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They say you should never go there at the witching hour, lest the ghoul family that lives in the white stone mausoleum decide to eat your bones.
They say there are corpse-lights there that dance above the stones when the moon is full, green-yellow, blue-green, bobbing and weaving in the moonlight like holy fireflies.
They say an Archbishop of the realm is buried there due to a filing mix-up. His stone’s unmarked, they say; while somewhere in the big city, beneath a grand old cathedral, a poor peasant farmer slumbers under gilded marble angels.
They say if you go to that place on the night of a lunar eclipse, you’ll travel back to the time of the gallows and the charnel house; you’ll smell the scent of burning corpses and hear the wailing widows, and no doubt our savage, superstitious ancestors will take you for a witch and drown you quicker than blink.
They say it’s a lovely place to go for a picnic, to eat sandwiches and pickles, drink ginger ale, and watch the sun sink lower and lower on a short summer afternoon.
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