This is one of my favorite pieces I wrote:

Red Ink

The wind gently crossed the barren graveyard behind the small-dilapidated church. Not a single soul had paid a visit to this small cemetery in many years. Most of the souls that still sat in the graveyard just remained as forgotten old memories that lingered about the compacted yard. Not many feet had been placed upon the thin wilting grass surrounding the corpses that silently sat in the cemetery, The few loved ones that would come, just silently and motionless watch the small gold bells that sat next to the old head stones, waiting for a small ring to shatter the air. Rarely would a moment like this lift the spirit in the family’s heart, letting there dead relative live.
Up the dirt road a woman wrapped in a long black shawl approached the barren gravesite. Her hood remained down at her shoulders, reveling her long black hair swaying in the breeze. Her face was worn away by the passing years, making her face have a wretched look. Her large blue eyes were wide with alarm, standing out against the paleness of her frail white skin. She seemed to camouflage with the November weather that encased the land around the burial site. The sky was a pale gray, the lifeless pale trees barely noticeable against the sky. If one only glanced at the woman for a brief second, they may have considered her a ghost.
The young woman slowly took a step closer to the bone yard, brushing up the dust on the long dirt road. She approached with caution, hesitating at every step. The wind picked up as she patiently neared the rickety gate at the entrance of the gravesite, almost as if it was an omen. She seemed to be thunderstruck as she stepped through the barrier between the mortal land, in which the unpaved road lay, and the world of the dead, in which the corpses of living bodies that once walked lived.
Her eyes focused on the dead grass that crunched ever so slightly as she crossed the dead silent graveyard, She pasted the many silent, motionless bells although none of them rang against the blowing wind. Her face was filled with dismay for the lost souls that no one seemed to pay abide too. She continued laagering passed the old stone graves, her black cloak shielding her from the boasting wind. She walked slowly, ever so slowly to the edge of the cemetery, in which a lone headstone sat.
Vines encased the headstone in a dead, grotesque green color. The name was illegible against the old concrete, after being worn away by the passing years. The grass that encased the body was a brown crab grass, which remained lifeless. The dirt that contained the casket that held the corpse was dry and rigid, remaining as lifeless as when the body had been obscured.
The woman knelt down next to the fatigued gravestone, and tenderly began to brush away the inanimate vines. Although the gravestone’s encasement had been removed, the name of the dead soul was still undecipherable. The woman began to sob softly against the wailing winds. The blaring winds captured her deep cries, and shipped them off to another land, far from where she was positioned in the bone site.

Meanwhile, within heart of the small church, an elderly minister sat at a wobbly desk in his office. His gray hair still had hints of brown, and his pale brown eyes stared off into empty space. His hands quaked slightly against the glacial winds of autumn, as he frantically wrapped himself in his heavy wool cloak. He sensed something approaching, although he couldn’t quite decipher what the foretoken added up to mean.
He leisurely began to pick up his quill, and doused it in dark blood red ink. He left the feather to sit in the container, as he anxiously removed a thin piece of parchment from a long wooden drawer. The paper had been shipped from over seas, from the minister’s home land of England, and was last thing he had left from his dreadful childhood. He looked in despair at his last piece of childhood stationary, as he gently lifted his pen from the deep red ink. He slowly began to write a note, so his life would not become like the ones sitting behind the venerable church.
My dear patrons_______
He paused for a moment, to a bland noise within the body of the cemetery. The sound was almost like a small shriek from the distance, a sound that roamed the gravesite almost everyday. The man shrugged, and began to refocus on his work believing that the scream wasn’t anything. As he reproached his work another shriek pierced the stale air. Never has so many simultaneous screams occurred at once; he could bare the noise any longer. The minister threw his quill upon the parchment, and wrapped himself tighter in his cloak as he ran out towards the burial site.
The quill remained to sit upon the parchment, slowly soaking the into the leather material of the paper. As the ink that sat on the tip of the pen began to disappear into the parchment, the wind picked up ever so slightly. The wind encased the bottle of ink, rocking it back and forth, back and forth until the bottle tilted onto its side. The ink that took capacity in the center of the bottle slowly poured out of the container onto the parchment, blending in with th ink that filled the parchment before it had came to be on the paper. The wind then lifted the blood red parchment off the desk, and out the door towards the bone yard, trailing deep red ink across the floor.

