As night falls in Cottage Grove cemetery, that’s when the screams begin.
Old settlers used to claim there were panthers in the woods nearby, enormous cats with claws and fangs that move on deathly silent paws.
When children heard their terrorizing calls, they swore it had to be someone condemned to hell, begging for a merciful end.
As I walked the path to the cemetery entrance an icy wind sliced through me like blades. I swore I, too, heard voices and that every echoing step through the cold might be my last.