Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep66: Episode 66: Graveyard Horror Stories

Episode Date: January 27, 2022

First up this evening we have ‘The Man Who Stalks the Space between the Graves’, an original story by Scott Savino, kindly shared with me via NoSleep and read here with the author's express permission.  www.scottsavino.com/narrators Next up we have ‘A Beautiful Day for a Funeral’ which is an original story by ParaMoMal, kindly shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission.  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6f1fys/beautiful_day_for_a_funeral/ Today’s third terrifying tale of horror is ‘I Love My Husband, But He Died and I Want to Speak to Him from Beyond the Grave’, a fabulous original work by SkyBruceLee23, kindly shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/SkyBruceLee23/ Tonight’s final nightmarish tale of terror is ‘The Traveling Cemetery is in Town’, a wonderful, original story by Scare-in-a-Box, kindly shared directly with me via my subreddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/Scare-in-a-Box/

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.caps are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.cavers. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Well, they say that a brief yet reflective walking through a cemetery is enough to teach us more than all the philosophy of the world during a lifetime, as we may just see in tonight's four stories. Later on, we have a beautiful day for a funeral by Paramomo.

Then we have, I love my husband, but he died and I want to speak to him from beyond the grave, by Sky Bruce Lee 23. We round off with the travelling cemeteries in town by a scare in a box, but we begin tonight's proceedings with The Man Who Storks the Space Between the Graves by Scott Savino Now as ever, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery.

If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. My house is haunted. but there is a logical explanation. This is not one of those stories where a tragic death happened inside. No one has ever died here. Still, tragedy surrounds the place. The two windows upstairs at the back gaze sadly out every day. No, this is not a story about a house built on an Indian burial ground.

There is no one interred beneath the foundation, only in the yard. Rose and rows of tombstones stretch out past my back door to the tree line beyond. My haunted house stands in a cemetery, the cemetery to which I am now the caretaker. My great-grandfather, Heinrich, built this house 117 years ago. At the time, there wasn't a cemetery within 50 miles. When this country was young, the thought of paying someone else to bury it. or dead as they died was an uncommon luxury. Most took care of their own, and that was the way many preferred it to be. If they had the space, viewings were held in the home of the deceased.

Any clocks were stopped. Every mirror was covered to prevent the soul from being reflected back and becoming trapped. When the day of viewing ended, the body was carried out, foot first as superstition dictated. They did this to prevent the courts from beckoning anyone whom they'd left behind to follow. Your mother, father, sister, brother, husband, wife, or child who was brought out to be buried in the yard. Many thought my great-grandfather was foolish, but some, particularly those of means, saw my great-grandfather's practice as a worthwhile expense. The wealthy would much rather pay a grave, then do the task themselves and their wealth transferred to his hands. At one point we were one of the

most prominent families in Bradenville. That is no longer the case and hasn't been for many decades. This is mostly thanks to my father and his drinking. Father was not a good man. He was overly stern and would hit you for speaking out of turn if he were sober. Heaven help you if you were stupid enough to do so when he wasn't. His addiction and bad business acumen resulted in the first mortgage this property had ever known sometime in the 90s. I was unaware he'd taken out a second one until he was dead and I began to go through his effects

and found the notices. The mortgage was eight months past due. that was a month ago if I don't find a way to come up with $30,000 this month to cover miss payments and penalties the bank will take everything my great-grandfather built away from me

I would have to sell 10 plots and do 10 burials in less than a month to make that happen so far since moving back I've done only one selling the rest would be an impossible feet for a small town mortician. Then after, what would I do to maintain the cost? There are only 17 plots left. The work would dry up in time, and the bank will be knocking at the door again

within a year or two. I have to find another solution. I worked as a mortician a few towns over until father died. I grew up in the funeral home and had grown into the trade. It was a family tradition, even if I was unable to work in this place under his tyranny. I intended for it to continue. I moved back here the day he died. The house is as much as I remember, if older and falling into disrepair. A small Victorian-style two-story, without dated refrigeration and work spaces in the basement. Two viewing rooms, a washroom, and the kitchen on the first floor. Three bedrooms upstairs. In the largest, two massive windows peaked in semicircle arches like two wide eyes, stare out at the graves below. In the stress of worry and hopelessness, I've spent a lot of time

gazing out from those windows. Every night since I've arrived, I see the thin man walking slowly between the headstones. I remember him well from my youth. In all of these years, he hasn't changed a bit. He's still as uncommonly tall as I remember him being, great in an oversized coat. On his head, he wears a black felt hat.

Even as a child, I knew there was something preternatural about the Graveman, but I never questioned it. Not like I do now. When I was young, I used to call him great-grandfather. Then yesterday, I found a photo album over a hundred years old. It was filled with pictures of the dead, a sort of catalogue with notes in the margin. The final photo in its pages was over the late Heinrich on the day of his funeral. I knew him from the note scrawled next to the picture. This man who walked between the plots could not be great-grandfather Heinrich's ghost.

Heinrich had died fat, obese would actually be a more apt description. The lank, bony man who walks between the graves must be someone else. The mystery that clouds him troubles me now, nearly as much as the looming foreclosure. Treading softly through the grass, with each ginger step, his feet leave a trail of sickly light in their wake. A bioluminescent trail of glowing green footprints, leading to where he travels to and from, as he makes his way through the gates and between the trees and between the graves. Sometimes he pauses to touch a stone. and the stone too illuminates with this pale light.

Who is this man who steps gingerly between the stones? Like a man sneaking past rows and rows of those in sleep, as though he is afraid the dead may wake? He is a ghost. I'm fairly certain of that. Except seeing ghosts doesn't usually strike such harsh strings of fear within me. I have seen plenty of ghosts. Mostly they are the standard fare, stereotypes that one might expect, those whose tragic deaths still resonate in frequencies seen by only few. I encounter them with a regularity that would probably bother another man, but this is how this house has always been.

A little girl hides behind the furniture downstairs. Her name is Amelia. usually you can see her feet sticking out from behind a couch or chair two little toddler shoes of vinyl shiny white you almost always see where she's hiding if the shoes don't give her away the giggling will still you must pretend you are afraid when she jumps out at you otherwise you'll have to hear her mournful weeping seep from the interior of every wall until morning Yeah, good luck finding sleep with that happening. A disembodied hand may sometimes grab your ankle on the last few steps of the basement. If it catches you, you may stumble, but there are only a step or two remaining, so you won't die from the fall.

The ghosts cannot actually touch you unless you give them enough power to manifest. When he clutches your ankle, what you're really feeling is his displacement of that energy. The energy that the ghosts feed on from me is weak, so even when he's able to grip me, it's seldom strong enough to make me fall. It's best to step on the fingers. Your foot will pass through the ghostly form, and the hand will pull away sharply. It will leave you alone for about a month after, until it forgets and tries again. Sometimes a man's head appears in the oven.

