Nevermind. I just got a little scared, this morning, that's all. Nevermind, if I bothered you about it. If you cared, thanks, if you didn't, oh well.
Going to the cemetery tonight. It's warm enough, I might not freeze.
+_________+_________+_________+
I went to the cemetery, the comparatively large one in the Old North End.
I only go to cemeteries at night to scare myself silly. Sounds are very important in the dark. The sound of a shoelace being caught by a fence as it is hopped is the rakish sound of clothing being torn. I take a dozen steps and stop to listen. The footsteps on salt follow everywhere I go, a noise I can't help but generate, which inevitably warns of my coming, sending the others behind stones to watch me pass. The footsteps in snow are the rushing of a pulse, and after thirteen steps are so loud you much stop, to make sure. And the footsteps on ice are the crunching of bone.
The neighboring high school is lit up in horrorshow orange, and its reflection in marble is akin to a witch's fire, as if a high school itself isn't creepy enough.
My head runs away with me and I turn to leave. Along my path is a smallish mausoleum, and I can't help but imagine what a freakish dozen feet of air and a corpse's foot of granite separate me from. I easily imagine it coming to the door, if not horrific in its intent, then horrific in its manner. I put the mausoleum behind me and don't look back.
Scanning for an exit, I espy that the road I'm following leads to the hollowed embankment in which they stash corpses when the ground is frozen, like it is. Surely there's another road, I think, and there are, but a staircase leading up to the world of the living separates itself from the expanse of dark that is the embankment.
As I bee-line for the staircase, I avoid looking at the iron door a little to my right, because it is there that I would be hiding, it is there that I can most easily visualize a pale body wrapped in long, black hair, waiting for kids like me to feed her eternal thirst.
Going to the cemetery tonight. It's warm enough, I might not freeze.
+_________+_________+_________+
I went to the cemetery, the comparatively large one in the Old North End.
I only go to cemeteries at night to scare myself silly. Sounds are very important in the dark. The sound of a shoelace being caught by a fence as it is hopped is the rakish sound of clothing being torn. I take a dozen steps and stop to listen. The footsteps on salt follow everywhere I go, a noise I can't help but generate, which inevitably warns of my coming, sending the others behind stones to watch me pass. The footsteps in snow are the rushing of a pulse, and after thirteen steps are so loud you much stop, to make sure. And the footsteps on ice are the crunching of bone.
The neighboring high school is lit up in horrorshow orange, and its reflection in marble is akin to a witch's fire, as if a high school itself isn't creepy enough.
My head runs away with me and I turn to leave. Along my path is a smallish mausoleum, and I can't help but imagine what a freakish dozen feet of air and a corpse's foot of granite separate me from. I easily imagine it coming to the door, if not horrific in its intent, then horrific in its manner. I put the mausoleum behind me and don't look back.
Scanning for an exit, I espy that the road I'm following leads to the hollowed embankment in which they stash corpses when the ground is frozen, like it is. Surely there's another road, I think, and there are, but a staircase leading up to the world of the living separates itself from the expanse of dark that is the embankment.
As I bee-line for the staircase, I avoid looking at the iron door a little to my right, because it is there that I would be hiding, it is there that I can most easily visualize a pale body wrapped in long, black hair, waiting for kids like me to feed her eternal thirst.