Peter Dalton was certain that if hell really did exist that he was in it.

He clutched his thin, nylon jacket tightly as he looked around the old cemetery, the cold air of the early spring penetrating his flesh like arrow tips. How the hell did I get here? he said out loud. I...I just can't remember.

As he studied the old gravestones, and the stark, treeless hills that flanked the graveyard on all sides like the walls of a fortress, horror thoroughly took hold of him. The mad urgency of his untold predicament, coupled with the sweet smell of decay that permeated the air around him, strained every nerve to the max, and for the first time in his life, he felt faint.

The brunt of the cemetery was situated in the low-lying valley of the forbidding, dark landscape, and there appeared to be no way out. That was a crazy thought though, and he knew it. There had to be a way out. Just had to be!

He moved along through the maze of headstones and thick undergrowth, determined to find an escape, but he only succeeded in hitting his leg on one of the broken branches that jutted haphazardly from one of the twisted trees.

Letting out a yelp, he sank to the ground, raising his pant leg to just above the knee to examine the injury. He braced himself as he did so, fully expecting to see something awful like a sharp, jagged bone protruding through his shivering flesh. Yet there was no wound on his leg.

No sign of injury at all! Amazed, he shook his head; with that kind of pain the least to expect would be a drop or two of blood. Better for me that there isn't, he thought, for he just couldn't stand the sight of blood. That was the reason, much to his mother's disappointment, he had become an accountant instead of a physician.

Pulling his jacket firmly across his chest to block out the wailing wind, little good did it do, he tried to get a hold of himself. As he stood, gazing desperately at his unwelcoming environment again, he sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to convince himself that everything was fine, that everything would be all right, the same kind of bull they tell patients before major surgery.

He was certain that there could be no better place in the world to film a horror movie. The endeavor wouldn't require any costly special affects. The place was perfect as it was. From the heavy gray mist that permeated the air to the oddly bent and blackened trees, the cemetery had a definite air of death and disaster.

Even the tombstones were in the foulest condition imaginable; busted, bent, and broken, they were every bit as obtuse as the trees and the surrounding hills. It seemed as if the entire place had been forgotten by mortal man for centuries.

The only other bit of life in the ghastly milieu were the thick patches of English ivy that hung from the many mausoleums and large tombs. The tenacious greenery had virtually buried some of the structures whole, as if attempting to consume the darkness and death within.

But Pete realized that he wasn't helping himself by standing there gaping and dwelling on such dire thoughts. It was time to move on. There had to be an exit somewhere, and he was determined to find it.

Following the remains of an old cobblestone road, he didn't stop once to glance at the sky. He just didn't want to know whether there was a full moon hovering over him. He had many friends who were paramedics, for he had been in charge of the Emergency room accounts at Baylor Hospital.

These friends had always warned him that strange things happened on full moon nights; that was when the ER was always its busiest, with all kinds of peculiar accidents and untold disasters keeping the staff on their toes.

Pete was lucky that, at least, the stars were bright tonight, illuminating his environment well. They cast a silvery, effervescent glow over the tombstones and mausoleums, blending with the black to make a mysterious blue-gray haze, touched here and there with trails of mauve. The colors were so brilliant, so vivid and intense that he might have been inside a painting, the work of some twisted genius.

As he suddenly rounded a bend where the trail narrowed, he released a long, horrified, ear-piercing, gut-spasming, bone-jarring scream. For he found himself looking into the white face of a woman who seemed to suddenly appear in the darkness.

His heart beating fast, he gathered his wits enough to realize that the vision before him was no woman and no ghost. He was merely looking into the face of a marble statue, possibly of an angel, that rested eternally before one of the old tombs.

Most of the statue's body was covered with ivy, and only the face and arms could be discerned. But these parts faintly glowed, shimmering beneath the starlight. Too bad she isn't real, he thought. She was lovely, resplendent and ethereal in some strange sort of way, as if she were an angel. He could really use the help of such a being about now.

But alas, she was made of stone and could help him no more than he could help himself.

Cursing beneath his breath, he forced himself onward, and walked for what seemed like forever, the scenery along the way all looking the same, converging into a spectral pallet of never-ending darkness and death.

As the voice of the wind haunted his soul and stroked his flesh, every muscle sore and aching, he thought that if he wasn't careful, he'd find himself walking in circles before too long.

That would sound about like him, he thought. He was a person who sometimes seemed to have no direction, or so his mother-in-law was always quick to point out, but he certainly didn't want to think about her right now. His situation was dire enough without summoning her vision.

