the opposite direction to his mourners.

               Back in my room I referred to the books I had brought with me. Eventually I found a reference which merely confirmed what the two men at the old chapel had told me. However a newspaper clipping about a rather gruesome killing of a cat, only half of it was ever found, hinted that a fresh grave had been disturbed that same night. The histories of Wales yielded a paragraph about Cadoc. The most remarkable feature of his reign was the alleged reappearance of his father 5 days after his burial. That caused a constitutional dilemma for the princedom. It was mid-evening and still light outside, so I asked the landlord to prepare me some sandwiches and a flask of tea. He reluctantly agreed, probably because a small profit on this meal is preferable to no profit at all if I took my business elsewhere. In 50 minutes I was near the old chapel but drove on past and parked up about half a mile away. At dusk I left my car and walked back to the graveyard. It was getting chilly now and the stars were just visible. Apart from the occasional bleat of sheep or some bird call it was absolutely quiet. Being a town dweller this silence was a shock to me. Every little sound, when it came, seemed amplified. I had resolved to remove the plants from the grave and return the next morning and see if this had caused any consternation amongst the locals. This would test if they were superstitious and how deep rooted their local beliefs were. The plants came away easily and so I made my way back to the car and returned to the inn.

               Next morning I was awakened by the landlord informing me that there was gentleman from Cardiff on the telephone for me. I hastily put a dressing gown on over my pyjamas and went downstairs. The telephone receiver lay on the bar counter waiting for me. An editor for one the Welsh national newspapers had tracked me down to this inn. He asked if I would cover the story of a gruesome murder in the area. It would take over half a day for one of his reporters to get here and as I was in the neighbourhood he could have a write up for the evening edition. He had few details apart from the location. It was the hamlet where the little chapel stood. I must admit to a sudden feeling of guilt and apprehension. Was my nocturnal activity anyway to be construed as being involved in this slaying? Had I been observed last night and my car licence plate noted? I could be wanted for questioning by the police, though as I was innocent this may help to get more of the story if I were to be held by the police for their enquiries. The landlord had a breakfast ready and waiting for me by the time I had got dressed, but I couldn't help, just then, to think of the condemned man and his last breakfast. What brought that thought into my mind?

               The drive to Llanrhyd was uneventful, but as I approached the chapel I could see policemen, the old priest and others in the graveyard. A fresh-faced young PC gestured for me to drive on, so I headed towards the village centre. The entire population must have been there, looking shocked, and talking to each other by the little drinking fountain in what passed for a village square. But I noticed many cottages had their curtains drawn, and most had crosses of all sizes, and made of any materials, displayed prominently. I showed my press badge to the villagers and asked them what had happened, but it seemed all the stories were mixed up and incomplete. Another young PC was innocent enough to tell me a fuller story. About 12:30 in the morning those living near the middle of the village had heard a dreadful scream and looking out of their windows saw a figure lurch done the road towards the old slate quarries. At 5am, when it was nearly light, the body of a local farmer, who had been in a local inn the night before, was found by the side of the shop. His throat had been torn or, and here the PC lowered his voice, bitten out. The body had been taken away, but a pool of dried blood remained. Some flies had settled on it. Later it had been discovered that the grave from yesterday's activities has been desecrated. The earth had been flung aside and the coffin opened. The body was still there, but covered in both soil and blood. I thanked the PC and made my way to the pub. I needed to sit down. The pub was basic. It lacked a lounge bar for there obviously was no need for one. It probably only catered for the farmers and their workers. I bought a pint of bitter, but hardly touched it for half an hour. The coincidence of that grave being opened and my night time activity couldn't be ignored. Was I in anyway responsible for the man's death? I put together an article for the newspaper and telephoned the editor. I made sure as many grisly facts were included, together with some human interest. I played down anything that might be called supernatural. This is part of the game that is played by journalists and editors. He liked my story and asked me to supply him with reports on the case for then next couple of days, adding that I could venture some speculation about a mad psychopath to spice it up a bit.

               In the event I stayed for a week. No speculation about me came to light and I ventured to spice up my daily reports hinting at zombies and supernatural occurrences. The initial furore had died down and life in the little village returned to normal without any more credible sightings, though more than a few fanciful reports from the more imaginative came my way, and a few accusations raking up old squabbles from the spiteful. I continued my original aims, heading for new pastures to the south of Caersws. Again in my first village I witnessed a funeral, this time at a Church of Wales graveyard. The church was impressive in the Perpendicular style, and much too large for the current population of perhaps 200. Whoever was being buried was clearly someone of import in that community for his coffin had been brought by a large black motor hearse, and there was at least 60 people leaving the cemetery as I passed. I made enquiries in the nearby town about strange sightings and weird events, but it would seem that my efforts were going to be hindered, for the locals were only interested in talking about the Llanrhyd slaying.

               Having decided to head home the next day, the funeral though preyed on my mind. I could repeat my experiment on this new grave and set my mind at rest that my interference had any relevance to the slaughter that followed. So I stayed in the town for the evening. It was a spa-town, and though had seen better days, still boasted some elegant terraced buildings and there was a tea room where I could eat in a relaxed manner in genteel surroundings. When it grew dark I paid my bill and drove back towards Caersws until I reached that imposing church. The night was cloudy and darker, which at least meant it was warmer. Having parked my car out of sight and entered the churchyard by a side gate and made my way to the fresh grave. As I had surmised, it was topped by the blue flowered vine. I uprooted it and settled back against a nearby gravestone to wait. I must have dozed off, for I woke with a start. There was an unfamiliar sound, a bit like scrabbling. And then, I could see the earth on the grave flying left and right until an arm appeared, pointing to the sky with a clenched fist. I tried to stand up, but realised to my horror that not only had the discarded vine wrapped itself around my legs, but my feet were being slowly dragged into the soft sandy soil. I pulled and tugged at the tendrils, but this only made them grip my legs tighter. I remembered a penknife I carried for the purposes of pencil sharpening. I managed to pull the knife from my trouser pocket and set to cutting the murderous vine. Once free I threw the rooted parts back on the grave, where it suddenly burst into life, wrapping itself around the emerging arm and dragging it back into the soil.

               I headed home as early as I could the next morning, undecided whether to pursue or abandon my original aims, for it was me who removed the plant from the grave and inadvertently released the animated corpse which had murdered an innocent man. I would not mind if that was the only thing that I was guilty of. If I handed myself in and confessed to my crime or misdemeanour I would inevitably reveal the secret these good people of Mid Wales had kept hidden from the outside world for centuries.