I do not know his name, but you'll only have to hear him wail while the door remains open. These spectres, I understand. I can navigate them. They are a part of this house and have been so since before I was born. Their numbers have grown considerably in the time since. I almost never see them out in the yard like I do this man. There's always been something about the man outside that I have. unsettles me, even when I'd assumed we were related. It's because of this that I've never

interacted with him. I can't explain how I know that he's different from the rest. I just do, and I always have known. I've never ventured to even entertain the thought of following him to see where he goes. The very sight of him breeds an instinctual discord from the very pit of me. The rest of the manifestations are parlour tricksters playing games. I would hate to know that once the bank forecloses, someone unknown was being haunted by my ghosts. How would they know to ignore the wide-eyed spectre of Florence in the linen closet? If you don't, you'll wind up needing to replace your towns.

Who would teach them that the thumping of the plumbing beneath the first floor, floor washroom sink is not the house's old pipes, but the ghost of Chauncey, an amputee that haunts the washroom cupboard. Legless and naked, he hides there exposing himself when you open the door beneath the sink. The nubs of his legs spread wide to expose his flaccid penis as he taps on the drain with a toilet brush. You can try to take it away from him, if you dare, as I did once. I know now not to bother He found it again within the hour And began tapping twice as loud

These are my ghosts Dare I say friends Well Except the man who walks between the plots Why should I give them up to the bank As I sit here Watching the strange ghosts stalk the graves I come to realise that I

cannot keep this place in my name by conventional ways. The sadness of this revelation comes to me in waves. I will have to do something awful to raise the money to stay. But what? There's always one way to remain, even after the bank has come to claim this place. No, I mustn't think of such things. I have not yet become quite that desperate.

If I stay, I prefer to do so alive, not as some tragic ghost with the story of my suicide embellished for decades by whoever comes after. From behind me, a draught of cold rushes in, bringing with it a harsh, breathy scent of Jack Daniels. Ah, I know this ghost well, though he has not appeared to me since I took residence here. He only has as much power as I decide. to give him and I stopped doing that before the man was dead I have reserved all of my fear for the man lurking outside not the one behind me now his power to hurt me has long since withered and waved hello father my whisper without turning to look I can feel his breath on my neck but make the choice to not flinch away I don't

I don't suppose you have any ideas how I can unbury this place from your debt. I just might. His words are slippery, sodden wet with whiskey. I sigh. I'm still gazing out the window as the man turns the corner of a mausoleum and disappears from sight. His trail of footprints slowly begin to dim and diminish once he is gone. by one until the world is dark beyond.

Some very wealthy people are buried out there, my father says quietly. Lots of them, you won't even need to dig. Necklasses, diamond rings. He slurs. I'd start with the mors. The mouss. And then, giving up. The ones above the ground.

Hmm. That's not a bad idea. The ones above ground. Then work your way to help. I turned to face him then. His drunken eyes lack focus as they gaze. He is much the same as I remember. His face is gaunt and stabbled.

I walked through him as though he weren't there. Go away now, Dad. I said I need some rest Tomorrow is a big day When I turn to face him again He is already gone I awake at dawn to the sound of Chauncey

Wrapping at the pipe so loudly That it reverberates through every wall As I take the stairs down A boy I don't recognise is in the path He whispers Please make him stop Sorry kid no can do, I say.

Don't worry, you'll get bored soon. At the foot of the stairs, I see Amelia's feet beneath the grandfather clock in the right viewing room. As I pass, she presses her face through the back and through the glass with the clock door. Oh, I jump in mimicked fright. Oh, my Amelia, I say. That was a nice spot to hide. you got me good today.

And as the house chimes with their giggles like a string of charms in the wind, I head out the door at the back, taking with me a large ring of keys. I spend the day opening and closing many gates and pushing open heavy doors and by the time dusk begins to fall. The pillowcase I brought to carry the spoils of my robberies

is laden so heavy with gold, silver and diamond jewelry that it's beginning to tear. I was shocked to find so much, and excited by the spur of discovery, continuing my searches with the zeal. I didn't realize how much time had passed. I found myself outside after dark, and completely unprepared to meet the spindly man. As I exit one of the mausoleums, he is there, and approaching in his slow, methodical way. I dug back inside to hide until he passes.

When I think that I'm in the clear, I stick out my head, and as he tips the brim of his dark felt hat, I learn with dread that I have been seen. The man who walks between the stones makes no attempt to hinder my escape, and for the first time in my life, I have no fear of him. Only curiosity.

I realize I may have been wrong about him. With the exception of the strange glowing lights and the overly skeletal shape of his face draped in paper-thin skin, I convinced myself that there is nothing to differentiate him from the rest. He is just another spectre following a set routine. Before I realize what it is that I'm doing, I've set the pillar case of treasure down inside of the mausoleum and shut the gate behind me. I'm slowly following the strange green prince he has created in his path, a glowing trail to guide me. I trail him to a mausoleum, an old one at the

back. Last night I thought he ducked around it, but I realized now he ducked inside. The mausoleum is the massive monument, built to inter the body's body. of two prominent figures whose names I know well. Braden, etched boldly into the smooth stone arch above the doorway. Could this be the ghost of Edgar Braden himself? He stood within, just inside. Next to the gate which, with a push, he'd swung open wide. Edgar?

Edgar, Braden! He nods, and gestures an open-handed, invite inside, and I enter disregarding the sinister gleam in his eyes. And this mausoleum is very strange indeed, because it lacks the stone casket I'd expect. Instead, there is a staircase to the left, with a flickering light of hearth-fire dancing on the steps. He gestures open-handed once again. This time the invitation is an invite to descend. "'Honey, is that you?' A woman's voice calls from below as I begin,

compelled by curiosity to follow the steps down. Edgar follows close behind. What I find at the bottom is a living room lit on either side. To the right, by the gentle, modest glow of a fireplace, the electric kind that you can buy, to my left by rows and rows of mason jars, arranged on shelves, each with a slowly churning fog of emerald-coloured glowing light. A woman sits reading, in an aged rocking chair before the fire. On the small table next to her,

one of these mason jars sits uncapped. She lifts it to sip the eldritch smoke within. The woman looks up at me with a start. Oh, she gasps. This one is still. still alive, Edgar? This woman, I assume, is Doris Brayden. She rises from the chair, and through her thin night robe, I can see scars lacing across her back from her shoulders, tracing down to her waist. I'm entranced. What exactly am I seeing? What is this place? She makes her way across the room, leaving the same, glowing footprints in her wake, until she stands face to face with me. Here she leans in and smells deeply.

She takes in a great, massive breath of me, before stepping back with a frown. Not this one, Edgar, you dumb idiot, she says. Can't you smell that? She takes in another breath of me. God, he's kin. He ain't even, Edgar replied. He's Mary and Paul Marshall's boy.

