I approached the wrought iron gates to the cemetery. They were ornate beyond necessity: filigreeing and pointing and posing in every which way. But that didn’t distract from the truth. Existing in the empty spaces between each constructed spindle, the cavity atop each pointed diamond shape, the voids swirling in and around each perfectly curled piece of metal were the gateways to hell. The doorway for the demons and ghosts and curses that are the haunting of each and every one of us until our dying days. Those spaces, each emptiness a playground for the devil himself.
She sat at the piano, her heart weighing heavy in her chest. Its dark wood was unkempt; littered with tea stains, rubbed bare where hands had come to rest. The ivory keys were stained and chipped, the black keys dull and begging to be brought back to life. She could hear the piano calling out her name, louder and louder, a crescendo filling the room. She flexed her fingers, resting them upon the keys that had once been so familiar. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back and began to play, imagining her mother beside her once more.