ABRAXAS the LOVESICK SEA DRAKE
“I know this one too,” snickered Mors. “Who's laughing now, you cold slab of lard?” The skeleton's ribs rattled as he skittered over to the next row holding his lantern out so he wouldn't miss anyone. “And you—you big ape! Won't be able to drub poor pitiful Mors from under there, will you—Hee-e-e!”
Of course, no one buried on Grandview Hill answered the bone man. Residents here were not prone to conversation; they were just prone. As the raggedy little bundle of bones darted from one grave to the next bantering with past acquaintances, he scanned the headstones for just the right one.
Plodding along behind Mors was his shadow, Wurm, a cadaverous, hollow-eyed hulk who, despite his wan and ruddy complexion, and stench of death, was still breathing. He bore a lopsided smile, along with a bulging burlap sack . . . and a shovel.
The pale moon peeked down on them from its midnight covers as the pair wended their way through the cemetery's chiseled forest. “What's that?” Mors abruptly stopped in his tracks, almost causing Wurm to stumble over him. “Did you say something?” The big ghoul smiled lamely and shook his head. “Shhh!” Hushed Mors, as if to quiet the dead. “Listen!”
Wurm dropped the sack and shovel, and clasped both massive hands tightly over his ears. The only sound was his knees knocking . . . and a faint mewing coming from one of the plots.