Well, either Paul or Mary must have been kin too then. Distant cousin, I reckon, or whatever. We spread so many seeds, whoever knows. She turns to her husband and says, How many times I got to tell you, I ain't eaten the souls of our relations? Shock sets in then, and I don't move to run. I only stand.

eyes wide. She places her small hand firmly on my shoulder. A small, warm hand, still very much alive. I feel my stomach drop. They aren't spectres at all, these two. I can feel her hands, not ghostly energy, but the flesh of her hand touching me where a ghost would have passed right through. That must have been the feeling I had about Edgar, the mysterious fear of the man who walks between the graves, that for my entire life I just could not place. Surrounded by a house that was always brimming with ghosts. Instinctively, I must have known that he wasn't the same. They would have to have been living down in this crypt for over a century. It was one of the first erected in the cemetery's long history.

Somehow, they both appeared to be in their early 50s. I did not know how this could be possible, but it must be something to do with the jars of light. I turned then, and shoving Edgar from my way in the path, took off in a run. I ran up the stairs, outside and back to my house where I locked every window and checked the bolts on every door. door. The following day, a man comes to the door. When I answer, he says he is a lawyer,

and he's come to deliver a check from an anonymous donor. The amount on the line is a large sum, enough to save everything. The memo line reads, For keeping secrets, in a flourished, aged scraw. When the man who stalks the space between the graves passes beneath the the window he has begun to wave and now I wave back he is a relative after all not great-grandfather but related somehow his feet still leave the vibrant light in their wake and this is how I came to learn I was a distant descendant in some way to Edgar and Doris Braden for whom our town is named oh and I think I understand Understand now why my father drank.

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If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BenMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Nearly nodding off, I sat listening to the illustrious Reverend Rob Deetz as he entered into the second hour of his sermon. My ass began to hurt from the century-old hardwood pew. I tried to shift to a more comfortable spot, but it was wedged between the shoulders of two large old men.

I looked around at the 200 members of a rural community, crammed into the small church. All, including myself, had shown up to pay last respects to one Mrs. Lorraine Gilbert, a 62-year-old mother of 12, that had devoted herself to family, community and church. Ah, a true, righteous pillar of the community. Being her youngest child, my attendance had been a forced courtesy. my stepfather decided that the funeral would be held in the community and the church he and my mother had grown up in. So I sat there, shoulder to shoulder with family members that still only knew me as Freddy's wife's daughter,

listening to the Reverend Dietz, along with many, many others, paying homage to the much-respected, God-fearing, family-loving woman. after almost four hours. I felt as though they'd had plenty. As Reverend Dietz began to sing this little light of mine, his fifth song. One of the old ladies in the front row with a large bun on her head and a long skirt covering her ankles,

bolted upright in the standing position. Her body solidified as her fists clenched from the power of the Lord coursing through her veins. Oh, she held her hands up high. Words of unknown origin rolled off her tongue. And then she dropped to her knees and bowed her head low. Several other old ladies, with similar buns and skirts, joined her. They kneeled in front of the casket, palms pointed upward.

Reverend Dietz's voice rose until it shook the windows, and he began to sweat profusely. One hand raised to the heavens. I began to shift in my seat. Not being of this faith, or even being a regular churchgoer, I'd never witnessed a person going under the power. Unfortunately, my fellow attendees were very familiar with this practice and joined the line of old ladies,

each and every one of them, being struck with the love of the Lord. Soon, I was the only one in my seat. bodies covered the floor prostrated before the altar singing praying speaking in tongues reverend deeth was screaming at the top of his lungs praising my mother for her devotion to the church and the almighty above he raised both hands in the air as the entire spectacle crescendo to a fever pitch i needed to leave to get away from the perceived madame that had begun to unfold. If it had the courage to leave, well, I couldn't have done so without stepping on people. So, I sat, wild-eyed and slack-jured. Pain emanated from the white knuckles and breaking fingernails from the grip I had on the edge of the pew. Every muscle tightened up. My heart raced. I was scared. Just when I decided that I didn't care who I had to trample on.

in order to get out of that damn church. My eyes fell upon the Reverend. He had stopped screaming. He stood still, hands still in the air. He looked as though he'd just been struck by lightning. His face contorted into ghastly forms. His body shuddered, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Thinking this was part of the show, I stood up, planning my escape route.

Suddenly, the Reverend dropped his hands to his sides and surveyed the congregation. He patiently waited for the power and love of God to leave his parishioners. One by one, they returned to the earthly plain, quietly got up off the floor and returned to their seats. I sat down as well, full of confusion and fear. I mentally cursed my mother for marrying my stepfather, then cursed my seat-father, then cursed my stepfather for dragging me to this crazy filled horror-eyed. Thinking the orgy of devotion was over, I relaxed my grip on the pew. Reverend Deetz looked across the silent church, and a smile slithered

across his face. He resumed his sermon as though nothing had happened. As he spoke, his words took on an ominous tone, and a low growl began to well up from his throat. The more he spoke of the Lord, the more agitated he became. His face turned red, his mouth frothed, and sweat rolled down his forehead. He stomped over to the casket and kicked it over. Bitch, lying, godless whore, he screamed. My mother's body flopped out of the casket as it hit the floor. The crowd gasped. Some screamed. old ladies fainted, her large hair bun cushioning her head from the floor. My stepfather and my brothers raged towards the altar. Sit down. Sit the fuck down, screamed the reverent. His face had now contorted into what looked like an old funhouse devil mask. His teeth gnashed. He pointed

a now-nulled finger at the men. In a calm tone, he repeated. He repeated. seated. Sit the fuck down. The men stopped in their tracks. I don't know if it was fear or mind control that made them obey without questions. As they quietly returned to their seats, I was now convinced this was not part of the service and started my escape once again. Murmurs and whispering filled the room, and people started to squirmament to squirmly. All of you, shut your fucking mouths. Someone get that old bitch off the floor. People sat stunned, eyes wide in terror.

Some had their heads down in silent prayer. Others stared with hate and anger. Someone finally woke up the old lady who had clasped on the floor, helping her to a pew. Reverend Dietz stood tall at the podium. Now, I'm sure there is some confusion as to my behavior. Well, I'll tell you, the Lord has filled me with his power and love. He is seen fit to let me see into the hearts of each and every one of you. Even the late Mrs. Gilbert, God rose to his soul.

He motioned to the corpse, bled out on the floor. Reverend Dietz surveyed the crowd, making eye convent. contact with individuals as he read their internal dialogue. When his eyes met mine, a slight look of confusion came to his eyes. He stared at me. I looked back into his soul. He continued his monologuing. Not one of you can call yourselves Christian.

I see adulterers, thieves, rapists and gossips. I see blackness, envy, hate, hatred and lust in your hearts. You are all guilty of some sin, some guilty of all of them. He pointed a knolled finger at me. His eyes narrowed into slits. You. You are one of the chosen.

