After his release from the state hospital, Bishop went to the cemetery where his mother had been laid to rest. He was released in late afternoon. By the time he arrived, day had fallen into night, and the entrance gates were locked. But Bishop was adamant; he needed to speak to his mother. He waited until the groundskeeper had gone before beginning his ascent up the iron fence.
His muscles tensed. The climb was more than eight feet high. Sweaty palms caused him to slip more than once, and, as he stretched his limbs over the fence, his palms were stabbed by iron edges. The stinging pain rushed up his arms as the blood streamed across his palms. But Bishop paid them no mind; he needed to see his mother. Weaving through the cemetery there was a disturbed sense of contentment, as if the souls beneath the ground were trapped and screaming to be freed. The cemetery housed John and Jane Does and suicides and was donated by the church to allow those who were lost in life to find a way to the great kingdom.
“There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “I can’t help you.”
He searched the graveyard. A profound silence resonated within him. Bishop could feel the desperate cries emitting from the graves. He couldn’t help the tears that started to fall; his heart plummeted into the darkness of their nightmare.
Everywhere he turned, with every step and with every thought, the cries grew louder. Bishop lay down, held his ears, and cried aloud.