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I've been writing about my hometown for a while now, and though many of you may know the name Samuel Singer,

and of Rome, the streets of Habitsville by curiously through my stories,

there's one special spot in town that I've never written about.

The cemetery.

All the horror and oddities that exist in Habitsville and broad daylight seems like overkill the look for trouble in a place already haunted by death.

Besides, dying in Habitsville and having a body to be buried,

well, that made you one of the lucky ones.

The only visitors that the cemetery saw with the occasional mourners,

placing flowers on a headstone, or at this time of year, groups of giggling teens ducking through the scattered trees.

They were signed posts telling the latter to keep out, but being kids, they never did.

They'd leave behind beer bottles and candy wrappers.

The ground keepers would clean them up in the morning, grumbling all the way, and that would be that.

Graveyard, after all, is nothing to be afraid of.

In every midnight, truth or dare session would come and go without much incident of Habitsville adolescence.

Because for the most part,

...