A boundless, eerie wind breathes through the icy gravestones. The entrance gates’ screeching cries break the thick, desolate silence. The only living thing that resides this melancholy estate is the grass. Ironically, it thrives with life in this field of death. The endless sea of faded stones lay unstirred and forgotten. No person visits this place anymore. The grounds are rotten, reeking of foul droppings and sewage and the grass smothers each headstone, erasing it from sight. There’s always a gloomy and cliché overcast: extremely frigid with a blinding fog. The air is thick, causing one’s lungs to gasp for breath. It’s almost as if spirits are wrapping their icy, dead fingers around your neck and squeezing the oxygen from your lungs. At the few moments that light actually appears, it’s a sickly yellow. It oozes through the fog and stains everything fulvous, which makes it not often missed.
About a mile down from the burial grounds, there lies a church. Small in stature and not very extravagant, the church would go unnoticed in any other graveyard. But here, there couldn’t be anything more beautiful. It glows with a seraphic light although shaded by thick weeds. The age of the building seems to add to the beauty. The stain glass windows project a luminous rainbow display across the room with every glimpse of light that passes by and the suffocating grass compliments the walls and hugs each corner of the building. From inside the church, one would never assume they were on the estate of such a haunting and fearsome place.