You are the only one deemed worthy. Lord be praised. I shrunk down in embarrassment. The congregation looked at me with daggers of hate in their eyes. Now, Mrs. Gilbert here was not the pillar of righteousness you all claim it to be. No, Mrs. Gilbert had secrets. One was her being a prescription junkie. Just because Dr. Drug said it was okay, she was no better than addicts in the park with needles

hanging out of their arms. Her beloved painkillers and sleep aids, the reason we are all here today. You all thought it was just a car crash. He looked at me directly as he said this. Whispers crept across the congregation. Reverend Dietz swept his arms through the air. She had several more secrets, 12 of them to be exact. You see, out of all Mrs. Gilbert's children,

not one of them were fathered by Mr. Hafford, her first husband. Poor Mr. Hafford. Didn't know he was shooting blanks until the day he died. Now, many another husband has had lovely Bible studies with dear, dear Mrs. Gilbert. Even after she stole Mr. Gilbert, who adopted and raised her many children, she continued to screw your husbands. More murmurs and whispers from the crowd. A sneer crossed the reverend's face.

This must be good news to you, Sister Claire. All these years, wondering if your baby boys belong to your husband or to Mr. Halford. That's why you spread all those vicious rumors about their daughter. You didn't want your sweet boy marrying his half-sister. A few people stood up and headed for the door, not wanting their secrets to be revealed. Some kept their heads down in prayer. some in shame. I kept my eyes on the reverent. Where do you think you're gone? No one leaves, not until judgment has been passed. He scolded the congregation. He then turned his head and looked

straight at me. Once again I shrunk down in my seat, not wanting to be singled out again. He hopped down from the podium, walking through the aisles. He berated and believed. He berated and belied, littleed each and every parishioner until every little secret and lie was brought to light. Even though their soft underbelly of deceit had been exposed, every one stayed quiet in their seats. Some even look relieved to be finally outed. Many hung their heads in prayer. I was still disturbed by their lack of anger. Sheep waiting for the slaughter, I thought. when the secrets of the last lamb was revealed he stopped at me

why are you here he asked I smiled politely eyebrow raised to pay my respects of course child no one here deserves your respect they all deserve to be down to hell he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in acknowledgement

But you knew that already, didn't you? It doesn't matter what I know. I'm not here to judge. I'm just here for the show. I smiled, warm and sweet. Judgment is exactly what you're here for. He let out a low chuckle. I stood up and met his gaze.

As I looked into his soul, I asked. Had any good press? lately, Reverend Dietz. Hmm, just yesterday, he said nonchalantly. Ah, she was a sweet little thing. His face contorted from devilish, to confused, to shame. He stammered. Ah, I've never touched a child, never touched a child.

He was aware of his confession, but uneasured. to comprehend why the words had come out of his mouth. He began to back towards the altar. I followed. As we made our way back up to the podium, I dismissed the good reverend with, Thank you, Reverend Dietz. You have done your job perfectly. You may now take your seat with the rest of the lambs. The Reverend sat down in a deacon's chair, hanging his head in shame. I turned to address the congregation. Bible in one hand, the other held out over the congregation. Channeling Charlton Heston as Moses, I spoke loudly. I instantly knew why preachers preached this way. It was fun. Ah, I guess it's time for our closing prayer. Brothers and sisters,

children of God, we have gathered here to celebrate our love for the Lord and Sister Lorraine. a motion to the corpse bled out on the floor thanks to the beautiful testimony by Reverend Dietz all of your sins have been put out to be judged and judged they have been each and every one of you has been deemed unworthy in the eyes of the Lord

but in his mercy you will pass swift and just punishment on you all panic started to set in A low roar rolled through the aisles. The people dropped to their knees. Prayers rolled off the lips of every single individual.

And yet, they stayed put. They never tried to leave or attack. Was it the same influence Reverend Dietz had over the angry sons? I still think it was truly a miracle, how they never once confronted each other or themselves the entire time. I strode down the podium steps and towards the main doors. Hatred, confusion and fear filled the eyes of many as I made it to the exit. Damn sorry, fools. Didn't learn a thing.

As I opened the door, I turned for one last announcement. You have all lived your lives in sin. Yet only now you pray for forgiveness. Well, your prayers have been denied. I let the door close behind me as I left. I could hear the clamour of feet and bodies, men and women screaming, trying to escape. I took a few steps into the yard,

turned back towards the small church and said, Lord, I have done your bidding. The rest is up to you. I walked to my car, lit up a cigarette, and looked back at the small door. church. I could still hear screams and fists banging on the doors and windows. Lightning rained down from a clear blue sky, and the screams died out as the building glowed brightly. The smell of electricity and burned flesh filled the air. The news called it a tragedy full of sorrow.

Two hundred and eighteen members of a small religious community electrocuted all at once while attending a funeral for one of their most beloved and respected members. Even the corpse had been knocked over from the force. Why such a misfortune would befall a god-fearing, hard-working community was beyond comprehension. Yet no one could explain how they were fried like little white grains of rice. It was a beautiful day for a funeral, not a cloud in the sky. Lightning would never of course so much destruction. Must have been rats chewing on the wires, or some type of conductive material used in the carpeting. I was interviewed as the sole survivor, saved only because I'd been an outsider that just couldn't bear witness to such a show of emotion, devotion and love for the Lord.

I'd been out getting some air when the tragedy took place. I was now an orphan, without her, if you'll excuse the phrase, soul in the world. I had survivors' guilt. PTSD, grief-stricken over the loss of my entire family and adopted community. I made every major news network. Ellen, Dr. Phil, even Murray took DNA test to find out if my father would, was really my father. He wasn't. I don't know how he did it, but apparently he got the DNA from every dead man in the church. My real father was Reverend Dietz. Yeah, I still chuckle up that

little tidbit of information. Well, give me my Oscar right now. I played the part so well. Donate are still rolling in, even a new car and a free ride to college. As I sit in my beautiful new house with a very large inheritance, being the last living member of a large family certainly has its rewards. I thank my lord. He now has two hundred and eighty new souls to torment with fire and brimstone in the pits of hell, and I have received my just rewards. I love my husband, but he died and I want to speak to him from beyond the grave.

Every night, Christina would dream that her husband was still alive. The dream would be so real for Christina. In Christina's dream, she would think her husband was dead, but then she would see him standing right in front of her on a busy street, smiling at her. Christina would run across the street toward her husband. But before she could embrace him and kiss him, her dream would end. The state executed the man who shot Christina's husband And Christina witnessed the execution

The only one who stood by Christina's side Was her older sister Pamela Pamela would always support and comfort Christina Through hard times And Christina needed her sister's support She wanted to visit a psychic And she wanted Pamela to come with her Christina had heard stories about psychics

contacting dead loved ones The young woman thought she could reunite with her deceased husband through a psychic. She thought she could get the answers behind her husband's death. Christina's sister didn't believe in psychics. Pamela didn't believe that psychics could contact dead loved ones. She thought they were fake, like Las Vegas magicians. She didn't want her sister to give money to a psychic.

