It was early afternoon when I passed through the cemetery. That sounds way creepier than I meant it to be. I'm not a freak who enjoys long walks across underground skeleton boxes. I was just walking home from school and I use the old graveyard as a convenient shortcut home. With time I even found it calming to walk past the graves and read the familiar names of the people buried there. Okay, maybe I am a freak.

Today however, I was in a bit of a hurry. Well not really in a hurry, I just wanted to get home as soon as possible. My shoes crunched on the gravel pathways as I ran straight past old William Andersen and Jeffrey Jones. I know it's weird that I know the names, don't judge. I was halfway through when my foot snagged on a small moss-covered log and I almost took a bite out of Marissa Brown's stylish granite headstone.

I eased myself up and started shaking off the dirt while I turned to curse at the log that had tripped me.

The small moss-covered log was actually a small moss-covered headstone. A really unimpressive thing, about half the size of a dinner plate. Strange that I never noticed it before. I rubbed the moss from it to read the chissled words. When I say chissled, I use the term loosely. Scratched would be a better description. No matter how strange the carving technique was, the words were even stranger:

Here Lies Marcus Fairfax

"Once Again"

Unloved by Death this one shall be

Once coin of living departs from thee

Placed upon mark of life to break bond.

with Thanatos, forming bond anew, you and he.

So? Don't stand gaping. Do it.

"What's a mark of Life?", I ask myself clearing away the rest of the moss. On the top of the stone was a small dip with something scratched into it. It was that weird Egyptian cross with the handle on it. "That must be the 'mark of life'", I guessed. I rummaged through my pockets for some change. I finally found a ten cent coin amongst the lint and other garbage in my pocket.

I know what you're probably thinking: "Don't do this, this is how horror movies start." I mean, you're right, but I might've had a slight concussion at that moment interfering with my better judgement. Also my friends often joked that I'd be the guy who dies in the horror movie before the protagonists show up.

I casually placed the coin in the little dip and waited a bit, completely forgetting that I was in a hurry moments ago.

Suddenly a dull thump came beneath my feet, followed by a course, crackling voice, like some who ate a box of staples, or someone who hadn't spoken in a long time.

"Ow, bloody hell. I left specific instructions that they shouldn't have nailed the coffin shut, bloody superstitions."

The thump didn't have enough force to do anything to me, but the voice sent me scrambling backwards to get away.

"Oi, you up there," the voice continued, sounding more natural with each syllable, "The one who used the coin, mind grabbing a shovel and digging me up, please. I'm somewhat stuck."

I may be someone who'd die first in a horror movie, but there was no way I'd dig up the source of the creepy dirt voice. I quickly gathered up my things from where they landed and scurried away fast enough to make Olympic athletes proud.

Within two minutes I was back in the safety of my own home. I wasted no time locking the door.

"I definitely have a concussion," I gasped as I dropped down on my couch.

Wait, I haven't even properly introduced myself. My name is Will, Short for Wilfred. I have brown hair that I keep short just because it's easier to manage. I basically live by myself, my parents do a lot of overseas volunteer work and just send me money each week. It's not as bad as it sounds, I'm quite comfortable on my own. I just do what I want and go on normally each day. It's not strange to me because that's just how my life is. I try to stay reasonably healthy, but that running was still quite a lot for me.

I decided to have some lunch and then take a quick shower, as I remembered that I was in a hurry because I had a package coming from my parents today. Whenever they go to an especially exciting place, they send my something that can only come from that place. It's mostly some kind of candy or dried food, but I really appreciate whatever I get because it's from them.

I entered my room to get a towel and a change of clothes, the ones I was wearing are full of dirt and sweat. My room is quite minimalistic, just a bed, desk and wardrobe, I didn't really need anything else in my room because I had a whole house to myself.

I had just gotten out of the shower and into clean clothes when I heard someone knocking on the door.

"Must be the package," I told myself. Strange that the guy was knocking and not using the doorbell.

I carefully scurried to the door cause my feet were still wet.

I reached the door and looked through the peephole just to make sure that it was the courier.

Instead, I saw a very, very dirty man with scruffy brown hair that might've been blonde at some point. He was also wearing an equally dirty coat.

A hobo.

Most people wouldn't open the door for a guy like him, but thanks to my charitable upbringing I felt compelled to help him. I didn't have any spare change, but I could at least give him some food.

I unlocked the door and opened it, but before I could even open my mouth to offer him food, his fist slammed into my jaw, knocking my head against the wall.

"Sorry about that", the hobo said in a strangely familiar voice.

He might've said more, but I blacked out before he could.