THE GHOST YARD

   It is not a full return to darkness. That dim light remains. It has no origin. The air itself, and the stone walls and flooring, seem to swell with this light. I begin to walk forward, toward the door. When I reach the doorway I pause to listen. Expecting to hear someone breathing on the other side, I lean forward, cocking one ear. What I hear is not breathing. A solitary drip . . . drip . . . but I can’t tell if it’s water or something else; is it hitting wood?—that’s a little bit what it sounds like, like water dripping onto a piece of wet wood, or maybe an overflowing gutter dripping rainwater onto fallen leaves.

No, I know this sound. I don’t want to admit it but I know it. 

I’ve heard this sound before . . . 

It’s the sound of dripping blood.