I entered the ghastly graveyard, with my dad's big boots on. Stepping my first step in a puddle at the corroded iron gate, a flash of lightning crossed the sky thus illuminating the tombstones for a moment; the thunder of the lightning came chasing behind the flash which superseded the howling of the wolves for an instant.
On I went inside the graveyard; eerie owl-hoots welcoming my arrival. Although it was an overcast night, a mixture of nervousness and fear pour down my forehead in the form of sweat. Advancing to my desired place, I stepped on something that made a crunching sound. At first, it felt as though it were a bone! But no, it was a twig. In situations like this, your intellect often deceives you.
In no time, rain started pouring down the sky which became so heavy that my visibility reduced to nearly one-third of it's former strength. Fortunately, anticipating that it would rain, I had brought my raincoat along.
Despite having my eyes covered with the hat of the raincoat, hardly was a four feet tall tombstone visible while standing within a radius of two metres; I even bumped into the hard tombstones a few times, such was my condition. At length, I managed to find the tomb I was looking for: inscribed with bold letters the name ‘Michael Heathcliff’.
It was not long after I discovered the tomb when a heavy hand touched my shoulder. With a violently throbbing heart and a trembling body, I mustered up the courage to turn back, only to discover the other hand bringing down a dagger from a height of seven feet. Within seconds, I was lying in the dirt: blood gushing out of the cut to water the moses below.
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