Soil that Bleeds : Scary Stories – Short Horror Story

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I can’t see the moon.

I can’t see the thick air in front of me.

But I know I must keep looking.

One foot in front of the other, over and over I place, stumbling past grave after grave.

Some stones are adorned with flowers and candles, with pictures of loved ones smiling at their side, lit up like stars among the grey rocks,

And some stand short and dark, long forgotten by the people who come here by the day, nothing more than a hole in the field of death.

And I can see them weeping.


I watch them as they walk from stone to stone, scanning names with blurry eyes, the dank stench of purgatory stalking behind their backs.

But I’ll continue looking, looking for me. Because nobody will chase me away,

For when I pick up the shovel,

For when I strike the cold soil and stare into my grey eyes over,

For when the weeping finally silence, and my hands caress my own cold face,

I’ll finally remember where I was those years ago,

And the people never stop weeping.

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