Where: Work, 20 minutes before I have to leave early for a 5:30 therapy session
When the weird wind whistles through the graveyard, you listen. Doberman ears pinned back to the base of your scalp, the short hairs on the back of your neck pricked to attention. Any disturbance could be a thousand possibilities, each more interesting than the last. The scrape of a dead leaf on a granite slab. Far off tires on a country road. The clicking of bony fingers on the base of a gravestone.
It’s hard to tell exactly what’s what when the weird wind whistles. When you live a life of noisy twaddle, you become bad at quiet. Ringtones and message alerts all put to silent. The stillness tastes like sawdust. Dry. Crusty. In the midst of the cemetery, surrounded by markers, grave blankets and dime store bouquets, it’s hard to tell what’s lurking, what caused the swoosh to your back. If the howl in the distance was man-made or monster.
It’s mesmerizing. Caught in the stillness, it’s impossible to distinguish click from clack. You get wrapped up in the solitude, secure you’re alone when in reality, you’re not. Always something in the darkness, crawling along on all fours with tatters of old suits hanging from dirty ribs. A ragged creature with an always open eyeball, looking for a friend to drag into the darkness. That chomp. Was that an ancient bear trap snaring a rabbit or the jaws of a once dead clamping open and shut. Teeth ground to dagger points. Ready to rip think thigh meat from your femur.
The next time the weird wind whistles, be sure to listen. Listen well.