His wife, Gabriella, however, was a subject that was heavy on his mind with every step he took. He could picture her pacing the living room, out of her skull with worry.

How in the world was he ever going to explain his absence to her when he didn't know how he'd gotten here himself? But, he'd deal with that problem when, and if, it arose. Right now, the only thing that was important was finding his way out of here, so that he could get back home.

The shadows serving only to further the darkness and decay, he came to the road's end only to find himself before two tall iron gates. He tugged at them desperately, but they were firmly chained, and he was only rewarded with the squeak of rusty iron.

Damn it, let me out of here! Do you hear me? I want out of here! I just want to go home! he screamed at the top of his lungs. He was loosing control, and he knew it. But exactly how was he to remain calm in a situation like this? He doubted that even the deep-breathing exercises that he had learned about in his wife's prenatal classes would help him now.

The gate was way too tall to climb, rising easily twenty-feet from the ground, and there was really nothing to get a firm grip on. Even if he successfully reached the top, he'd be ripped to pieces by the gleaming iron spikes there.

Now what madman had put those spikes on the fence in the first place?

Clutching an iron bar in each hand, he poked his face between them to stare at the tree-lined road ahead, and wishing that he was on the other side. But just as he couldn't escape by climbing, there was no way that he'd fit between those narrow iron bars which were no more than four-inches apart.

Feeling utterly defeated, he turned back toward the cemetery, thinking that it seemed darker by several shades. There was a heavy feeling of sorrow and desolation in his heart as if the atmosphere had penetrated his soul. Or was it that he felt so very alone?

On the verge of tears, he lowered his head, not caring a whit about his macho image. There was no one around to see him anyway. All the inhabitants of this place, had probably rotted into dust. Time had stopped for them a long time ago. It would stop for him as well if he didn't find a way out.

He decided that if he ever hoped to escape, that he'd have to find another area of the fence that was not so well reinforced. The thought gave him a little hope. Surely there was a place somewhere along the length of the formidable enclosure where the rusty iron had deteriorated. Or perhaps there was a place where mischievous teenagers had forced a way through for a midnight rendezvous.

He noticed that there were two grand mausoleums to the right, several feet back from the road, and between them was what appeared to be a narrow footpath. Quickly, he headed in that direction, struggling along for several minutes until he emerged in yet another part of the unending garden of death.

But much to his frustration, the iron fence was strong and firm. Still, he remained no less determined to escape, and after he had continued his plight, passing through a thick den of moss covered trees, he gasped with excitement when he first saw the house. He thought that at last he had found the caretaker and a means of getting out of this stygian hell.

But no!

As soon as his muddled mind registered the image of the house into some sort of concrete logic, he realized that no one lived there. As least no living being.

By the looks of it, no one had lived there in a very long time.

It was one of those sprawling Second Empires, with a hip roof and fancy detailing along the eaves and over hangings, but little finery remained from the Victorian era, and the house appeared to be as decayed as the inhabitants of the cemetery.

The whole place sagged and sunk here and there, giving the impression that the slightest wind could topple it like a house of cards. Just about every window that had once graced the gray facade had been busted or broken.

Perhaps some of the panes had slipped out, for it appeared that many of the sills had rotted long ago and had fallen away like the bark of a diseased tree. A tattered curtain blew through one of these gaping holes on the second floor, the long tendrils of fabric streaming out like long spectral fingers.

Pete closed his eyes for a moment trying to block the vision from his mind so that he could get a fix on this situation. An inner voice told him that he didn't want to go inside that place, but at the same time, he knew that he must.

The weather was already frigid, and getting colder by the minute; the wind had picked up, the wail turning into a pained moan, and the temperature had dropped by several degrees. Already, his teeth were clattering so fast that he was surprised he had hadn't pounded them into dust. He desperately needed some warmth and a place to rest his weary soul.

It didn't take long for the pro to win over the con, and he limped toward the house slowly... swearing that he'd heard movement from somewhere behind, a snap of a branch, a rustle of the leaves, a rake across a headstone.

But he couldn't bring himself to turn and look back. He thought that he'd be a fool if he did, because if he did see something, there was little he could do about it. He was much too tired, sore, and numb to wage much of a fight, and he doubted that he had much of a fight left in him anyway.

Besides, if something wanted to kill him, he'd rather it did so fast, from behind, before he had a chance to react. Maybe that way, his death would come so quickly, that he wouldn't even know what had happened to him, and he wouldn't feel a single bit of pain.

