This morning, around 2:30 am, we were driving back from my friend Mike's house in Pottstown, back to West Chester, after a detour to Denny's. Having recently watched Evil Dead 2 and Night of the Living Dead, we were talking about a local slave cemetery, and how one of our more goulish friends wanted to dig up a corpse. Of course, we were all rather horrified by the idea, and wanted no part. Two of us--myself and Jesse--find it disrespectful to the dead, and possibly really bad karma. I have no desire to wake the dead and have them stalk me.
Sara didn't understand our aversion--"They're gone; what do they care?" Hey, gone or not, I don't want to mess around with the supernatural. I'm a total agnostic--I don't know what to believe, be it God, ghosts, or gorgonzola. I went on a rant about my hatred of cemeteries when I noticed that the car had stopped.
Yes, of course, a cemetery. The three of them got out of car. I locked the doors. That's when I noticed the hand coming out of the ground...
Ok, maybe that last part didn't happen. However, I don't like being in cemeteries at 2:30 in the morning.