James looked out his window at the cemetery. The moon's light reflected off the wet gravestones. There were a few new ones. Recent additions. James wondered how many dead had to be gathered in one place before that place was called a cemetery. He’d gone on a few travels and had seen single crosses along the road where people had died. Falling off their horse or attacked by highwaymen were some of the most common ways people met their end on the roads. But those individual graves were not cemeteries.
Did the dead want to be buried near others? How many would have preferred a different final resting place? No longer able to speak their wishes, the living decided for them. James wondered how many loathed their final resting place. He scanned the cemetery, and his gaze drifted beyond. A cool breeze rattled the thin window and sent a chill over his skin. Images of bones played through his mind.
A skeleton banged the inside of its coffin. At first just one, then the sound awakened others. Soon the whole cemetery sounded like stones rolling down a hill. Grave markers shook. The ground moved, heaved, roiled, and rolled. Dirt shifted. A skeletal fist punched out of the ground like a fast growing weed, dirt fell from its fingers. It clawed at the air.
James shivered. He swallowed and shook the thought away. He pulled the window curtains closed and crawled into bed. With the covers pulled tight to his chin he sighed and hoped he wouldn’t have nightmares.