Yet he remained alive, at least halfway, as he made his way to the front door and urgently grabbed the warped knob, twisting it as hard as he could with his frozen fingers. Unsurprisingly, it came off in his hand, and he found that he had only to push the heavy door back to gain entrance to the dispirited abode.

His footsteps creaked eerily along the old pine floorboards, and he could swear he heard the wood crack and splinter in his wake as he made his way into what was once a grand hallway.

Remnants of the good old days remained. To the left were two Italianate settees. The fabric worn away and the stuffing gaping, they were positioned across from each other before a massive fireplace. It was the fireplace that spurred his interest, and so he earnestly moved toward it.

If he but had a match, he'd be gathering some of the wood shingles that the house had shed over the years and making himself a fire. But there was nothing in his pocket except a stale handkerchief and a wallet full of useless credit cards. For the first time in his life, he wished that he had taken up smoking.

Icy shivers racing through his body, he continued to stare at the fireplace wistfully, imagining all the wonderful, golden-red flames that had burned within it long ago. He wondered if he would have to spend the night here.

He could just imagine the disbelief on his friends' faces when he told them that he had not only spent the night in a cemetery, but also in a dilapidated old house that was fit to be red-tagged.

They'd never believe it. Not in a zillion years. They knew that he was one to avoid anything supernatural. He had been raised to be superstitious and afraid of the dark, for his older brother had thoroughly traumatized him with his insistence that the bedroom light be left on.

He'd tell Pete that the boogie man would torture and kill them both if they dared turn it off. And Pete began to believe it. Then too, Pete had seen a ghost when he was a child, and the experience was so horrifying that he never wanted to see one again.

He stood near the fireplace, leaning onto the mantel as he thought about that time. He had been at his grandma's house, sitting in the front room and watching television in their post war house, when suddenly he had heard something similar to a scratching sound on the enclosed front porch.

Though he was terrified, knowing that an uncle had hanged himself there a couple of years earlier, there was no adult to go to for comfort. Like usual, his grandma had fallen asleep on the couch, even with the television blaring, and his grandpa was deep in his cups in the renovated basement.

Therefore he'd tried to ignore the sound and think of happy thoughts, like the adults always told kids to do, but that had done him little good. Especially when the activity on the porch grew louder each minute, followed by a resounding splunk and the whine of tightly pulled twine.

It's the wind, he had told himself. Just the wind.

Then, he had felt a sudden cold breeze when a near blinding light filled the room. When he heard footsteps, Pete turned to see the full image of his mad and twisted uncle, standing at the doorway in horrifying spectral form, and wearing the same black Sunday suit, he'd been buried in years before. As Pete looked on, his uncle gave him a wicked grin.

Pete had screamed so loudly that folks might have heard him on Venus, and the horrified rail had awoken his Grandma as effectively as a fire alarm. Yet, in the typical way of adults, she had simply said, There's nothing there. It's just your imagination!

Now that Pete was a man, he knew that adults don't really believe that line! Adults are just as afraid as kids about the things that lurk in the darkness, and the only reason they tell kids that there are no ghosts is because they don't want to get scared themselves.

There will, however, always be a few skeptics. If people really try to convince themselves that the dark image they saw late at night was merely a shadow, and that the strange noise in the hall was just the house settling, then eventually they begin to believe it. It made people feel safer to believe that. Only such people are lying to themselves.

Even knowing as much, as he stood there listening to the wind moan through the windows, doors, and cracks in the walls, Pete nevertheless found himself quoting that old familiar line.

It's just your imagination. It's just your imagination! It's just your imagination! There's nothing there!

Still, just like when he was a kid, the phrase did nothing to assuage the black fear that was twisting his gut into knots. He turned, trying to detour the dangerous path of his thoughts by searching the house for some matches. He was about to enter a room off to the right, probably the parlor, when he noticed that there was an object on an uneven old table on the far side of the hall.

He raced forward to examine this new discovery, trying to ignore the forbidding black stairway to the right as he did so. To his surprise, the mysterious object turned out to be a handheld mirror, a fancy brass one like the ladies used long ago.

Only, he couldn't see his reflection, because the mirror was coated with a thick layer of dust and grim. He didn't know why he cared. He guessed, that he just wanted to see himself--to actually be able to stare at something he knew and recognized.

