Paranoia

Behind the rusty creaking gates, your first steps drown in the humid ground. Mud captures the ankles, solidifying, keeping you away like a wise elder shaking their prophetic cane: go back! Beware… No wonder. Echoing from the tombstones, music fills the air. Whispers of foreign languages, humming choirs as a keynote against your cracking steps; you aren’t welcome here. A disturbance to the peace of death, only to repent by becoming one with the eternal silence. How did you get there? It’s surreal, stepping through the mist, the smell of rot lingering in your nose; vomit inducing, but not enough to make you pause your walk. Despite the shivers running down your spine, despite the warning signs, turning to face the darkness you arrived from seems even worse than continuing your walk along the dimly lit path in-between the graves. Something cracks beneath your feet, and you imagine ancient bones falling apart to dust- but by the time you glance down, the human remains become nothing more than a couple of stones. Ahead of your path you notice a shadow of a humanoid posture: elongated limbs hanging down, slouched like a predator preparing its attack. Your throat clenches, whole organism tensing up to fight or flight. The creature flashes its yellow, fiery eyes, spreads the intimidating wings and- in proximity, it’s quite obviously an immobile statue, two snitches illuminating its stone face and fossil tears. Before you can let out a sigh of relief, goosebumps rush through your skin, raising your body hair as thin fingers trace through the line of your ankle. Your gasp exhales a cloud of steam, freezing in the cold air of the night. Not daring to check whether the hand is just like you imagine it to be: rotting, bones revealed, covered in slime and crawling worms, you begin to run. Attentive to the surrounding noises but with eyes now shut, you’d rather believe that you’re the only source of the thumping and panting that disrupts the silence. A wet drop lands on your nose – is it the beast’s saliva, already drooling ready to devour you? The fear whistles through your head, deafening. Spawns flashes in front of your eyes, blinding. The circle narrows, traps you inside, gruesome faces and undead cries from every side. They’re touching you. Infecting with their sickness. There’s no more escape. No matter how fast you run.

Once again behind the gates, you regain your composure. In the morning, you’ll find the branches that became hands, the traces of rain, the calmness in the silence. The statue will seem thoughtful; the mud nothing more than mildly annoying in its stickiness.

For to walk the graveyard is to walk through your state of mind.