Good evening friends. This is your host to welcome you into the inner sanctum of New England legends. Come in, come in, won't you?

I'd like you to meet some new guess we've just dug up.

Now that peculiar cadaver standing off in the corner by himself has a serious case of claustrophobia.

Poor stiff. He just can't stand shrouds.

Now this fella to your right was a mountain climber in life.

He took his wife on an alpine hike and while they were going up an icy slope, he cut the rope that held them together.

Said he just couldn't stand being tied to one woman. And now, meet our most forgettable character while that willy.

One day willy's ugly wife bit him so in anger he buried her in the backyard.

Six months later his homely mate came up as a dogwood tree to haunt him.

Now, according to Willie, her bark is much worse than her bite.

Ha ha ha ha!

Please, friends absolute silence. We wanted so quiet you can hear a head drop.

In a small hillside New England cemetery, a chill evening wind stirs the leafless trees with a complaining murmur.

A blood red moon probes through the branches with grotesque fingers, touching the faded headstones with their eerie light.

A frail drawn-faced young woman sits on an old stone bench,

listening acutely to the rustling of the branches as if to capture some word

whispered of the dead's forgotten past. Sarah, Sarah, where are you?

Paul, I'm here, over here.

Sarah, I've been looking all over for you.

What are you doing out here anyway?

I...

I was called out here, what the wind there was a voice in the wind and it called me to come out here

...