Down in the darkness of the cemetery, discarded paper lay abandoned, town and creased. Hanging on forgotten rosebuds. Behind the creaking doors of the mausoleum lurk the secrets and the tales that no one wants to tell, so they let their souls bleed out on the paper, their blood the ink, their death the story's life. Somewhere in the dark, by candlelight you find and read the tales that haunt and disturb and stay with you, even when you turn the light off.