#spoooooky

Wet Autumn leaves refuse to crunch below your heavy boots as you near the cemetery’s entrance. The telltale steel spears loom overhead casting an evening shadow. Their pointed tops lost their shine years ago but no less then three-foot-tall sharp. A three foot tall cobblestone wall stretched along the border grounded them as they are linked together by metal brackets and barbed wire. Fortified to keep drunken slobs and rebellious teenagers from wreaking havoc on the old Victorian tombstones that stand in formation behind the fence.

The iron gate remains closed, weeds tangled its feet making it impossible to move. But, it’s poles have been bent askew but some unknown force. The gap was barely large enough for one person to fit through even if they went in sideways, belly tucked and lungs breathed out to the extent one could bare without getting dizzy. But that didn’t detour you, the sun was setting and this place was more fortified than the crumbs left by old buildings and unstable infrastructure. There was a small dilapidated church in the middle, no bigger than a one-room apartment, that should provide enough cover for the night. If not there was a stone mausoleum tucked in the far left corner that shouldn’t be too difficult to get into.

For now, getting through the gate was your priority. The bag on your back was shoved through the gap before you squeezed your way through behind it crossing the threshold and steadying yourself on the old gravel path you feel content that this place would provide enough safety. The smell around you was akin to damp moss, dirt that had not quite dried after the rain, and something foggy below their covers.

You walk slowly, not from fatigue but from a strange cold comfort settling in the bones of your lower back, as the absolute stillness of the cemetery brought with it a silent peace compared to the rest of the world. Like it had seen what happened but remained separated from it. You carefully took in the details of the headstones you passed, some were simple carvings of a person’s name with when and how they died written just below. Others had more funfair with delicately carved cherubs and flowers, some even seemed to belong to old pets by the shape of the tombstone. Many of them were bordered off with metal grates, concrete slabs or metal spiked fencing, sourced from a fear that the dead would rise if not properly buried. Ironic.

Gazing at one of the larger stones that depicted a woman in a large shawl you stopped for a minute. The way it was posed, her arms lowered but stretched gently towards you, a warm smile on her otherwise stone-cold face seemed maternal in nature. She seemed to be looking down, the stone shawl obscuring most of her features. You wondered, if you stepped closer, would it be as if she were looking at you?

The inquisitive thought seemed to power your legs forward more than your brain did to think. You stood closer, her stone hands hovering just above your ears, an inch or so away. With closer details, you noticed most of the tips of her fingers had been broken off, and on her left hand, there was a distinctly carved ring. A married woman, a mother too?

You couldn’t believe the kind of detail these old carvers possessed, it was almost as if she could hold you, here and now and it wouldn’t be like trying to hug a stone pillar. With how still the world seemed around you, every other detail seemed to fade out. Another step closer and you could see her eyes, you could reach out your hand and feel the porous texture of the stone. Maybe just once, you could indulge in holding something without the lingering headache of fear in the back of your skull, maybe- ‘ding’

A sound, small but unmistakable and piercing in this still silence. ‘Ding’ again, same spot. Below you, at your feet. You look down and spot the Rusted but perceivable shape of a bell. A frayed string hanging it from a small wooden crane, touched by only the occasional rain and wind. ‘Ding’ it moves again, clearer now that you can see it. The clapper inside the bell made a coarse sound against the rust but it rang nonetheless.

‘Ding’ ‘ding’ Two more rang out, one from the bell at your feet and another from somewhere else in the cemetery. It echoed like a warning, or a call as the wind carried it through each corner. ‘Ding’ another, ‘Ding’ then another too your left this time. It was like a morning call, as loud as a church bell as a cacophony of ringing erupted all around you, all with their own tempo and sound. Compared to the silence before this noise felt like a threat, you quickly backed away from the tombstone and bolted for the church entrance.

Slamming the old wooden doors behind you, it did little to muffle the sound from outside but you felt a little more secure now that there was something between you and the noise. Letting a deep breath out you trotted over to one of the old pews at closest to the door when an odd contrast drew your gaze. A bright pink paint was sprayed on the display behind the alter, words large enough to be seen from your spot.

“Don’t wake the Dead.”

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Clapper: 'The 'Tongue' or small metal ball inside a bell that makes the sound.'