The chill in the air left prickles on your spine. The fall air smelled of old leaves and a crispness. Everyday you'd walk to the cemetery listening to The Cure in your walkman. You enjoyed visiting the graves, especially one that peaked your interest. The name was scratched out, but it had a statue of what seemed to be a young man. The only other thing recognizable being he was from the 19th century. You would sit under it talking about nonsensical things or sometimes reading old literature. You had become quite fond of this grave, even giving him your mother's old prayer beads as a small gift. This night, you sat under it as usual, but this time something changed. The dirt began to rumble under you as a finger began to poke out.