For the SCREAMS! contest.
|George was working a double shift again at the graveyard. Of course, the person who was supposed to show up after his shift never came, so he had to keep on working. George was used to working double shifts now. Someone would always get spooked and run away from the job without any notice, so his aggravation was low. He was more just disappointed that he wasn't at home, warming his feet by the fire and drinking some hot tea.
The leaves needed gathering as they had all fallen off the trees after a massive storm, so he worked with his rake, making a rhythmic scraping noise as he did so. He made pile after pile, feeling the exhaustion of work that would never be completely done. More leaves would fall, and he would be at an endless pursuit with them until winter came. Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Toward the end of the night, George started bagging up all of the leaves that he could so that the graveyard would look somewhat pristine for the mourners when they came during the day. Nobody liked having a big pile of leaves next to their dead loved ones, except for maybe children who didn't know any better. He worked diligently, until he got to one pile. Scrape, scrape, scrrraaape. It wouldn't go into the bag. It was like it was stuck to the ground.
At first, he tried to take off the top layer and work his way down. It still wouldn't budge. Then he swung at it, but his rake wouldn't go through. Finally, he attacked it like a wild man, frustrated enough to get violent. He got his hands inside of it. Unfortunately, he got a little bit of wet goo on his hands, and he tried to flick it off. When that didn't work he tried to scrape it onto his jeans. Scrape, scrape, scrape. It just wouldn't come off.
What it did seem to be doing was leaking down his hand in copious amounts. More than what he originally even had on his hand. It was like a little waterfall that he had no control over. He could also feel the goo adhering to whatever it touched. Alarmed, he took his rake to it, trying to pick it off. He scratched and scratched. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
He couldn't feel his hand. He wasn't even sure it was there anymore. In a panic, he cried for help, but no one could hear him in this desolate graveyard. He banged his hand against the ground, starting to cry as the goo engulfed his arm. It was moving at a rapid pace, taking up his shoulder and chest. It finally reached his neck and face, covering his mouth. Scream, scream, scream all he wanted, but he was never going to be heard. He felt himself slowly dissolving, and his tears did nothing to combat the goo. They were just as quickly erased as he found himself to be.
In one final attempt, he stood up and threw himself on the ground, hoping to shake it off. This just appeared to make it angry, and it moved his body underneath the pile of leaves, burying him alive. It grabbed hold of his rake as well, and it scraped its way underneath. Scrape, scrape, scrape.