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John’s eye widened. He felt
she was looking right
through him, and he was sickened at her appearance. Maggie’s eyes were
sunken deep in their sockets. Her skin was pale like white powder, and
her fingernails were long, curved, and brittle.
She turned and walked up the stairs looking back
him. With an eerie tone, she said, “Leave.”
The rain soaked everything in sight. John left the
porch and sopped in the muddy puddles and around the property. He
noticed a mound of dirt surrounded with rocks and dried wilted flowers.
What in the world? he said to himself. John ducked
down close to the ground hoping he wouldn’t be struck by the
cloud-to-ground lightning. Before the next lightning bolt, he removed
the mud off the tombstone.
John’s heart stopped as an M appeared, followed by
the letter A. He vigorously moved his hands over the letters as the
name and dates became visible: Margaret Horton (1883-1899). Bewildered,
he sat back, crawling backward in the mud in disbelief.
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