Pamela and Christina were sitting in the living room of a psychic's house. Christina had her six-year-old daughter, Brianna, sitting on her lap. The little girl was with her father when he was killed. She was in the backseat of her daddy's car, and she was been taken to school. Prianna remembered laughing and singing with her father that morning. She never saw the face of the man who shot her daddy. She only saw a burly, masked man walking up to her father's car with a gun. I'm only doing this because you're my sister and I love you.

Pamela said to Christina, I don't believe in this psychic stuff, and I think you're wasting your money. Pamela lightly fussed at her sister I appreciate you doing this Christina said while resting her hand on her sister's knee I know you think I'm an idiot for doing this and I love you for supporting me anyway and Christina meant what she'd said to her sister

she leaned over to hug Pamela and she found solace in her sister's embrace I love you two Pamela kissed her I also love my little baby princess Pamela said to her niece through a smile. I still think bringing Brianna to see this psychic was a bad idea. Pamela didn't let her displeasure stop her from kissing her niece and her sister though.

It's funny that she said I looked like Marilyn Monroe with a nose ring. Christina laughed while mentioning how the psychic complimented her looks. Christina thought it was adorable how the old lady told her she was beautiful like her daughter. I agree with her. You look like Marilyn Monroe with a nosewrecked. Pamela giggled while reaching over and touching her sister's arm. She wanted to say something else to Christina, but she held her tongue when she saw the old psychic walk into the living room carrying a tray of shortbread cookies and three glasses of iced tea. I hope you girls are hungry. I made some shortbread cookies and sweet tea. The old psychic, whose name was Carol, presented her refreshments to Christina, Briano and Pamela

with a whimsical enthusiasm. The old lady sat the tray of cookies and tea down on a table in front of Christina. She straightened out her bright yellow 1960s retro-style dress before sitting down in a recliner. Oh, I love shortbread cookies, Christina exclaimed. She watched as her daughter quickly reached in to grab a cookie. I can feel how much you miss your husband. Carol rested her hand on Christina's knee.

It's like it wasted no time and went into her spiritual trance, but she made it look normal. I can sense a tragedy. The man in your life died unjustly. He was a good young man. He was a good husband to you and a wand or father to his daughter. I keep hearing the name. Brian.

Was that your husband's name, darling? Carol asked her question. but the old psychic already knew that she was on point, judging by the astonished look on Christina's face. Christina slowly put her hand over her mouth or trying not to cry. Brian was my husband's name. The young woman answered through a gasp. She couldn't believe how quickly Carol fell into her spiritual talents.

Oh, um, a man, shut your husband, is that correct? Carol asked through a soothing, experienced voice. which was just as relaxing as a tropical rainfall. Christina nodded. Yes, a man shot my husband while he was sitting in his car. Christina paused for a second, and she gulped while feeling tears boiling in her eyes. My daughter saw her daddy get killed.

She was in the car with him. My poor baby saw everything. Christina bit her bottom lip after saying that, and she wiped away a tear that cascaded down her cheek. I'm sorry for crying. Christina giggled while holding tears in her eyes and she smiled when the old psychic reached out and touched her face you have nothing to be sorry about darling

Carol whispered while helping Christina dry her face the state executed the man who killed my husband I was sitting in the witness room during the execution it was the hardest day of my life my sister was with me she helped me get through it Christina looked around at Pamela and she took hold of her sister's hand Pamela took a deep breath

after a sister reached over to touch her hand she caressed Christina's hand while locking her eyes on the psychic I came here because I was hoping you could answer my question Christina continued after holding and kissing her sister's hand is my husband a peace Christina's soft voice trailed off into a grieving sigh

Carol gave Christina a comforting smile. The graceful wrinkles on her face complimented her embracing smile. I understand your question, darling. I will answer your question. Carol patted and caressed Christina's hands, and the old woman's smile was like a gorgeous vintage painting that you didn't want to take your eyes off of. Pamela wanted to keep holding her sister's hand,

but her body tightened and she breezily withdrew hers when Carol went back into her psychic trance. I can see, Carol gasped. The psychic had her eyes closed while holding Christina's hand. I can see. What is it? Christina leaned forward, closer to Carol, gripping the old lady's hand. Oh, I didn't have to call him.

He was already there. My God, he's a handsome young man. Carol gasped from amazement. You can see him. "'Please, tell me.' Christina was eager to know what Carol was seeing beyond her closed eyes. The young widow didn't mean to raise her voice at Carol,

and she apologized. "'I'm sorry, I just want to know. "'It's okay, darling.' Carol showered her sweet voice all over, Christina. "'I see your husband. "'He's standing before me.' Carol's voice drifted down into a calming whisper. "'He looks happy.

he's so handsome he's wearing a black leather blazer and blue jeans carol gave her a description of brian oh he wore his black leather blazer on the morning he was killed christina whispered while cleaning tears off her face daddy brianna shouted with excitement the little girl looked around the living room to see if she could spot her father well in the child's mind she thought her daddy was invisible why can i see my daddy Brianna asked to the psychic curiously. Oh, you can't see him, honey, because he only wants me to see him. He's in the spirit world, Carol told the child. He sees you, though. He said, tell my little buttercup that Daddy says hi and that he misses you. Carol told Brianna through a short, delighted laugh.

Oh, I miss you too, Daddy, Brianna shouted. And the little girl became overwhelmed with excitement when she knew that the old lady was speaking to her father. He wants me to tell you, who will always be with you and that he loves the little sunflowers on your dress? Carol continued to deliver the news to Brianna. He wanted me to tell you he's sorry about what happened that morning.

He said you and him were in the car singing the theme song to Sesame Street. He says that he misses singing sunny days with his little buttercup. He wants me to tell you that Daddy will always love you. Carol felt water in her eyes while she was telling Brianna everything that her father wanted her to say. Pamela felt creeped out by the moment. The woman stood up and she broke into a nervous sweat while listening to the psychic. He wants your daughter to cover her ears. Carol continued.

There's something he wants me to tell you but he doesn't want Brianna to hear it. The smile was melting off Carol's lips. Brianna, cover your ears, baby. Christina told her daughter, obeying her husband's orders. After doing so, she didn't know what to expect next. Your husband has something he wants you to know. Carol's eloquent and grandmotherly voice filled the atmosphere in her living room. First, he wants me to tell you he loves you so much that he misses your touch and your kids.

