How Not To Raise The Dead

Nariah tied a colorful headband over her forehead and pressed it gently back to contain her tightly coiled hair. The chill in the night air prickled along her bare arms, bringing an electrifying awareness along with it. There were spirits on the rise.

Just over an hour ago Nariah had felt the call, a pressure under her breastbone, a yearning that couldn’t be satisfied with mortal pleasures. The call of the grim. She followed it here to Magnolia Cemetery and looked out at the gently rolling grounds from the safety of the parking lot.

The magnolia tree at the caretaker house, older than Nariah at least, stretched over graves and ground alike, its stiff white blooms open in the moonlight, glowing like stardrops. Its soft scent permeated the grounds, pressing an ancient healing into the spirits who rested here. A magic older than the city itself. But something had disturbed that old rest. Spirits that should have been sleeping moaned in the darkness.