A night at the Mills Road cemetery

All towns have ghosts. Ours was Jane Jackson, wife of the town’s founder. Her story had a messy ending. Messy enough for her to haunt the Mills Road’s cemetery, presumably waiting for justice, or perhaps just because she needed to do something to entertain herself in her after-life.

Every year, some fool who really should have known better found himself spending the night in the cemetery to ascertain Jane’s existence. It was a town tradition.

Thanks to my inability to resist Big Billy’s taunting, I was this year’s fool.

I hid my bicycle behind a bush by the graveyard gate. A dirty shovel stood against the wall inside. Great, now I would get to spend the night worrying about Jane and wondering from which freshly-dug grave would that vampire rise to drain my blood.

Did I mention I was not having fun?

I cautiously moved through the headstones. The silence was getting to me. I couldn’t hear anything but the beating of my heart, and the occasional cackling of a crow. And footsteps behind me.

Footsteps?

My heart started racing, and so did my legs. The person behind me – God, I really hoped it was a person – was running too.

“Johnny, stop!”

I stopped. Actually, I missed a step, stumbled and fell. Which had the same effect: I was no longer running. I could hear someone – something? – moving closer. I shut my eyes tight. It was above me now, breathing hard.

“Boy am I glad to see you!”

I opened my eyes to find myself staring at the freckled face of Lizzie Peters. She smiled wryly, offering her hand to help me to my feet.

“Big Billy got to you too, huh?”

My fingers closed around hers and I smiled back. This night was definitely looking up.