Carol moaned sorrowfully after she repeated what Brian's spirit wanted her to say. Oh, I love you too, baby. I miss you so much. Christina shouted out to her husband's spirit while wiping tears from her face. Did he hear me? Christina asked Carol with urgency in her trembling voice. She released a joyous laugh through her tears when Carol replied to her with a nod of her head. I heard you, honey.

Carol whispered to Christina while caressing the woman's hand. He said that you and Brianna will always be his babies, and he loves the both of you more than anything. Carol paused for a minute while taking a deep breath. There's something he needs to tell you, and he says it will be disturbing. Carol's voice became firm, but it never lost its gentleness. What does he need to tell me?

Christina wish she could hear her husband's voice. The young woman made sure that her daughter's ears were still covered. Carol licked her lips while cradling Christina's hand in her body. both of her sweaty palms. It's about his murder. He's telling me that his murder wasn't random. It was an assassination. Carol was delivering the news to Christina as fast as she could.

She could still see the spirit of a tall, dark and handsome man standing before her and instructing her on what to tell his wife. What's he talking about? Carol's words are confused, Christina. Her heart was pounding against her chest, and her throat was so dry that when she swallowed it felt like someone was pinching her esophagus. Keep your ears covered, baby. Christina repeated to her daughter while reaching over her little girl to grab her glass of iced tea.

Pamela was still standing and the sweat from her body was soaking her white dress. The woman's heart was thumping in her throat and she wanted to stop the psychic, but she couldn't talk. All she could do was reach for her purse. He says that the man who shot him was a paid hitman. Carol's voice trembled a little as she continued speaking. Your husband tells me that a woman paid the man who killed him. The woman was your... But before Carol could finish her sentence,

she heard a loud click echo through her living room. Christina swallowed hard when she looked around to see her older sister pointing a loaded semiotum. automatic pistol at Carol. Don't say another word. Pamela hissed at Carol after pulling the gun out of her purse. You were going to tell her everything? Pamela broke down in tears while keeping her gun steady on Carol's face.

How did you know? How was he talking to? He's supposed to be dead. Pamela gulped while shaking her head in disbelief. Carol stayed calm in the face of Pamela's handgun. Oh, if you shoot me, it won't. stop the truth from coming out, darling. Carol spoke calmly. The old lady wasn't afraid of dying, and she knew that her psychic abilities would come at a cost. You stupid old woman,

Pamela roared at the psychic. Pamela, baby, what are you doing? You're scaring your sister and your niece. You know that right. Christina spoke forcibly to her sister, and she tried not to fall into shock. Give me the gun, Pam. Christina slowly stood up after moving her daughter off her lap. I'm so sorry, Christina. Pamela sobbed. And then the woman aimed her gun at Christina.

She didn't want to point the gun at her sister, but it was an involuntary movement of her arm. Christina slowly approached her sister with caution. She couldn't believe that she was negotiating with her sister over not shooting her. "'I loved him, too,' Pamela told her sister, with tears streaming down her face. "'You were at work one morning when I came over to see him. "'He didn't expect me to show up at the house.' Pamela paused while wiping a few tears from her face.

"'Oh, he looked so sexy in his bathroom. "'He made me coffee and we talked for an hour.' "'Christina lost her voice for a minute while listening to Pamela confessed that she'd had feelings for her husband. I told him I was lonely. I wished he was mine. Pamela kept her gun aimed at her sister, and she would back away every time Christina would take a step toward her. When your husband hugged me, I tried to kiss him, but he pushed me away. He told me he couldn't be unfaithful to you. Well, I got mad and I slapped him. He threw me out of the house after that. Christina was listening to her sister, and she couldn't take her eyes off the gun.

the young woman kept seeing the gun accidentally going off she kept seeing someone getting killed in her living room but she didn't know who it would be or carol saw something tragic happening in her living room since the psychic could see the future she saw someone being killed in her house it was a frightening vision of what was to come while keeping herself calm

the old lady stood up from her recliner and she made her way over to Christina's daughter Carol wraps her arms around Brianna when the child cried. She gripped the little girl in her arms while saying a prayer under her breath. I paid a man to kill Brian. I disguised myself with a man couldn't see my face. I'm Brian's actual killer. When you're the big sister, you feel that everything should be yours, including your sister's husband.

Pamela released a maniacal laugh, and tears caused a mascara to run down her chin. A slender and haggard face That was once beautiful in her youth Was now twisted unnaturally Like a mental patient who was going through electric shock therapy You paid a man to kill my husband Christina asked in disbelief My baby had to see her daddy get shut in his head because of you

Christina pointed back at her daughter with her voice elevating Pamela never said a word She kept her gun aimed at Christina She didn't want to pull the trigger But she was prepared to shoot her if she attacked her You hate me that much I thought you loved me I thought you loved Brianna

You killed her daddy Christina kept talking softly But she couldn't look at her sister anymore Christina could feel her heart crumbling I'm sorry for killing You baby I loved your husband too Pamela said while gritting her teeth.

She cut her eyes toward Carolyn. She felt her hostility toward the psychic arise again. It's all her fault. She did this. Pamela fell into a rage while burning her stare at the old lady. Christina watched as her sister aimed the gun now at Carol. Pam, give me the gun. Please don't shoot in front of Brianna.

Christina pleaded with her sister. her, hoping her words would diffuse the situation. Oh, you old psychic bitch, Pamela hissed at the old lady. Pamela tightened the grip on her gun, and she was about to pull the trigger, but she hesitated. Mommy, Brianna screamed as she watched her auntie aim her gun back at her mother. The little girl wanted to run toward her mom, but Carol clenched her small body in her arms. It's okay, honey. it'll be okay, Carol whispered to the little girl while holding the child against her chest.

Carol cradle the child as she tried to use her arms to shield Brianna from the violence that was unfolding in her living room. I'm sorry for what I did to you, Brianna. Pamela whispered her last words to her sister, before raising the gun to her head and pulling the trigger. An explosive pop echoed throughout the room. "'Mami!' Brianna freed herself from Carol and ran toward her mother, embracing her. "'Hi, baby!' Christina whispered down to her daughter.

She lifted her daughter up into her arms with her widen eyes stuck on seeing her sister's body sprawled out on the living room floor. Carol stood up from her sofa. She calmly walked toward Christina and her daughter. The psychic caressed Christina's arm, before saying to the young woman,

your husband wanted you to know the truth, darling. He's at peace now. The travelling cemetery is in town. The first stars began to twinkle through the precipitating twilight, blinking through a fuchsia sky that sank into murky lilac and wine hues while the brimming moon guarded its sky. Checking the hands on the clock of his yellow dashboard, the traveller could see he wouldn't be making it tonight.

endless stretches of dusty horizon lay between him and his destination, sandy particles hanging in the air like moonlit mist. He gripped the rubber of the steering wheel and huffed out a disapproving sigh. With eyes dreary from the road, he scanned the skyline before him for any sign of civilization, anywhere to lay his head for the night before continuing in the morning. Far in the distance he made out tiny, twicky fences surrounding sprawling fields and little villas. thrown together from adobe, as if they'd grown from the soil itself. He wouldn't be likely to find anywhere else along the rows that night, so providing they had room for him he would have to do.

