The Grave Yard

“Dong!”
“Dong!”
Crows settled in the lifeless tree on the edge of the cemetery.
“Dong!”
The moon was fuller than it had been, a wicked light, on a wicked land.
“Dong!”
The devils fruit, green ghostly clouds seeped up from the earth it had been sealed in.
“Dong!”
A supernatural effect on an unhallowed night. Surly not the work of mortal men.
“Dong!”
“Ka!” The crows grow restless. The shift uneasily, but excitedly in their perch.
“Dong!”
“Crunch!” Gravel shifts as three unmarked black cars pull up just out side the gate. Then a Rattle at the bars.
“Dong!”
“Ka!”
“Snap!” “Click” “Plunk” The lock is cut and falls as the rusted gates are pulled, screeching, open.
“Dong!”
“Crunch,” the men in suits move in, hoping against hope, praying there is still time. Quickly they begin to check for signs.
“Dong!”
Another hour past how can this be? The hasten their search, but find not what they seek. And Clouds begin to cover the sky. Though no rain falls, no light falls either.
“Dong!”
The men know they are out of time and struggle to finish. If one man were to lag all of them would feel his mistake. Their fate he choose to seal, willingly.
The crows begin to call like mad, and men scramble to the gate, but equipment is still on the field. One brave man runs to get it as his friend and partner holds the gate open for him.
Then the clouds move.
“Dong!”
And a blood red moon appears. The crows fall silent and watch as the green gas seeps no more.
The man bends down to grab the equipment that was so precious, so vital and hears a scratching to his left. Then to his right, and then all around. From a scratching it progresses into a clawing. Then man stands up, half of the equipment in hand, and runs for the gates. The look of terror covers his face as from behind him hands emerge from the earth. The once fearful claw is now a deathly mown, as the dead rise. The man drops the equipment and runs to the gate as fast as he can. He then knows, knows he will not make it and calls for his friend to close the gate. Though the other refuses, “Just a little further Johnson, come on!” He runs, the hands are close now. He can smell the breath of death, to fearful to turn around. He runs and just makes it, just makes that is but not really…
Clouds cover the moon, and then dissipate as the glowing orb returns to its unnatural yellow. Crows begin their calls again as fresh meat lies for the picking. Three cars and ten blood soaked bodies lie unmoved. All of the faces twisted in silent horror, muscles bent and contorted in ways that they should not be. Ten bodies lie on the other side of the gate, one with had reaching out, in toward the cemetery. The wind blows through, picking up dead leaves, and dispersing them at its whim. A single set of drag marks are found. There was something, or someone dragged into the tomb below. There was no sign of struggle, blood splatters suggest that the body was long dead at the time. Though if you listen hard enough, they say. On a night when the moon is full, and crows are silent. You will hear his screams, screams into the night.
But, they are just stories to frighten small children to sleep, while their parents stay awake and drink into the night. Complaining about their dull day, and their boring jobs. Special Agent Johnson would have traded them, I think. But they just sit there, sipping their boxed wine. Not worried about the dangers of the night, not aware of what horrors the shadows hold.