The leaves rustled in the breeze that whistled and howled like ghostly whispers; empty paths, lonely graves, and dim lights gave me the chills. I hated being there up till I watched my father being moved there in a casket. For months after his demise, I only found solace sitting close to his grave and having one-sided conversations with him. “Isn’t it ironic?” Alistair started, and I looked back at him. “The living fear the dead’s home when they are aware it’s their last resting ...