Grab your lamp and your shovel, for tonight we seek the riches of the dead, the stuff they took along, but for which they really no longer have need. The work is heavy and sweat drip-drips on ancient wood, twinge of fear, is a caretaker around? Or do the rotten corpses beneath us twist and turn, annoyed at least at us disturbing their peace. Is it our imagination or did that skull really grin at us? No matter, its teeth are gold, rings and money interred make for a profitable night, which is by no means over yet and plenty of graves to desecrate. Hurry now, the midnight hour is nigh and though we fear no ghost or dancing skeleton, the witching time can bring forth our deepest fears and make them real. Clock strikes twelve and suddenly the Necropolis seems larger than life. Mausoleums shudder with morbid expectation and fresh graves shiver with deadly anticipation, not for us to enter, or dig, but to leave behind our earthly shells and join the ever swelling ranks of those that ceased to exist. With more than ordinary haste we march along the rows of stones, each darker and more threatening than the last, until at last our way is barred. The gates of dark iron might well be the gates of Hell, like fingers of bone stretching up, ready to grab our very souls. They say the dead lie still, that they care not for their riches, that they cannot hurt the living. Never had there been such fright and now we lie still, finally at rest on an ancient tomb, our eyes stare up, seeing only the coins that come in pairs...

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• Literature & FictionHorror

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