by Kimberly Rei
The churchyard trembled at night. Pauly said that wasn’t possible. Pauly was full of shit. Stand off the property and it was fine, but so much as one toe over the edge and there it was. The ground was afraid. The old small church was scared right down to it’s last nail. If you listened closely, if you could get past the trees rustling, you could hear the pews tremble.
No one had attended mass there in decades. Centuries, maybe.
But they still buried their dead on that land. I know. I tended the graves. And I felt them quiver.
Kim has taught writing workshops and edited novels for Authors You May Recognize. She has three published short stories and has become a greedy beast, hungry for more. She currently lives in Tampa Bay, Florida with her beautiful, supportive wife and an abundance of gorgeous beaches to explore. studio-rei.mailchimpsites.com