Witching hour

Just a little snippet to amuse myself.

The sickly moon is pale and faintly greenish, hanging from the sky like a fat spider curled in upon itself. Its pale light hides more than it illuminates; making shadows seem more twisted and looming than they are. Whisps of cloud obscures it occasionally, like tatters of silk drapes. Everything is a strange, silvery grey. Mist rises from the ground, a reminder of the remnants of heat that day left.

 

The mist curls into shapes, gossamer figures ot translucent white. They dance among the tomb stones, twist and weave between crosses nearly falling over from age. They're neither here nor there, real nor imaginary. They're in Limbo, and only the full moon's glow allow them to let the real world know they exist. To see their true forms is to court madness, or worse. The mischievous spirits of night and dark, of wickedness and death, are more than willing to devour you. They may seem like your imagination, but beware. That's why you should avert your eyes when passing a graveyard at the witching hour.