Phasmophobia

Haunted tales drift through the air, lingering like the fog that rises from the ground on crisp mornings.

You wander amoung the headstones reading the grave-markers hungrily, like a pirate in search of a treasure you have never laid eyes on, but covet.

In your mind you begin weaving together the interconnected lives of the living and the dead.

Suddenly, you stop.

Freezing cold touches your cheeck like a glancing blow.

Your arms and neck prickle from fear, or is it anxious expectation?

Then you're running  away from the graves with a bemused smile on your face, the crunching leaves beneath your feet echoing into silence, the only physical evidence that you were ever there.