Oh. How Unholy It Is.

This tale begins with a clock.
Ticking madly; endlessly ticking. The ticking fills the graveyard. The dark of the darkness never looked so dark. No light had reached the graveyard, because no sun was in the sky. The sun had its own gravestone; blackened with age and folly. The smell of corpses filled the cold chilled air; rotten to the bone. Skeletons cover the pitch-black ground, possibly trying to escape. See, some did. They hide within the shadows, waiting for some foolish stranger to come crawling helplessly into their traps. No, they are not what they seem. They’re sinful and dead. Disguised as you and I; covered in skin. It’s been a while since the sun had covered this graveyard with light. But still the dead live on; creeping in the shadows, lurking in the ground. The clock ticks madly; more madly than before. There hasn’t been life in quite some time, and the dead are hungry.

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