"You're out awful late, arentcha? These ain't the parts for one of your ilk. Might get folk to talkin'."

Dirt flies in loose, damp arcs through the cold night air. It seems to be a cold and laborious process and the ground beneath your feet almost seems frozen solid, with as long as it's taking the hunched, bony figure standing in that hole in the ground to send another shovelful flying. In a listless fashion, you wonder how long the old man's been out there digging that grave. His name is Mortimer and he works as a gravedigger in these parts. You recognize him by the thick, gray tufts of hair sticking out of his ears, his yellowed teeth and his tendency to spit between sentences. He pauses for a moment, placing one large foot on the head of the shovel and resting his weight against it as he looks over his shoulder at you, his rheumy eyes faintly glazed over from alcohol.

"That's right. I recognize you, Whatever-Your-Name-Is." Mortimer spits again, using his free hand to wipe saliva and dirt from his face. It merely smears more dirt there, as if the graveyard itself were taunting his efforts. The large headstones and stony crosses loom off in the distance, white and sad as ghosts in the misty night. You tilt your head away from the gravestones as he opens his mouth to speak again, watching him with a detached sort of curiosity. He rocks his weight back on his heels, still using that rusty shovel as a tenuous sort of support. "This be the night of the full moon--" He leans forward as suddenly as he'd leaned back and without being able to smell it, you somehow know his breath must carry an awful stench with it.

"Never got used to these damned European nights, you know. Cold. Freeze the piss right in your bladder! And the dead here don't even have th' decency to stay that way. Nights like these're the worst. Oh, aye, especially with th' buried women. He lets out a wet, sickly sounding laugh, then points a finger at you. "Ireland, though, it's worse here. We've strong women, sure enough. Might be that reason more'n any that we've our ghosts." He scratches his lice-ridden beard and smacks his lips as he regards the outline of your figure in the darkness. "What's say I tell you a few stories? Could spook the common sense back into you!" Mortimer laughs raucously, then dissolves into coughing all over again. "Look at those fine clothes of yours. Apple of your mother's eye? Well, I've a tale about a mother for you..." In spite of the fact you thought he might have been about to tell you a story, he gestures with a gnarled hand toward a white, wispy figure drifting toward the pair of you. "Well. Not me. But Maureen there? She can be tellin' you herself! No one better to tell that kind of story  than someone's ma."

Though you should feel fear, all you do is regard the thin figure of the woman who now floats before you calmly and curiously. However, when she opens her mouth to speak, you feel a chill run down your spine. "My name is Maureen O' Coakley..."


Mortimer jerks his chin toward another figure off in the distance. She has dirt in her hair and the sight of her causes your stomach to churn. "Mebbe a story about love?" You can almost hear her thoughts as she looks toward you.

You watch the motion of her lips as she mouths words you can barely make out. 'First her, then you,' you think, inexplicably.