A chill wind blows down the gulch, and you shiver and hug your ribcage. You would feel much better if you had not had to abandon your car on the border of Vampire Country. It's been a dark and dangerous walk to this point. Out of breath from climbing the spiral stairs in the dark, you come to a level space and stop to catch your breath. But, wait! Who is that spectral figure near the standing stone, with skull face and murderously gleaming scythe? Yes, it is the Grim Reaper. You must tread softly now.
There. You have passed the Reaper unnoticed, and you are inside the graveyard, for you have seen the Cemetery Road sign on the maple tree. Your feet whisper through the long grass. The gibbous moon casts spidery tree shadows across the hillside, but you find yourself drawn to a leaping well of light--an open fire, scented with the rich, chili-like smell of juniper wood. The flames call you, and you hold out your hands to the warmth. You look around. Other figures surround you, making merry. These must be guests of Uncialle. Should you nod to them? Dare you speak?
You search among the gravestones for the tomb of your dear friend, for it is your mission tonight to lay flowers at her stone, this year as always, in remembrance. The trunk of the white birch shines silver in the moonlight as you move among the headstones. Jack o' lanterns grin evilly here and there. Still as a carved statue, a raven keeps watch at the tombstone of Edgar Allen Poe.
The malicious eyes of small eye bead demons gleam in dark shadows. The tombstones themselves leap into light and fall back into darkness as the fire flickers and flames. Bram Stoker is buried here, and Mary Shelley. Algernon Blackwood lies near Dennis Wheatley and August Derleth's grave casts shadows upon the stone of H.P. Lovecraft. H. Rider Haggard's tomb is marked with lion-claw slashes. The slight stone of the renegade killer Simon Girty stands far up the hill, outcast. But where is your friend?
Wait! What is this evil mist creeping across the grass, winding its way about the gravestones like an insubstantial shroud? Ah, here's the source, a large, black cauldron. And who is this beside it, with gray, wrinkled face, ragged hair, and shabby dress? You have found the Stronghold's resident witch, Edith Needles, leaning upon her crooked staff, stirring a strangely foul brew. She watches you from her golden eyes and you retreat toward the fire.
You back away from Edith. Perhaps the grave you seek lies a little farther up the hill. Yes, yes! Here at last you find it, the grave of Ngaio Marsh, writer of many splendid murder tales. You lay your wilting flowers at the foot of her stone and kneel silent a moment, remembering. The lank grass feels like ice where your knees touch the ground. Then you turn toward the fire. Perhaps it is time for you to seek Uncialle, and hope she will show you the way out of the Stronghold, because if you are still here at midnight . . .
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