Bathed in the pale light of the full moon, the moss-covered tombstones stood crooked under a sky the color of ash. Then came the tremor — subtle at first, a murmur beneath the roots.
A low moan, not of wind, but of something older, deeper, rolled through the cemetery. From the cracked earth of an ancient crypt, they slithered: tentacles, glistening and wet, hungry for new flesh. They writhed upward, groping at the sky as though searching for a gate left ajar.
They coiled around widows' ankles and wrists, snapping flesh like twigs, deaf to the pleas of their victims. With each writhing motion, the captured victims were dragged towards the graves, the air thick with the scent of decay and rot.