In the black of night,
one winter long ago,
the bones spoke to me
from their perch upon
a tomb.
Creaking in the cold,
and shining brightly by
the light of the moon.
“Come and speak,”
they called, but the voice
was only an echo.
I stepped forward
in the crackling snow, and
the bones leaned forth.
“It’s grown cold, and
we are lonely,” they said.
“Who are you?”
“We are the Dead,”
they replied.
Silence stretched out
across the graveyard
and snow began to wander lazily
from the heavens.
It gathered on the bones,
who did not move.
They peered down to me,
empty sockets where eyes once sat,
then dried to dust.
“What need do the dead have of visitors?”
I asked.
The skull cocked to one side,
and the gathered snow slid
from its gleaming dome.
“The Dead need and want
all those things which have
long lost meaning to the Living.
We have as much right to company,
and twice the need.
The cold earth is also
dark, and silent.
It is there the Dead go mad.”
The snow tumbled down,
another layer upon another,
and neither of us stirred.
I watched a trickle of blood
flow from a socket of the skull,
sliding down to color its teeth
a dark crimson.
A single drop fell
from its mouth,
impacting upon the snow
at the foot of the tomb.
The dark red stain
spread across the snow
of the yard,
turning it to
a tundra of blood.
The gravestones stood high
above the bloodied freeze,
and high above them all
stood the tomb.
Sitting there,
the gleaming, bleeding,
grinning bones.
“It is there the Dead go mad,”
they repeated.
The insane screams of a thousand dead souls
pierced the silence of the night,
and the tombstones crumbled
into the snow.
The ground swelled
as if turned to a vengeful red sea,
and spat the bodies below to the surface.
A mass of bone, flesh
and dirt replaced the
snow around me.
The bones above gazed out
upon the carnage,
jaw agape.
Screaming.
Louder than ever,
unmuffled by the earth,
the bodies of the dead shrieked to the heavens.
The gray winter clouds above
turned to soot
and fell from the sky.
The full moon burst into view,
casting its cold glare
upon the horror.
The Dead writhed and shrieked,
bony fingers and heels digging
at the ground around them.
Rotting flesh fell from muscle,
muscle fell from bone.
From atop the tomb,
the bones turned back
to me, screaming
“IT IS THERE THE DEAD GO MAAAAAAD!”
The skeleton burst into dust
and rained down upon me.
And the screaming ceased.
Slowly, slowly,
the writhing bodies
grew still.
Their eyes,
cold and bright,
stared wide at the sky above.
My ears rang with their screams.
I shuddered.
The bodies recessed
back into the earth.
Soot rose back to the heavens
to cover their watchful eye.
Looking back to the tomb,
I saw the bones returned
to their perch.
But now they gazed upon me
with my own eyes.
“It is here,” they said.
And I could not look away.
“The Dead go mad,”
I answered.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
In the black of night,
one winter long ago,
the bones spoke to me
from their perch upon
a tomb.
Creaking in the cold,
and shining brightly by
the light of the moon.
“Come and speak,”
they called, but the voice
was only an echo.
I stepped forward
in the crackling snow, and
the bones leaned forth.
“It’s grown cold, and
we are lonely,” they said.
“Who are you?”
“We are the Dead,”
they replied.
Silence stretched out
across the graveyard
and snow began to wander lazily
from the heavens.
It gathered on the bones,
who did not move.
They peered down to me,
empty sockets where eyes once sat,
then dried to dust.
“What need do the dead have of visitors?”
I asked.
The skull cocked to one side,
and the gathered snow slid
from its gleaming dome.
“The Dead need and want
all those things which have
long lost meaning to the Living.
We have as much right to company,
and twice the need.
The cold earth is also
dark, and silent.
It is there the Dead go mad.”
The snow tumbled down,
another layer upon another,
and neither of us stirred.
I watched a trickle of blood
flow from a socket of the skull,
sliding down to color its teeth
a dark crimson.
A single drop fell
from its mouth,
impacting upon the snow
at the foot of the tomb.
The dark red stain
spread across the snow
of the yard,
turning it to
a tundra of blood.
The gravestones stood high
above the bloodied freeze,
and high above them all
stood the tomb.
Sitting there,
the gleaming, bleeding,
grinning bones.
“It is there the Dead go mad,”
they repeated.
The insane screams of a thousand dead souls
pierced the silence of the night,
and the tombstones crumbled
into the snow.
The ground swelled
as if turned to a vengeful red sea,
and spat the bodies below to the surface.
A mass of bone, flesh
and dirt replaced the
snow around me.
The bones above gazed out
upon the carnage,
jaw agape.
Screaming.
Louder than ever,
unmuffled by the earth,
the bodies of the dead shrieked to the heavens.
The gray winter clouds above
turned to soot
and fell from the sky.
The full moon burst into view,
casting its cold glare
upon the horror.
The Dead writhed and shrieked,
bony fingers and heels digging
at the ground around them.
Rotting flesh fell from muscle,
muscle fell from bone.
From atop the tomb,
the bones turned back
to me, screaming
“IT IS THERE THE DEAD GO MAAAAAAD!”
The skeleton burst into dust
and rained down upon me.
And the screaming ceased.
Slowly, slowly,
the writhing bodies
grew still.
Their eyes,
cold and bright,
stared wide at the sky above.
My ears rang with their screams.
I shuddered.
The bodies recessed
back into the earth.
Soot rose back to the heavens
to cover their watchful eye.
Looking back to the tomb,
I saw the bones returned
to their perch.
But now they gazed upon me
with my own eyes.
“It is here,” they said.
And I could not look away.
“The Dead go mad,”
I answered.
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