Slowly, quietly she creeps forward, eyes never moving from the row of headstones; from the row of death. The hairs on her neck stand rigid. 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 a final strike. Her shirt ruffles, pushed and pulled by unnatural forces. She can feel the hands slide over her body. They climb her legs, forcing clammy palms on the back of her knees, and up her tingling spine until they reach her neck. They tighten, so slowly at first that she hardly notices. Soon she is struggling for breath. Her blood runs cold as her vision turns to black. She tries to scream out; tries to call for help, but she has no voice. Soon she is with them sleeping beneath the dirt.