With the bottom of his T-shirt, he began to urgently wipe at the grime, until he could feel the smooth, cold glass emerge against his fingertips. Excited, he rushed toward the window at the front of the hall where the silvery light streamed in and carefully positioned himself so that he could get the best view possible in the mirror. Yet when he finally held the mirror before him, terror like he'd never known raced through his entire being.

He didn't recognize himself. Not anymore!

His face was rotted through and through and was so swollen that even his sex was indiscernible. There were big sunken holes where his eyes once were and his flesh was dripping from the bone like melting wax in shades of beige and red. The tissue around his mouth was already gone, and he could clearly see the entire set of sparkling white teeth that he had paid a fortune to the orthodontist to cap.

Even his hair, one of his best attributes, was no more. Not a single strand of his curly blond locks remained. All he saw there was glistening bone, as white as his teeth, where the skin had sagged to pool over the sides of his ears.

Dropping the mirror, he screamed again, wondering what in the world was going on. What had happened to him? Was he dead?

No, he told himself, I can't be! It's impossible! Impossible! I'd remember it if I had died! It has to be an illusion. Just some terrible, horrible trick of the eyes, the imagination, and the light!

The anxiety setting off a round of palpitations, he balled his fingers into tight fists and stared at the ceiling.

Why? he asked. Why? Why am I in this horrible place? This can't be real! None of it!

But his own words failed to convince him that all was well, and he remained horrified by this peculiar turn of events. He dared to touch his face, only to find that it felt perfectly normal. All his flesh felt as though it was fully intact, and when he ran his fingers through his hair, he found that it was still as full as ever. He even bit his lip just to make sure it was still there. And surely he would no longer feel pain if he were dead. Or was that just a myth...like so many others?

In a panic, he dropped to the floor, again searching for the mirror that the darkness had hidden. When he found it, he stood to resume his position by the window, glad that by some miracle the mirror hadn't broken.

Taking a deep breath and trying to brace himself before he gazed into it again, he told himself over and over that he would see his true image this time. But again, when he looked in the mirror that terrifying specter looked back at him.

This time he did break the mirror. Throwing it against a wall and stepping on it to make sure that it was sufficiently destroyed. He took great pleasure in hearing the glass crack beneath his feet.

Yet when he had finished, he found himself on the verge of tears once again, and the dust his movements had uprooted whirled obnoxiously around him, making him want to cough. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

Only the action felt strange in some unexplainable way, and when he drew away the cloth, he was aghast to find that his nose and a good portion of the tissue that had surrounded it had separated from his body and was now waded inside the cloth.

Again he screamed, begging for help, begging for some miracle to end this horrible nightmare. That's when he first heard high-pitched maniacal laughter...followed by...footsteps on the stairs.

Snapping his mouth shut, he spun to see the forbidding and luminous image of a man slowly emerging. Little by little the legs materialized, then the torso, the neck, and at last, the head. Pete's heart raced when he saw the familiar features of his wicked uncle, the selfsame image that had horrified him so long ago. Even now the ghost gave him that same twisted grin.

Well, Pete, I'm glad to see that you've joined me at last. I've been waiting for a very long time for you! the entity said.

Pete wasn't about to listen to this nonsense, he was at the door in a flash and racing into the darkness of the cemetery for protection, though where he could possibly find protection in this dank, creepy environment was beyond him. All he knew was that even if he was dead, which he certainly didn't believe, he wanted nothing to do with the crazy uncle who had made torturing small animals and terrorizing children a hobby. There was something intimately wicked and sinister about the man.

As the minutes ticked by and he became one with the cold and the darkness again, he really wasn't watching where he was going or paying much heed to his direction, for the occasional wicked chuckles coming from behind, told him that his uncle was pursuing him.

There's no escape! None at all, Pete! he heard his uncle yell in the distance, the voice reverberating oddly as if he were yelling through a megaphone. This is the end for all eternity!

But Pete didn't believe it. And even if this was the end, was his fate, he intended to fight it!

He ran for what seemed like hours, the endless images of death along the way only vaguely registering in his mind. He wondered how in the world he found the strength or the endurance to run so hard for so long, and he couldn't have been more surprised when he came to some limestone stairs that led to the summit of one of the hills. Out of breath, he paused for a moment, looking back, and when he did, he quickly regretted it.

Not only was he being pursued by his uncle, but a great group of slow moving corpses were following him as well, their clothes ragged, their features decayed and distorted. One of them, most likely a grave keeper, held a lantern in its rotted hand, and led the others on. To think that this was the person he'd hoped so badly to find earlier.

