In the Churchyard At Night
The clock is striking twelve;
A breeze begins to blow.
I hear a heavy tread:
Someone I used to know?
A hand upon my arm;
I dare not turn around
(Remind myself that graves
Are dug in holy ground).
The fingers bite my flesh;
A stench envelops me.
I ask, ‘Who’s there?’ and turn,
But no one’s there, I see.
I hear a cackling laugh.
The clouds conceal the moon
As voices whisper then:
‘You’ll join us here and soon.’
I sense I’m in a crowd.
It starts to pour with rain.
I gasp and clasp my chest:
My heart can’t stand the strain…
For Kelly’s Ghost Story contest
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