Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

In the heart of the forgotten graveyard, where time itself seemed to wither away, two spirits lingered long after their earthly ties had faded. They were small, childlike in appearance, yet the weight of centuries clung to them like a shroud. The world had moved on, but they remained, bound to this place of eternal rest.

A gnarled tree stood at the edge of the graveyard, its twisted branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. From one of its sturdy limbs hung a creaky old swing, a relic from when the graveyard was still a place visited by the living. The swing had long been forgotten, but not by the spirits.

Every night, as the moon cast its cold light over the tombstones, the two spirits would gather by the swing. The first spirit, smaller and more timid, would sit on the swing, while the other, slightly taller and braver, would gently push it, their translucent forms glowing faintly in the dark.

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The swing would creak softly, the only sound in the otherwise silent graveyard. Back and forth it went, a slow, rhythmic motion that seemed to echo with memories long gone. The spirits never spoke, for they had no need for words. Their bond was one of shared loneliness, a companionship forged in the silence of death. n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

The gravestones nearby bore the names of the spirits, though the inscriptions had long since eroded away. The earth had claimed their bodies, but not their souls. They were forgotten, yes, but not entirely lost. They had each other, and in this small comfort, they found solace.

But there was a sadness in their play, a lingering sorrow that could not be dispelled. For they knew, deep down, that they were only echoes of their former selves, mere shadows in a world that no longer remembered them. And so they played on, night after night, the swing creaking softly in the moonlight, a lullaby for the lost.

As dawn approached, the spirits would fade away, returning to their graves to rest until nightfall. The swing would slow to a stop, left to sway gently in the morning breeze, an eerie reminder of the spirits’ nocturnal visit.

And so it continued, an endless cycle of haunting play. The swing, though old and worn, would never break, just as the spirits would never find peace. They were bound to this place, to each other, and to the swing of lost souls.