There is a sign above it that says, ‘Gallows Hill Cemetery’. A chill runs down my spine as we cross the threshold, goosebumps immediately erupting over my skin. My feet begin to drag, suddenly not as willing to follow this drunk girl into a wooded cemetery. “Where are we going?” I ask. “I told yous,” she slurs. “The spot!” I want to shake her stupid drunk self and tell her she didn’t answer my question, as we weave around the graves surrounding us. My eyes catch on a few of the dates from the headstones. 1692, 1693, 1695. My god, these graves have been here for over three hundred years. Part
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