Random One-Shots

Graveyard Spooks

Wandering through the abandoned graveyard at the witch's hour; a gentle breeze sends chills coursing throughout Frank's body, the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. Frank keeps his footing light on the leaf-covered, icy ground. The ghost-quiet graveyard isn't helping his paranoia. He picks up his pace jogging to his destination: a mausoleum.  Frank hops over and around tombstones; the people buried there long forgotten. Every couple seconds or so he checks over his shoulder. Looking, watching to make sure no one is following him; he has that gut feeling of someone or something watching him.

Merely five feet away from the mausoleum he hears a faint whisper in the wind, "I know who you are, Frankie. I know what you've done." The voice dragging out the words.

"Wha-" Frank springs backwards looking left and right searching for the keeper of the voice; falling over an old cracked tombstone in the process. His long black hair falling in his face blocking his view.  "Ooh, ouch." Frank mutters standing up brushing his hair out of his eyes and the leaves stuck to his bottom off; he feels the cool dampness seeps through his black skinny jeans and Misfits t-shirt, making him impossible colder. "I wish I'd have brought a jacket." Frank thinks.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Frank calls out to the voice turning around to face the way he just came. He doesn't expect a response. The voice was just his imagination running wild; it has to be. No one else is here. It's just him. Right?

"I know what you did last Halloween night?" Frank hears again. He jumps ten feet in the air like a spooked black cat: spinning around he faces the mausoleum again. Taking small tender steps towards the door, Frank's head on a swivel: any sudden movement and his big brown eyes are glued to  it.

"Okay, this can't be real. This is all in my head. I'm just freaking myself out" Frank whispers to himself, or so he thought.

"Of course I'm real Frankie, I'm the nightmares in your dreams." it drawled out smugly, it sounded louder this time: closer even.

Frank is at the door of the mausoleum at this point. The old wooden door creaking open ever so slow by itself. "What the heck," Frank thinks stepping over the threshold. The soft crunch of dried leaves echoing throughout. It's dark: darker than outside. It's as if he crawled into a pitch black square drawn by the heaviest of writers.

"He-hello." Frank whispers. He looks to his left. Frank's eyes ever so slowly taking in every detail there is in the small mausoleum. The dust covered spiderwebs hanging down from the ceiling, walls, and floor. An engraving was carved into the left wall. It simply said:
Here lies a loving husband, father, and friend:
Iggy Blackwood
1813-1831
On the back wall two old windows stood long and looming, letting in the black moonlight. The right wall completely plain, a solid concrete slab completes the mausoleum. In the middle of the room sits a long narrow stone box. The stones stacked up in a brick like pattern, creating a beautiful scene for such a horrid thing.

Frank tip toes over to the open stone box structure. He peers inside. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," The voice said behind me in my ear. "I don't look the prettiest. Mostly bones, ya know."

Frank spins on heal. He comes face to face with a tall figure. He appears to be human; short black hair, neon green eyes, and dress nicely in a white dress shirt and black pants, but he is too pale to be human. Shock covered Frank's face, frozen to the ground. "Who are you," Frank manages to murmur.

"I told you Frankie, I'm the nightmare in your dreams." He whispers.

With a sudden start Frank sits straight up in his bed, heart pounding, eyes wide, and a cold sweat coursing through his body. "It was just a dream," he thought, as his combat boots in the middle of the room catch his eyes. The boots are covered in mud, leaves, and twigs; almost like he's walked through the muddy graveyard in his dream.