The graveyard was shrouded in mist, tendrils of poison ivy curled around gravestones that were partially eroded by acid rain. The graveyard was edged by willows and overgrown ferns.
Samson hated the graveyard. The final resting place of both of his daughters and his wife. He opened the gates, which were rusted, the black paint and gold cross beginning to flake away, and walked cautiously inside, tripping on dents in the earthy ground.
Sitting among the white, slightly cracked marble angels, were three shadowy figures. A woman holding two dead children, one was about three years old, the other was seven years old. She was sobbing, tears gathering in puddles.
Samson didn't think twice. He turned and ran screaming, never to return. And the woman carried on crying for all of eternity.