He probably should have been even more terrified, but he wasn't. His fear was already so great that there was just no way to top it. They wanted him, wanted to make him a permanent resident of the graveyard. They must have thought there was no way that he was going to escape!

But he'd found the stairs.

The only problem was that the stairs appeared to lead nowhere. It was as if they had once been a part of a building, perhaps a great castle that no longer existed. Still, in this dark sinister world, Pete had learned that not all was what it appeared to be, and he didn't have much time to weigh his options anyway.

So, he ascended the stairs quickly, hearing his uncle just behind him and the moan of the great congregation that trudged along; doubtlessly they were all certain that he would be the next victim of the foul cemetery. At one point, one of them came so close that it reached out and jabbed him in the back a few times, touching him with the shocking coldness of death. But the action only spurred him to move faster.

At the top of the stairs, he paused on the landing. He was completely out of breath following his break-neck plight, and he wanted to get control of himself. He looked back to see if his uncle still lingered in the shadows, but, to Pete's relief, the madman was no where in sight.

What's more, all the other spooks had vanished as well. Again, he started wondering if he had just imaged the whole thing. It would be easy to do in a cemetery like this one. Relieved yet wary, he went to the opposite edge of the landing to look down at the green valley below. When he saw the familiar sparkling city way in the distance, joy filled his heart and nearly brought him to tears.

It was his city, the place where he had been born and raised, the place where he now worked and lived with his wife and teenage daughters. He knew the place well, and had probably traversed every road at some time in his life, but no matter how hard he searched his mind, he couldn't remember this cemetery or the dire hills that surrounded it.

But, there was no time to think about it now. He'd do so later in the warmth and comfort of his own home.

At first it had appeared that the stairs were only another dead end in this sinister place, but, as he strained his eyes to look out over the edge, he saw that there was another set leading into the world of life, a set that would lead him back home.

He didn't have to consider his options long. Though the stairs were steep and somewhat overgrown with green vines, he began to descend them at once. But after he had made it down the first two, he discovered that they were so slick that they might have been covered with algae. The slickness came from the vines.

They seemed to exude some peculiar substance that was as sticky as glue and as slick as oil at the same time. The hazardous surface forced him to descend slowly and carefully. He had made it halfway down when again he heard the wicked laughter of his uncle who suddenly materialized at the crest of the stairs. A cold, mighty hand brushed across Pete's shoulders and then pushed him with considerable force. Pete let out a yelp, trying to regain his footing on the stairs, but to no avail.

He found himself falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...

Wake up, Peter!

Whoa. What? Pete yawned, trying to make sense of the words that were so harshly spoken to him.

I said, wake up! You've been yelling and screaming in your sleep all night! On top of that you've pulled all the covers off me, and yourself, as usual, and I'm freezing my ass off!

When Gabriella's words finally penetrated Pete's thick skull, he sighed with relief, trying to calm the urgent beating of his heart as he took hold of the situation.

He wasn't falling. He wasn't dead. He wasn't rotted, stinking, and ever decaying. And he certainly wasn't trapped in a desolate cemetery. It had all been a nightmare. Only a nightmare! There truly had been nothing there. It had all been part of his imagination.

Peter, did you hear me? I'm cold. Give me a blanket!

O...okay. Sorry, dear! he replied, his voice weak from sleep. He sat up, trying to force his body into action as he leaned over the side of the bed for the blanket...the wonderful, snugly, warm blanket.

Tenderly, he laid it across his wife, and, apparently satisfied, she turned over, about to go back to sleep.

Pete wanted to do the same, however, his bladder was full to bursting. Feeling weak, he arose and staggered toward the bathroom off the master bedroom, too tired to turn on the light. Besides, some light streamed in from the bedroom, and he knew his way about the small chamber well, having lived in the house for more than eight years.

After doing his business, he turned, eager to get back to the soft, warm, comfort of his familiar bed...and to the warmth and softness of his wife. But...as he was about to leave the bathroom, he had an unrelenting desire to see his face.

He just wanted to have that last bit of closure to his nightmare, that last bit of assurance that all had returned to normal.

He flicked on the light by the door then turned toward the large mirror above the sink.

And when he saw his reflection, he screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

For his features were rotted, ugly, bloated, and foul once again.

Suddenly there was a wicked laugh coming from behind him. I told you, Pete, there's no way to escape the ever after! Now come, and give your old uncle a hug.