It might even make a welcome change from the dilapidated budget motels he was used to. The traveller slowed his car to a crawl as he entered the village, craning his neck to see out of the windows. There were no signs on the clay walls, nor hanging from the logs that made up the skeleton of their structure. Not even in the single glazed antiquated windows nestled within the bone-dry, wooden frames, with their sun-bleached netted lace curfers. Instead, he saw eyes peering back at him with a mixture of both intrigue and distrust, drapes twitching, as shadowed fingers,

grasped them to draw them back just far enough to gaze out. A withered old man sat on a three-legged stool, his hands on his lap, and his back against one of the worm-ridden post. of his home, watching the traveller's car inch past and kick up dust through the droopy skin of his eyelids. He made a left turn into the village centre. A small fountain and pool beneath it lay dry and dusty, presumably for years, and more adobe houses circled around it. A small number of weeds crept up through the soil, parched but hardy, barely swaying in the wheezing breeze. He found a place to park in an empty space on the road in front of a house and shoved open the door of his car, the half-rusted metal hinge groaning beneath its weight, and took a step out

into the dusty hamlet. Slowly turning to survey his surroundings, he shook his legs one by one and swept back what was left of his greying hair before reaching for the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket to retrieve his packet of cigarettes. Glancing around, he removed one from the paggid and pushed it between his purse lips and swapped it for his lighter, cupping a hand around the end to protect the flame from the wind. Now he scanned the windows again, drawing lazily from the end of his cigarette and exhaling from his nostrils. There was no clear indication of a place for him to stay, and the logos didn't seem too tolerant of his presence. The back of his car was filled with boxes and bundles

containing all of the value to his life, tokens and trinkets to remember. remind him of the things in his life he'd once let go. He pushed the key into the lock and turned it before strolling down towards the main road on which he drove, still turning his neck to survey the scene before him. He reached the end of the road and glanced left and right. Slowly he raised the cigarette back to his mouth and poured on it once more. The embers growing to light his face before dying down to a subtle glow again. The ramshackle wooden door of one of that.

the house's opposite clattered open and caught his attention. From the candlelit darkness within, the figure of a woman appeared. As she emerged into what light remained, he caught a better look of her, clad in a blood-soaked linen apron, with the carcass of a chicken in one hand and a cleaver in the other. He could make her crinkled skin and sagging jowls, her sunken eyes and drooping neck. She raised her head as she made eye contact with him in an upwards nod, inviting him over. Curious, he made his way over the road,

checking both ways before crossing. There was no traffic, nor would there be any that night. His upbringing in the city was ingrained into his being, even here. Outsider, why do you come here? She smiled. Her voice was filled more with curiosity than enmity, but her question caught the traveller off guard. I'm on my way to attend a convention.

He wasn't even sure if she knew what a convention was. This place was so far removed from what he would consider to be society that she may not be familiar with the term. She just smiled back at him, drinking deep of his brown eyes and scrutinizing the man that stood before her through them. Um, where am I? The traveller asked, genuinely lost.

Not that it mattered where he was. He knew he was on the right road, but he hadn't taken the time to familiarize himself with every little town on the map. You're here, she cackled. What few rotten yellow teeth remained in her mouth, hung delicately in her gums. She motioned to the houses around her. You're here, she repeated happily. The traveller was unnerved slightly and took cautious glances at the cleaver trapped between her calloused fingers. If she was making a joke, I wasn't landing with him.

That's good, but where it is here? He responded. She shook her head and exhaled deeply. Outside, do you know what day to day is? The traveller simply responded with a silent shake of his head. Today, it's harvest day. The fields were full of corn, wheat, and they did look right for harvesting. with their golden hues.

How they grew anything out here in the clay-laden soil was a mystery to him, but he'd seen it with his own eyes. That said, it was a little late in the day to be harvesting anything. The day is already over. You mean to harvest at night? He responded. She tutted at him, shaking her head. She turned around slowly, waddling inside.

He waited, but she turned her head back around. and waved him in, the chicken in her hand shaking about loosely. With a flick, he loosed the cigarette butt to the ground. He made his way inside, crouching his way through the doorframe. Links of preserved meats hung from the wall alongside dried flowers, with faded family photos of people long gone. Wooden beams lay inches from the traveller's head, and the strange woman put down the chicken near a pile of chopped meat along with the cleaver.

A slender stairway with wooden steps worn into curves by years of abuse lay off the main room, with another room hiding in the back. "'Come!' she said. The tone more serious this time, her voice almost a whisper. In the distance a bell struck, softened by the distance. She seemed to pick up her pace at this, pushing open the wooden door to the next room with renewed haste. inside a simple coffin lay atop a stand within which a young girl lay a crown of pretty blue wildflowers atop her head with closed eyes she rested peacefully her lips almost in a smile the traveller had many questions how had she died who was she and why the lady was showing him this just as a start once again the bell called out the strange woman leaned over the coffin

and stared down with heavy eyes, reaching out a hand to the girl's face and caressing it softly. A sullen look washed over her drooping eyes and her lips pursed together as she shook her head. It didn't take long for her to move away, her hand to her face, unable to take the sight of her dead relative.

One final time the bell rang out. Moments later, there was a knock at the door. The woman spurred into life, still with a serious look about her countenance, rushing as best she could to greet the people waiting outside. Two men, one with a moustache, one clean-shaved but wearing a hat, made their way inside. They bowed their heads before the coffin and raised it, moving out of the front door and into the streets. Unsure of if he should follow, the traveller stood by the door and watched. From the adobe houses the people of the village emerged, house by house, each carrying candles and joining a great procession to accompany the dead.

There were only two caskets in total, but for a small village such as this, two was more than enough. Harvest Day, the lady repeated, taking his hand in hers. He felt uncomfortable but didn't wish to offend her by snatching it away, especially given the circumstances. Together they joined the procession, following the twitching candlelight through the streets and towards the fields that shimmered in the moonlight. The crowd stopped at the wooden fences around the fields, while the poor bearers sat the caskets down deep in the middle of the fields before returning to join their neighbours.

All was silent, save for a few weeping women and the whooshing wind blowing through the crops. The traveller looked on. wondering why they'd chosen not to bury their dead. Why, in this field so full of life, would they leave their dead out in the open, soon to be baked under the blistering sun? Not wishing to disrespect their local customs, he held his tongue.

Still gripping his hand, a strange lady tightened her hold around his fingers, and for a time nothing happened. The crowd just looked on, waiting as the last flecks of colour in the sky died off into darkness, leaving a sheet of stars across the heavens. Abruptly, from the distant edge of the rolling fields, long stalks of wheat began to shuffle aside.

