DEATH ROW
Slowly... quietly... she creeps forward, eyes never moving from the row of headstones. From the row of death. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and though it is sunny, there is a sinister chill in the air. Her shadow stalks behind her, lunging closer then falling back, as though sizing her up before making its final strike. Her shirt ruffles, pushed and pulled by unnatural forces. She can feel the hands slide over her body. They climb her legs, dipping in on the back of her knee, then slide gently over her tingling spine until they reach her neck. They tighten, so slowly at first that she can hardly notice, but soon she is struggling for breath. A feeling of icey cold horror sinks into her skin as her vision begins to fade. She tries to scream out, tries to call for help, but she has no voice. Soon she is with them. Sleeping beneath the dirt.
