Mary Grady

The graveyard still stood in the glade by the woods, casting shadows against the tall pines. Last words on a stone, standing off all alone, in a tangle of branches and vines. “Here lies Mary Grady, not much of a lady, cut down in her bed as she dreamed. By a lover who scorned her, when once he adored her, from a knife to her throat did she bleed.” Through dark woods he walked, a young woman he stalked, as she strolled midst the graves unaware. His heart cruel and depraved for the murder he craved, he smiled as she knelt down in prayer. On the grave set apart, hand over her heart, she wailed in lament on the stone. At this moment the man, with a knife in his hand, took control while she knelt all alone. Her heart leapt in her chest as his knife slashed her breast, her blood seeping deep ‘neath the stone. Deep into the space Mary Grady was placed, and she died with a sigh and a moan. Deep within, under her, Mary did stir, to an innocent’s blood, she did rise. She sought to avenge, crying out for revenge, and the murderer shrieked his surprise. Opalescent and dark, she approached the black heart, her eyes brimming bright with disdain. Then she chuckled with glee as the man tried to flee, thinking that he’d gone mad or insane. As her spirit came near, his heart pounding with fear, she grabbed him, her ghostly rage fierce. “Now it’s YOUR turn.” she said, ripping hair from his head, and his heart, with her hand, she did pierce. Mary looked down at the man on the ground, satisfaction at what she had done. Now her spirit could rest, his heart ripped from his chest, conquering evil, she’d won.