A few of the villages noticed and started to murmur among themselves, pointing and nudging one another. All eyes were fixed on the movement, as whatever made its way through the fields grew closer and closer a bit by bit. It moved slowly but steadily, hedging ever closer towards the caskets until it reached a stop. Through the darkness, the traveller could see what looked like a stone block, with two white heads bobbing around in the sea of wheat.

One casket rose above its surface and vanished within the block, and then the other. He didn't know what to make of this, stealing corpses. Well, he had to know more. Who are those people? he asked the woman, not turning his head a woman, not turning his head away from the action. She looked up at him with a look of relief in her eyes. Who were those people? She corrected him. He thought to ask more questions, but quickly realized he wouldn't be getting any answers from her. He needed to know what was going on with this strange town, and a resolve possessed him. He was going to find out for himself.

Snapping free of the woman's grip, he climbed over the rickety wooden fence and began to wade through the tall stalks towards the coffins. Elbowing his way through and stomping down the plants as he went, he poured another cigarette from his pocket and litig, holding it between his teeth as he pressed on. Finally, he reached a little clearing where the coffins had been. The crops had been pressed down by something heavy, pushed aside into a loose path of broken plants. He wouldn't easily be able to find his way back from here, but he quickly pressed on. Stomping in rhythm, his arms swung quickly as he raced to catch up with whatever it was he was chasing, and he soon came across it. A simple wooden cart with two large wheels, one person pulling from the front and one pushing from behind.

Inside lay a huge block of stone, within which the two coffins had been nestled. In the misty darkness, he could make out their white heads but was quickly startled by the rest of their bodies. His heart sank and his stomach churned at the sight of milky white bone, dry as the wood of the houses in the village. These weren't just people, but skeletons brought into animation by some unseen force. Part of him wanted to run to find his way back to the car and drive off to the nearest place that he could consider normal. For a second he glanced back as he considered it, but decided he had come too far already. The thought crossed his mind that he might be going mad, but the traveller pressed on to catch up with the skeletons as they forced their way deeper into the field. Hey!

He called out to them against his better instincts. It had no effect, and they simply continued along their way. Breaking into a jog, he managed to catch up and walked alongside them, attempting to make his presence known. You can't just take those people. They have to be buried, he called. Again, he got no reply. He repeated efforts to stop them, even going as far as to pull them back, but they moved with such constant force that no matter his strength, they would not be budged.

The traveller resigned himself to following them, observing them, at least until they reached their destination. What seemed to be hours passed by, but the fields remained unrelenting. He was sure that no stretch of farmland could be that vast, but they should have reached the other side by now, but all he could do was follow. Eventually the living bones started taking turns through the seemingly endless crops, what seemed to him to be completely arbitrary lefts and rights to which he paid no notice. Finally the crops began to recede, thinging out and revealing colossal stone walls behind them that towered above him. Within each block of stone was space for a number of coffins, all of which were fixed.

As the three of them made their way through the soaring maze of burial blocks, they passed more skeletal workers, busying themselves arranging and rearranging the blocks, moving the coffins, toiling at tasks that seemed to serve no purpose intelligible to the traveller. At last, the skeleton stopped. A gap in a wall needed to be filled, and so they dropped the cart and began sliding out their block with the utmost care before raising it up atop another. He thought the way it might crush them and instinctively jerked into action to help. But he reminded himself just to observe. He lit another smoke and puffed away as he watched, puzzled. Once the workers had placed the block, he took a moment to reflect on the girl that he'd seen laying there in the coffin and took the opportunity to scan the rest of them.

He assumed that they were all full, or at least had been at one point. one of the two skeletons he'd followed in took control of the cart and began to pull it away while the other walked off in the opposite direction they made no contact with one another only seeking to go about their business this was his first inkling that he was well and truly lost thinking quickly he decided to hop in the back of the cart

and let the skeleton take him for a ride hopefully he thought he'd arrive back in the village field he rested his head back on his hands as he stared up at the stars through the puffs of smoke on his breath between the towering blocks of stone and coffins it had been long enough now that he grown tired his eyes drooped and his whole body felt heavy and a groan from his stomach reminded him that he needed to leave this forsaken place hey um excuse me skeleton he spoke up again only to be ignored he called out to a few more of the walking bones that passed, but none of them answered his call.

The cart stopped moving in a crossroads of the grey blocks, and the skeleton at its helm walked away, blending in with the rest of the workers as they scurried about their business. Before he knew it, he'd lost track of the one he'd been following. Dredd finally caught up with him, and a tingle ran through his spine, swirling through every fibre of his muscle, and fizzed up to his skin, sending the hairs on his body standing on end. He stared down all four paths as skeletons clattered around him, one knocking him over without even noticing he was there. Help, he asked them, glancing from face to bony face as they glided expressionlessly past him. Help, he called again, louder, hoping that anyone would hear him.

Getting to his feet, he fought away tears, trembling as he decided to clamber his way atop the stone cubes. Using what little strength he had left, he made his way up and stared around, trying to get his bearings. Before him, the maze stretched on beyond the darkness, through mist and haze in every direction. As he plotted a path, the blocks continued to move, the maze shifting and twisting before his eyes. Exasperated, he lay down atop the blocks and stared back up into the stars before closing his eyes to formulate a plan. By the time he opened his eyes, it was morning. He took a long look out around the misty horizon

and spied in the distance a sea of shimmering weak through the haze. It was a long way out still. So far it might take him all day to walk, but at least he had a direction in mind. Scrambling his way down the blocks, he managed to catch a lift on another cart, jumping out as soon as it changed direction away from where he was headed. His eyes could no longer focus, and his feet burned, but he still pressed on.

Making his way through the shifting blocks and avoiding the stampeding skeletons, he finally found himself stepping into the fields, the crops thickening around him, followed by a skeleton with a cart. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but at least he was out of that place. The sun had started to set, but he knew. he must press on quickly, at least until he found a road, a town, a house, a farm, anything. He needed food, water, nicotine, a living person. He didn't look back, focusing solely on reaching the end of the field.

For what seemed like forever, he pushed aside storks and forged his way onwards, filled with a renewed vigour as hope fuelled him. Once more the stars twinkled above him, but he knew what he must do. He stopped upon reaching a small clearing where the wheat had been pressed down by a long wooden box that lay before him. He stared down at it, early moonlight shimmering on the metal decorations hammered into it. A coffin. He reached his hands down to the brass handles and cautiously lifted it up from one side. He hadn't realised he was still being followed by the skeleton, but it took the other side.

And together they lifted it into the empty, recess within the stone block. He stared out above the surface of the sea and finally glimps the village there, little wisps of smoke puffing from chimneys in the distance. He turned to the cart and lifted it, the other skeleton pushing from behind. They had to get back to work. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time

to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.