Disturbing the Dead

     The gate's iron hinges creak softly shut, leaving me standing alone, still and quiet. Jutting out into the blackness grotesque creatures of stone capture the moonlight with their mocking faces; silent sentinels of the dead, relentlessly watching, always knowing. From fear, or perhaps shame, I try not to look at them; for I feel them inside me judging my soul. Amidst their terror and the total stillness of the night, the tombstones appear as unevenly strewn shadows growing up from the ground - each one ready to tell its tale of life and death.

     It is wrong to disturb the dead, yet this gruesome compulsion overtakes me. Tendrils of evil search the catacombs of my mind; finding its way quicker now, each time quicker, searching for the need to be with souls as dead as mine. The wisps of my breath released into the night air testify I have life, but my blackened heart tells a tale of death. I stand amongst the dead, whom should I choose?

     Surrounded by dirt mixed with my sweat, I pull the decayed corpse from its grave. I pay no heed to the skin tickling bugs crawling on my hands as I brush the dirt off the stiff, fragile corpse. Intently, I gaze into the hollow sockets of its horrid face. Using the full moon's ghastly glow I study the features and wonder: What was his life like? How did he die? But the skull tells me nothing. Worms have long ago eaten the flesh from his face, leaving only a silent, morbid grin. He has no eyes, he cannot see. He has no heart, he cannot love. Someday I will end up like him. Or am I already like him? I feel the stone sentinels seducing my soul. My hatred seethes, my hands clench his body tightly. I crack his ribs into a cloud of dust...and breathe in the air of death.