Option 3 for Lady Pixie's contest

You vaulted the rickety gate and rushed to the Church of Saint Radwan, looking around you with trepidation. The graveyard had not been tended to in over two centuries, the gardener having died soon after the pastor abandoned the church. The few, scattered headstones were cracked and covered in moss. The grass and the once magnificent gardens were tremendously over grown. A few, sparse snowflakes dotted the landscape as though it had been dusted with icing sugar1

Spidery vines crept up the outside walls and into the church, slowly taking over. Weeds threaded their way through the cobblestones that lead towards the church and snaked through the necropolis. The graves themselves had the look of being rummaged through; the ground was broken up with tree roots and plants, and glistened with hoar-frost like it was made out of glass. On nights such as this night, white tendrils wove through the headstones, as though the spirits contained throughout the day could finally walk upon the earth and look again upon the face of their beloved moon.2

Inside, the rafters were crumbling in most places. The pews, scattered and fallen, and the doorways were rotting. Yet the stonework was somehow still intact. The floor was covered in puddles, like great blotches of ink on a piece of paper, from the previous day's rain. Most of the wall sconces had fallen away, leaving great dark wounds along the walls. The front door swung wildly on its hinges in the tearing wind, and the shutters on the tall, thin windows were long gone; leaving only the cracked stained glass windows to protect the isolated little church against the harsh winter weather. Cobwebs laced curtains across the corners of the church and from the rafters. Two hundred or more years worth of dust had settled on the flagstones. What candles one could find threw unearthly shadows over the lightless walls, like great hands feeling their way towards you.3

If you dare to take a candle and explore: Standing at the top of the stairs, a foul, retched smell wafted towards you, making the sweat spring upon your face, and causing you to gag. The stairs themselves were slippery with a red slime, which smelt of rotten blood. The walls were covered in scratches and marks. You hold your hand up to one and realised that fingernails had made those marks.4

You hurried down further, and the further you went the stronger the stench of death became. The bottom of the stairs came to a door, engraved with foreigh words (Aubij tiralig o altgene logras eo Virlaten. Kut ce garent deven garsom e Virlaten a doma). More cobwebs curtained the door and you dared not disturb it. You turned around to go back upstairs. You gave it one parting glance; the cobwebs had parted, as though they indeed were a curtain for the door. You shied away from them. The cobweb curtains closed again, as if sensing you were not ready to venture beyond them yet. You fled, wanting to forget the terrible, ghostly images that filled your head.