doomsday_disco Report post Posted September 16 The haunted stillness of a long-decayed cemetery plot choked by ivy and wild blackberry thorns. In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round us, and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case—in this haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high above its noiseless walls—a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
ghoulnextdoor Report post Posted October 15 Did I hear a blackberry giggle? And why did it sound so chilling, soulless, and evil? A chorus of tiny, wicked voices rises from the brambles, their sweet menace carried on a gentle breeze. The scent drifts lightly, deceptively airy, its delicate touch belying the weight of ancient malice it carries. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