Turning back time, just by a couple minutes one would see the woman standing besides the old, tattered gravestone. She remained staring at the old headstone, barely flinching at the loud calls of the birds. Her eyes rarely blinked as she eyed the small bell next to head stone. She seemed determined to see a miracle occur, although somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it would never happen. She continuously stared at the bell, eyeing the shining gold color the barely visible sun cast upon the many bells in the gravesite, almost causing an eerie glow.
She began to drift away to a distant land a small chime scraped the musty air from close by. She frantically looked up to the sound of the noise, questioning where the sound had come from. She didn’t want to believe where it was coming from, yet she found that she was forced too. Where else would the ringing come from? The woman’s frail, slim body began to shake in terror just because of that one small chime, and her teeth began to chatter.
The wind had remained motionless, not a single breeze had blown through the gravesite. The woman glanced down at her knees, trying to focus on the grass that covered the top layer of the ground. She counted every insect the crawled across the ground at her feet to calm her nerves. She lifted her head to the sound of another chime, which she was positive she saw coming from the bell next to the headstone. The ring continued loud in her head, until she could take it any longer, and screamed. A shriek that pierced the air, louder than she ever had before. Still the bell continued to ring, louder and louder, more frantically each time. As bell swung back the woman would without hesitation take a step away from the grave. When the ringing had finally ceased, the woman had landed against the back of a large oak tree.
She remained against the tree, hyperventilating, for a couple long terrifying minutes. She continued to eye the ground that should contain a dead body for an endless amount of time. Waiting for something dreadful to appear from the frigid ground. Her breathing was loud and heavy, as she puffed and wheezed against the cold stiff air. The woman had experienced many frightening times, that had in fact involved death, but this seemed to be the worst one yet, the hardest challenge without a doubt.
The woman then pierced the air with her shriek again the howling wind shipping her scream up in a package, and shipping it off to somewhere far away from the abandoned graveyard. This time, it wasn’t the small brass bell that made her scream; it was something that caught her attention. The thing that made her scream wasn’t anything she though possible, until the moment in which she shrieked.

