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Remembered By A Numeral
Dark shadows cast by the trees overhead,
Whispers in the wind.
The only person known to me conversing about an infamous serial killer.
After trekking on the beaten path, we enter an open field, a death land marked by
nameless stones.
Who lies here? What killed them? Would they feel disrespected if they knew they would only be
Remembered by a numeral?
At the center of the field is a large cement cube topped with a statue of Christ and rosary beads,
Miscellaneous objects such as coins and keys.
Why leave something so precious in such a desolate ambiance?
Alas, it’s too late now. They surely were cursed already if they even got out alive.
Chills traveled down my spine like a waterfall of fright,
And I gave into the inescapable urge to leave that forsaken place.
And then,
As I was escaping,
Smoke,
Fire.
Who was responsible?
Was it a demon from Hell who cast a spell
Or a human stuck in a world of hurt,
Comforted by destruction?
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One day, I went on a walk with my friend through the woods. Being an avid photographer, she brought her camera. Soon enough, we came upon a small graveyard. It was certainly unusual -- the headstones were minuscule, lacking names to identify the dead. The only inscriptions on the cold marble were numbers. It made me uneasy to be face-to-face with what death is in its most raw form. Just as I thought the outing couldn't get any more off-putting, we came upon a raging fire, consuming a pile of twigs. It seemed as if the pile was constructed on purpose, but it was hard to discern whether or not accident or ill-intent lit it aflame. One of the creepiest details about the fire was how quickly it appeared. Indeed, my friend and I had just passed the sight a few minutes prior, and nothing was out of place. To this day, the curious occurrence still haunts me.