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Janet opened her eyes, the trail of a scream stuck in her throat. She turned her head side to side, unsure in the utter blackness that surrounded her. She reached out, but couldn't feel anything. Alarmed, she tried again, and again. Her thoughts raced from one possibility to another. She could be blind, or all her nerves could be dead...She didn't feel any sort of temperatue, pain, hunger. Anything.

She tried leaning forward. When she did she noticed the pale light of the moon streaming down through the branches of a singular tree. Now she strode forward a few paces, surprised to be able to walk, if she couldn't feel anything. She didn't think to look back. As she walked, enjoying the silver sheen the moon gave to everything, she hummed softly to herself, noting that her hum sounded almost like a breeze.

Janet came across a grave that looked freshly buried. She reflexively sniffed to see if the smell of fresh earth was on the air, then remembered that her sense of smell was no longer. She closed her eyes. All around her, shapes started to form, angry faces with harsh lines and taut looking bodies. They would be more menacing, except for the fact that they were misty and looked more like smoke than people.

When Janet opened her eyes again, she stifled a scream of surprise. In front of her was a man, skin dark and eyes narrowed. He wore a large headdress and carried with him a few pouches of leather.

"Who are you?" He asked, an imperious tone in his voice as his tribe gathered around Janet.

"Janet. J-j-janet Monroe...." She said, voice trembling.

"And how is it you dare to defile our sacred land?"

"Y-y-your land? This is just a grave...."

"Yes, the very center of the burial grounds for the Chickasaw tribe."

"You mean....you're all dead?!"

"You're dead too, white woman."

"I can't be. I'm still breathing, seeing, walking!"

"However you would like to term it, you are defiling our grounds. Which gives us all the rights to your death. Again that is."

Janet turned and ran back the way she had come, narrowly missing of the men who tried to lunge toward her, dagger in hand. She started screaming, trying not to notice that the scream was continuous, not needing to breath in to recover.

When she got near where she had began her walk, the sound escaping her cut off, replaced by a stream of nonononono. She shook her head and closed her eyes, violently sure she wasn't seeing what she thought.

A woman was tied to the tree, her brunette hair hanging limply from her lolling head. Her once white nightgown was streaked with red and pink, and some other unidentifiable colors. Some places in the material were torn away, revealing more marks, some red, some purple and yellow and angry. Black rope bound her to the tree, her feet hanging a mere inch from the ground.

It was her. Her green eyes open slightly in what could easily be mistaken as a haze if she weren't standing right here. She felt someone grab her arm and twist her around. One of the men had caught up to her, his smile grim and full of a sadistic desire to maim and hurt. She could feel his grip, digging into her. But it wasn't flesh, she realized as she looked down. It was the same mist-like substance that comprised the others.They were quickly gathering around her.

The chief nodded at the man who had a hold of her arm, giving him permission. He reached into his pouch and blew something over her. She felt the same binding sensation as the rope that held her corpse. though this was complete. not just places, but her whole body.

"You are now unable to leave this place. You may roam to the edge, but never pass it. And you may try to 'move on' to the next life, if you please. In my experience, however, tortured thoughts and spirits that are trapped don't get to." Said the shaman.

He dropped her arm and stepped back, letting the others gather closer. She whirled about, trying to find an opening in the circle of dark grins. Spears and daggers that should have gleamed in the moonlight, just looked like dark pieces of sharp metal, somehow more frightful than a gleaming blade would have been. One man swing at her, his dagger catching her just enough.

She felt like she was being torn, like cotton. The daggers point dragged a bit of her away, stretching it and pulling it. She backed away and the part of her that had been caught snapped back, like a rubber band.

Frantically she tried to scurry out of the circle, looking for an opening between legs, between spears, over heads. None presented. More daggers and spears dragged at her, causing her to wail, the sound grating like nails on a chalkboard. Another man grabbed her, pulling her close to his body, even as she was being pulled by the others.

He whispered in her ear, then tried to bite along her neck. She felt the pleasure that it would have been in life, though it was hidden by the veil of death that surrounded them both. She tried to faint, or go deadweight. But she wasn't able to. She could only watch, or close her eyes to their faces. But the pain and discomfort continued. After a little while, they let her go, returning to their graves. She sat, weeping tearlessly. Then began to wander.

Each night as the moon reached it's peak they found her. Sometimes just one, sometimes more. To poke and prod her, to do things that in life she had never done. And for sometime after she died, nobody was able to enter that graveyard. Eventually her body just rotted away, leaving only her bones for someone to find if anyone cared to.