The charcoal sky spits cold rain as we rumble to a stop at a crossroad. Darkness swallows us as the car doors slam - and echoes - and we tumble through the crepuscular night. I shiver; the gelid air biting against my bare arms - as drops of water - sharp like needles - dig into my skin. Wet hair clings to my face - masking me like paint.

I pant. Scrambling across the cobblestones, as a cocoon mist shrouds my feet - we stumble. I watch, as he shoves open the gate - listening as he tries to smother the creak which emanates from its hinges. Waiting. My feet, toes sinking into the mud, patter across the soft grass, skeletal bones pale against the cedar-coloured dirt. My shaking hands reach for the alabaster stones, but something grabs my wrist - halting my motion. Wait for the others, he signs. So I wait.

So my homework... Gothic literature is so boring...