Graveworm
“In his slick black undertaker’s coat and high silken stovepipe hat, he was strictly Bela Lugosi-goth: his leering face a skull, his skin fish-belly white and glistening like Vaseline. The fingers that clutched anxiously at his sides were long, thin, delicate; almost spidery. The fingers of a surgeon. And his eyes—buried in that dead white sunless face—were pools of black, bubbling oil, dark mirrors that reflected lonely desperation and a frozen stark malignancy, silent and wormy like bones in a... shroud.
In his left hand, he carried a shovel.
He carried it tightly.
He looked around the cemetery, breathing hard with passion. It was empty, stygian, bleak and somehow hollow like his own mind. A cool-edged September wind blew, stripping Autumn leaves from craggy trees and laying them down like a carpet over vault and grave alike.
Before him was a burial vault set into the side of a grassy, mounded hill. Moonlight reflected off the name chiseled into the stone above the wrought-iron door.MoreLess
In his left hand, he carried a shovel.
He carried it tightly.
He looked around the cemetery, breathing hard with passion. It was empty, stygian, bleak and somehow hollow like his own mind. A cool-edged September wind blew, stripping Autumn leaves from craggy trees and laying them down like a carpet over vault and grave alike.
Before him was a burial vault set into the side of a grassy, mounded hill. Moonlight reflected off the name chiseled into the stone above the wrought-iron door.MoreLess
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