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The Graveyard

The Cemetery


COPYRIGHT © Laurie Stanley -- "On a Certain Night"
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The sun had been hidden beneath a thick layer of clouds and the sky had been grey for hours. Only the darkening shades of grey and the cooling air signaled the change from day to night as dusk fell across the city of Stormpoint. The barkeep at Pandora's box had warned you that it was foolish to go out at such an hour, but the gypsy seer had seemed insistant. And so you continued on in the great miasma that enveloped the emptying streets, becoming just one of the darker shades of grey within this city of shadow.

You realized too late that time and direction are less certain in the haze, but you eventually found your intended, if not desired, location .... a seemingly quiet cemetery resting beside the old cathedral. It was surrounded by walls of stone, which, in a city such as this, may have served as much to keep the occupants in, as they did to the keep visitors out. A heavy iron gate, fastened with a single lock, barred the only entrance. But curiosity had gripped you now, and neither gate nor wall deter you in your desire to appease it. It took a few tries, but you soon slipped over the wall to land in a small patch of mist-filled darkness on the other side.

Fog, whether owing to the sea or some more ethereal source, rose from the ground, creeping over the headstones and around the mausoleums, beckoning you forward with trailing fingers of frost and vapor. Following their lead, you strode evenly over the grave-strewn grass, knowing now that you should have listened to the innkeeper, but unable to turn back. Beneath your feet the ground, sodden with mist, clung to your boots. It slowed your speed, pulling against you with each step and then releasing with reluctance and a harsh sucking sound that echoed in the empty darkness.

The sound was joined by another....a creaking noise that caused your heart to speed before you realized that it was only the hinges on a rusty lantern that hung from the arm of an ancient tree. In the daylight, the tree's branches probably spread out in cradling peace over those who slumbered beneath them. But within the current darkness, the gnarled limbs, stripped bare by an early touch of fall, appeared as skeletal arms ready to snatch away those who wandered too close to their waiting grasp.

Thinking now that your eyes had begun to believe the strange tales of the city, you determined to head back to the inn before your mind joined the conspiracy as well. It was a good plan, but you had tarried too long, believing yourself alone within the necropolis. You weren't prepared for what you saw when you turned and began your trek back to the wall, and you doubted anyone would ever believe you if you recounted the experience. But then again, they might. After all, this was Stormpoint.

~ by Striker Kel's writer











Wraithshade tombstone



A flicker? A trembling flame aquiver 'neath the heavy cloak of endless sleep? A light. A distant memory carried on a fading echo. I will make you a light for . . . ? The memory died. ~For what?~ The voice, weak from disuse, chipped away at the darkness. ~For what?~ The question resounded without answer, taunting the speaker with its empty repetitions. But the light grew stronger, or the darkness weaker, and images began to take shape. Shadows at first, pale reflections of truth, flitted past long-closed eyes before other, more substantial shapes took their place, giving birth to an increased need to escape and reach the light that lay beyond.

Wraithshade

Escape came first, and with it a heady feeling of floating, free from long worn bonds. The light came later, and with it came disappointment. It was only lantern, hanging on the twisted arm of a barren tree. It contained no message, no revelation, no long-hoped for promise; and its very flame threatened to fade as the wind whipped past it, pushing into its base and evoking a rusty groan of protest. It did, however, provide enough light for the sleeper to judge its surroundings and see clearly the headstones of the cemetery poking though the mist that that rose from the ground and the graves beneath. The sleeper knew now what it was, or what it thought it was. Specter, shade, haunt, spirit, phantom, wraith . . . there were countless words, but one subsumed them all, echoing with deafening clarity in the mind of the sleeper. Ghost.











© Larry Elmore -- Eyes of Autumn
COPYRIGHT © Larry Elmore "Eyes of Autumn"
Lady Pleserapoen tombstone


There is more to this one, than meets the eye. Secrets abound around her, but then... is that not how it is with everyone who comes to a new place. The Lady Pleserapoen, for that is what she truly was, seems to be shrouded in a hint of darkness. An interesting puzzle indeed.

Dark serpentine curls that seemingly hold a life of their own frame a narrow face. It was easy to get lost in those mercury orbs. Dark gowns draped over the thin form. If you ever knocked at her door, during daylight hours, you were sure to be greeted by a most hideous creature.... "The Lady refuses to see anyone. Go away." Click.












Eager to leave the fog-enshrouded necropolis, you began to retrace your steps through the sepulchral labyrinth back to the surrounding wall. Before you could reach the boundary, however, a cloud of mist rising from one of the grave markers caught your attention and you knelt beside it with morbid curiosity, your knees sinking into the cold damp ground beneath you. The stone was old and crumbling with age, but you thought you could make out something beneath the years of dirt and mold that clung to its timeworn surface. Was it a name? An epitaph? Perhaps if you just rubbed a bit of the grime away .... ((please note, this is a pop-up window))

Your brow furrowed in bewilderment as the writing became visible, and you wondered what it could mean.

Resolving to figure it out later, you left the stone and scrambled up the cemetery wall once again--this time with the aid of well-placed tree. Safely on the other side, you were brushing the dirt from your knees when you spied a scroll scuttling across the street towards you on a stray wind. Plucking it from the ground and uncurling it, you discovered it to be a playbill advertising a theatre performance. It sounded interesting, if somewhat bizarre, but as you had no plans for the next day you really had nothing to lose. And so, after a peaceful night's sleep at the inn, you set out in search of the theatre in the French Quarter.

 

Care to consult your ?

 





© 1999 Stormpoint Writers Guild
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Larry Elmore

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