the Rabbit Hole (The Cards) [not finished]

Ernie had been paid to watch the plot since he was but a wee lad, and he'd never done it sober. The place had always put him on edge, even now that it's many shadowed corners had been illuminated by the familiarity of several years. It was especially frightening on windy days, when the air blew in across the open expanse of the moors, shrieking across the tombstones and ringing the bells softly, which would start that ole' unsteady shake in Ernie; as familiar as the plot, or the taste of whiskey.1

"One day one of them will ring for sure," he'd always tell himself. Really, he doubted it'd happen, but he hoped that saying it repeatedly, as a toast before each drink he took, would help him to not be surprised if it did.2

When he heard the first one ring, he brushed it off as the usual caress of the breeze. Then another rang, and another, and another until the plot was alive with the tintintabulation of jingling, jangling, clanging bells, set in motion by the cords tied to them, trailing down into the graves where, somewhere under all that dirt, dead fingers squirmed and pried at coffin lids.3

Ernie's job was to, at this point, dig up the grave experiencing activity and welcome the 'dead ringer' back into the land of the living. But all of them were ringing, and he didn't know what to do. He grabbed his old, rusty shovel, spun in a circle, and fainted.4

~~~5