Graveyard stroll tonight, just me and the local ghoul again – tall fella, bones like a xylophone, hair doing its own haunted thing. He’s out there under a blue moon, gnawing thoughtfully on what might be last week’s femur, looking more contemplative than terrifying. A philosopher of the crypts, maybe.

The pumpkins around him grin wide, their candlelight laughter flickering across crooked stones. Bats loop lazy arcs overhead like punctuation marks in a ghost story. The ghoul doesn’t mind the company; he hums a tune between bites, something you might hear drifting through an old radio at midnight.

It’s not all doom and gloom out here – there’s a kind of peace to the chill. The trees are bare but listening, and even the graves seem to sigh in rhythm. The ghoul’s content in his way: unbothered, unhurried, eternal.

Sometimes I think he’s just reminding us – life’s short, bones are temporary, but a good night walk among friends (living or otherwise) lasts forever in memory.

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