Only a few seconds after her yell had shaken the air, the minister appeared in the church doorway, to note what all the commotion was happening on the premises. He spotted the woman leaning against the tree, her face as white as a ghost after being stricken with terror. He approached the young lady with caution, in order not to frighten her. Slowly he walked up to her, the woman’s eyes following him the whole way there, and sat down beside her. “Darling child, what is wrong?” he whispered gently in her ear, in a concerning voice.
“A hand, a hand was coming from the confines of the grave.” Her shrill voice answered.
“I’m sorry to admit this to you dear, but I afraid you are hallucinating. That grave has been empty for many years, for the body has been moved to a gravesite more worthy of the man’s body then this one.”
The woman looked up at the minister and screamed, “You think I am a whack-job don’t you? Huh?” The minister gazed at the woman in astonishment, at how loud her voice had gotten.
“Well, um….” The minister didn’t know what to say, he was dumbstruck.
“I’m not; I know what I saw, there was a hand of a person. The bell was ringing!”
“But there isn’t a body in the grave.” The minister croaked.
The woman looked at the old minister and smiled. A large cruel smirk crossing her pale white face, which gave a hint of wickedness that lurked within her veins. She quickly glanced at the old, nameless gravestone, as the grimace left her face. “Look at the head stone now old man.”
The minister reluctantly turned his head towards the gravestone, and gave a loud yelp. He remained frozen in that spot for a long moment, petrified with affliction. He removed his gave from the headstone and turned back to the cruel, heartless woman. “How could this happen? Why does this headstone have my name on it?” The minister’s breath was very shallow.
The woman smirked, and cackled a cruel laugh. “You don’t get it do you? I fake the whole frightened woman thing. I knew there wasn’t a body; the messenger of death always knows where a body is buried. Therefore I would’ve known if a body lay in the casket under the dirt.” Her voice had then changed from a shrill, high-pitched voice, to a smooth, cruel vocal.
The minister gazed at the woman towering over him. “You’re a witch. A cruel evil witch.”
The woman laughed her devilish laugh again. “No my dear man, a witch would be a complement. But no, I am not a witch.” She snatched the axe that lay next to the grand oak tree. “Indeed no, I have abilities much greater then any witch you probably ever encountered.” She gently stroked the edge of the blade, like it was a precious jewel.
“Then who are you?” The minister’s quiet voice stuttered as he talked, his hands shaking at his side frantically,
“Who am I? Who am I?” She placed more expression onto the second time she repeated the fraise. She cackled loudly and continued to talk. “Get on you knees old man, I have no mercy for someone with the likes of you.” She gazed down at the minister’s eyes, his pupils dilated with terror.
The ministers glanced over at the church, to the sound of rustling paper. “What’s that?” he whispered to the woman.
“What’s what?” the woman snarled.
“The blood red paper blowing in the breeze.”
The woman glanced in the direction at the direction the minister was pointing in. She quickly eyed the minister, and sped over to the parchment, and snatched it in mid flight. “Oh I love myself a good omen!” the woman laughed loudly.
“An omen?” the minister gasped. He had heard of omens. There were rumors throughout the colonies that witches used them to control mortals. He found one of his greatest phobias was the fear of being controlled, especially by an omen.
“Yes, an omen. A very nice one indeed.” The woman held up the ink stained parchment in front of the man. The color was a dark blood red, in which was dripping gently off the parchment. The woman slowly turned the parchment, which resemble a blood stained wrapping, revealing some of the original ink that had bled through. The ink formed a sloppy, yet legible word, a word the woman knew so well.
Death
“Interesting, isn’t it what an omen can mean? Yet strangely creatures like myself are the only ones capable of deciphering the true meaning of the omen.” The woman laughed her wicked cackle.
“What does the omen mean?” The minister had a suspicion he already knew, yet he still shook in horrid.
“It obviously means, it is time for you to die.” The woman’s voice was serious, as she gazed down at her victim, her eyes suddenly turning a complete black.
The minister stumbled backwards, feeling as if all the air had been sucked out of him. ‘B-b-but how can you be positive it doesn’t mean you?”
The woman laughed loudly, her smile larger than ever. “You see old man, I can die. I bring you the message of your death.”
“Who are you?” The minister’s voice was stronger; he didn’t want to die a weak, sad old man.
“Who am I?” the woman laughed. She lifted the axe to her shoulder. “I am…” she placed the axe high above her head “the…” She perfectly aligned the blade into the executing position. “Grim Reaper!” She swung the axe with all her might, slicing the body of the man through the torso.
The man gave out a cry of terror that pierced the descending evening air. The woman released her grip on the axe and saw it lodge within the confines of his dismembered corpse. She felt a source of accomplishment, seeing the minister lying dead at her feet, just as she always did when she told the dying their time had come. Still this one seemed the most satisfying. It was possibly because of the role she played when preparing her kill.
She watched as her victim slowly sank into the ground in which his grave was made. First his legs, followed by his abdomen, and torso. His head went in next, his still dilated eyes staring up at his killer. Last his hands, which were reaching for the clouds sank into the cold stiff ground, calling for help. The woman chuckled softly, and turned her back on her victim.
She smiled her cruel smile, and placed the hood over her head. She slowly began to walk into the night sky, away from the quiet graveyard. And thus the true beginning of the Grim Reaper’s killings began, being that way ever since. But still only would she appear at the call of death.


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