Write something basedon a piece of mail you've gotten recently

The full moon shone bright in the sky though it looked tinged with yellow--an autumn moon. It lit my way down the cobblestone road that should've been repaved ages ago. But some in my town demanded we preserve this rickety and uneven bit of history despite how hard it was to drive and walk upon. There was little other light around besides the moon save the faint flow from jack-o'-lanterns strewn about the street in a festive manner. The trees I passed were bare and black, their dark tendrils curling into the sky as though taking a long stretch before winter. A crisp wind blew through the air, chilling my nose and turning it pink.

It was a perfect Halloween night. Perfect, at least, for my purposes.

I continued my walk to the cemetery, brushing gossamer webs out of my face, but letting the spiders dance upon my fingertips for a moment before letting them return to their weaving. I was in no particular rush, I had plenty of time (or so I thought). I stopped to brush my fingers along the deadbushes nearby, enjoying the feel of the brittle leaves and crunching one occasionally in my palm. A few thorns pricked me, drawing tiny drops of ruby red blood, but that didn't matter. In fact, it was useful.

I reached the cemetery's wrought iron gates and gave a sigh of contentment. 

Soon, I thought.

I ran my hands along the fence, allowing my bleeding fingertips to touch all the rough edges where the paint was chipping off, leaving the cool, smooth metal underneath. How beautiful they were, I thought, these gates of the dead, despite being neglected. Their pattern was an intricate one of roses and vines, things so filled with life, yet left here to guard the dead. 

I picked the lock on the gates smoothly with a bobby pin that I withdrew from my long silver hair. The locks were never made terribly tough, there wasn't really much of a fear of grave robbers or body snatchers anymore (though perhaps there should be). I creaked the gate open and left it open for a moment, waiting to see if there was a guard. There shouldn't have been, I had done my research afterall, but I couldn't be too careful. After a few moments, no one came and no flash light clicked on and no one called out. All was as silent as the graves surrounding me. I smiled.

I quickly found the most recent grave and knelt down in the earth atop it. I gingerly picked up some of it and let it flow along with the small drops of blood that still came from where the thorns had pricked me into a vial  that I withdrew from the pocket of my cloak. I rose quickly, noting that the moon was higher in the sky than I had imagined it to be. I rushed to the oldest grave, one that could barely be read its carvings so worn with time and covered with lichen that no one cared to clean off. I spilled the fresh earth onto the headstone and began chanting in a low, guttural voice. I turned round and round thirteen times, never breaking my string of words.

"Happy Halloween," I whispered, finishing the incantation.

It was time for the dead to rise. 

(Prompt by Kimisha Cassidy)