Brush With The Skeleton Of Death.

I walk through the night, the clock of town chimes out its hourly call, midnight that haunting silence, the darkest time of any light-less night. There is no moon just a starless sky above as I walk to the resting place of the dead. As usual the iron gates of this sacred ground are open wide for all to wander freely in and out, but maybe its open to let the dead meet the living?

I can not help but cast my curious eyes along the tombs that stand in rows one by one, for all but one have their doors closed. My eyes in their curious nature glance inside that crypt that's open, it should be empty just a tomb in the darkness but empty it is not, for there is a thread bare rug on the floor, underneath a chair and to one side I can see a small table with a vase still hold the dusty dried flowers given in memory of the owner of this tomb.

But upon the rug stand a chair and the figure of a women, her back is facing me as she sits in that wooden chair within the room of the open crypt. She is still and silent just like the night air all around, for there is no whisper of wind, no rush of traffic alone the road, even the clock tower in town is empty of its chime, for there is only silence now.

Carefully I walk to another area of this sacred ground of these homes for the dead, turning a corner alone the path to find my way to the wall of plaque's. I stand for a moment observing the darkness, but I'm not alone for there sat on the wall gazing up toward the plaques is that women again.

She is solid as if human, but seems almost unnatural and not of this world of the living, I call out to her with my voice trembling, watching her head turning slowly to face me before once again then turning away, back to the wall in front of her, I do not wish to intrude so I step back once again.

I follow the path like before finding my way to that open crypt, the chair now empty but a haunting, deafening scream echo's round the darkness of the night, chilling me to the bone. I rush back to were the women had been but she is no were to be seen, panic rising I search all around this ground of a sacred place for the dead only to once again come to that open crypt where she is stood menacingly in the doorway. The whiteness of her flesh seems so eerily supernatural, her eyes lifeless holes of black, there is no eyeballs no colour at all, nor light within them. Her flesh seems to slowly melt away from her bones, a flesh that was once eerie white now turns to weeping dark red until at last there for all to see creamy bones of her skeleton frame . She is not a ghost by any means of the paranormal world, not even a women of the living grieving the dead, this creature that once stood before me as a women is a skeleton grieving the living.

I remain stood before her in fear, my heart racing against my chest and my eyes wide with horror at the sight before me. I watch as she steps toward me slowly raising her hand, outstretching as if to touch me. But it is no hand of to comfort it is a hand of bones, long fingers that drip with the last remains of flesh that she once wore in the land of the living slip and drip to the ground leaving nothing but bones, for is she should touch me I fear that it will be the touch of death itself.

So quickly I shall run, run from that scared ground for the dead, for those tombs the all stand closed in their rows one by one hold the many faces of death, and should you walk there at night and find a crypt open, run, for death is awake and walking his sacred ground grieving the living not the dead.