The sound of laughter wafted with the breeze. “Remind me, again, why here.”
“Because it’s fun!”
Catharine paused, head cocked to the side, and considered her friend. “You’re
not afraid, are you? There’s really nothing that can hurt you her. Other than
what can normally hurt you, anyway.” She turned and looked at the field scattered
with stones and monuments ahead. “It’s really peaceful actually.”
Quinton met her gaze with that half mad grin of his, though not, she noticed,
without some apprehension in his eyes. “Psychological harm, Rine, psychological
harm.”
Catharine’s sister pushed herself into the surprisingly small space between
them. “Come on. It’s actually really interesting. It’s history. I thought you
were the one who liked history. Besides, you never know when an undead being
will show up and we’ll get to rekill it.” Catherine shot her a disapproving
glance, which quickly dissolved into laughter. That musical laughter of hers
dazed Quinton long enough for the two girls two grab his wrists and take off
running, dragging him well into the sea of weather beaten stones before letting
go.
Petrichor walked over to a live sized statue of a cat that rested
within the roots of a tree and quickly swiped her hand across the back of its
head. Catherine smiled. “She always does that.” The sisters moved among the
stones, the elder gliding along, the younger more like a hiker upon the uneven
ground. He watched the two of them with fascination. They were so at ease in
this home of the deceased. Catharine hesitated pensively by an angel with partial
wings; Patrichor dropped to a crouch when she noticed a pot of artificial
flowers. He took a step, finding the ground surprisingly hard and level.
Looking down, his face took on an odd color, simultaneously reddening from embarrassment
and paling from fear. The headstone was small and flat, barely visible above
the ground. The letters, once marking what poor soul (whose body) rested here,
were worn completely away from age and weather. Quinton was amazed that his
friends has referred to this place as “peaceful” and “fun”. It was creepy as
heck.
Catherine called over to the others, her voice carried by the
gathering wind. They all gathered in front of a tomb, covered mostly by a mound
of dirt grass, with only the front and a vent like an old fashioned metal chimney
from a potbellied stove protruding from the top. “Here lies John Hummel, buried
1885,” announced Petrichor, “I’ve always wanted to get through that door. It’s
open, but the hinges are rusted shut or something; it won’t move an inch.”
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