Like a shroud, the fog hung low and curled around the gravestones. As if the graveyard''s hold went beyond dirt and stone, it carried a chill that soaked into the flesh. The smell of moss and the weight of time filled the moist air.


    A figure strode through the haze, the sound of his boots crunching gently on the gravel road. In the dim light of the lantern he was carrying, his lengthy and warped shadow danced as though the mist were alive. As if the earth had to give him permission with every step, he moved slowly and methodically. His darkened and worn long coat trailed behind him, while his gloved hands were concealed in his pockets. As if listening, he paused next to a group of uneven stones and cocked his head slightly.


    "Oh, please, refrain from beginning with the dramatics," he whispered in a low, steady voice. "Aren''t you sure I''m here?" What have you been hiding? We''ll find out.


    Like air being exhaled from old lungs, the cemetery let forth a little sigh. It wasn''t just background noise; rather, it sounded like a vibration humming through the air. A short, piercing grin spread across the man''s face as he smirked.


    Reaching for the closest pebble, he ran his fingertips over it. Its little quiver under his touch may have been accidental if not for the rising sound of hushed, playful murmurs. A shadow moved in the mist, just beyond the periphery of visibility. A harsh but unfazed stare darted toward it from the man.


    Whispers intensified as he descended further into the fog, their tones immature and ephemeral like invisible fingers caressing his flesh. Coming to a halt, he cocked his head to listen.


    He mumbled something about being impatient tonight. You''ve been patient all these time. You can handle another minute without damage. Once more.


    A slippery, decaying vine snaked out of the mist and wrapped its chilling, purposeful grip around his boot. With one eyebrow arched, he cast a look downward.


    Then what? With a purposeful flick of his foot, he dismissed the old trick. "Your demeanor is far from subtle."


    With a twist, the vine drew back into the haze. As it vanished into the fog, a pale, eerie light persisted at the spot where it had made contact with his boot, gently pulsating. A chill crept into the air as the whispers subsided, like if laughing were muted by someone''s clasped hands. With his eyes narrowing, the man halted.


    After saying, "Play all you want," he proceeded to brush his coat clean and continued on. "Remember who''s responsible, though."


    The cemetery seemed like it was humming again, a deep, sulky rumbling that made the earth quiver a little under his feet.


    He paused in front of a modest, inconspicuous tombstone. An aura of subtle defiance permeated its surface, which was fractured and weathered by ages of precipitation and remorse. Mary was the name that was hardly readable.


    Still fidgety, Mary? he whispered as he crouched down by the stone. With an ease that betrayed his habit, his fingertips traced the weathered writing. "This time, what is it?" Still another recollection you can''t let go of?


    Disjointed snippets of sound—a woman''s voice calling from an unseen location, a figure standing in a doorway, and the sharper whispers that had been filling the air earlier rose again.


    He whispered, "A house," with a contemplative tone in his voice. A lamp, too. It''s the only thing you''re offering me?


    As if to convey an unspoken regret, the earth underneath him quivered slightly. All murmurs ceased. He stood slowly, rubbing his hands on his gloves as he sighed.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    "Try again," he muttered. All right. I''ll find a way to do it by myself.


    Even with all its showmanship, the cemetery said nothing more. In response to a subtle rustling sound, he looked over his shoulder to see that the fog was rapidly engulfing him, encasing the mysteries of the tomb.


    He walked away, and the mist pushed back, making a cozy blanket around Mary''s tomb. Once more, the graveyard was quiet, but this time there was something different about it: it seemed a little more alert as the whispers stopped.


    He broke the silence by asking, "Hey, can you hear their voices?" A little tilt of his head made it look like he was waiting for an answer from the empty space around him.


    His voice was soft and friendly, and he said, "No, of course you don''t." I really do, though. Every little sound. I''m truly sorry for that. Their stories have been told for a long time and are woven into the fabric of our country. Someone just needs to listen to them.


    He turned his head a little and listened again. After that, there was a soft rustling sound and some strange whispers. A little smile came out of his mouth because he found it funny.


    His question was, "Do you really think I enjoy this?" Maybe I do. Most likely not. No matter what, we''ve come. All of us, even those people.


    The whispers started to rise again, but they didn''t want to. He took a deliberate step into the fog, smiled, and disappeared.


    His voice was very low as he asked, "What about the dead?" It looks like they can''t talk, but that''s not true. They really do talk all the time.


    Along with the man, the fog changed the graves in a way that was hard to miss. One crow was sitting on an out of level grave. It had feathers that were as dark and smooth as obsidian. It let out a sad cry that could be heard throughout the cemetery as it looked around for him.


    The man''s step decelerated as he continued down the trail. The light from his candle danced irregularly, as if fighting the stifling fog. With a sudden halt, he pivoted toward a group of tombstones engulfed in heavier fog. What seemed like disturbed soil beneath them was actually somewhat uneven and marked with faint, irregular lines. Getting down on one knee, he brushed the moss off a tombstone that looked more recent than the rest.


    He didn''t recognize the name, but the date—very recent, almost too recent—made him narrow his eyes. As he traced the silky letters with his gloved fingers, he whispered, "Now this is interesting." "So new among the old, what brings you to this place?"


    As they pressed against his ears, the murmurs grew louder. No longer were they disorganized; rather, they were adamant, bordering on frantic. He got to his feet and allowed the light from the lantern to dance over the rumbled ground. As the fog lifted once more, we could make out the faintest of footsteps that led away from the cemetery. They led into the thickest section of the mist, yet they were shallow and barely imprinted in the soft dirt.


    His tone was slightly inquisitive as he asked, "So you''re not resting, are you?" He set out on foot, the lantern jangling in his palm, to follow the path. He felt as though the murmurs were leading him now, toward an invisible force.


    The fog increased and the air got colder as he advanced. Denser tree growth was evident, with skeleton branches entwined like a cage above. It seemed as if the earth were hesitant to let him pass, for the ground became softer with every step. Though they stayed just beyond my reach, the murmurs became more intelligible and nearly formed words.


    A broad, shallow hole hastily covered with loose soil and leaves was the site of his second visit. A stifling stillness descended upon the room as the hushed murmurs suddenly died out. The man cocked his head to examine the situation. The light from the lantern formed long, fluttering shadows across the pit as he delicately placed it on the ground. He knelt down and used slow, controlled movements to sweep the dirt away until he saw something shiny.


    An heirloom. In tact despite visible wear & tear. He lifted it, the chain hanging loosely, and turned it open. Within, there was a worn-out snapshot of a youthful lady with a strand of hair resting on the windowpane. As he clenched his fists over the locket, his face turned sinister.


    "Well, now," he whispered. "Haven''t you been keeping things from me?"


    As the stillness increased, the weight of the air made it seem as if the cemetery were holding its breath. With the locket in his pocket, he rose to his feet and peered into the mist. Something changed further ahead in the cemetery. In the distance, yet clearly discernible, a soft glow flickered. His strides were determined and unwavering as he started marching in its direction without any hesitation.


    "Restless secrets, restless souls," he said. "I''m interested in seeing where this goes."