Dripping, mouldy Chester Chadwick emerged from his final resting place, brushed the dirt from his decayed trousers, and surveyed the seedy graveyard with a critical eye. He observed jagged yellow tombstones covered with undecipherable writings jutting from dirt with a sky of grass… and groaned. He wriggled his foot and the tombstones wriggled accordingly. He reeled in his eye severely and secured it in its socket.

That was better. He sighed, phlegm clattering in his throat. He wasn’t very good at being undead, having spent most of his non-life scratching against solid oak. His coffin was lined with fingernail splinters. Damn his family for being so rich! A pine box would have been a lifesaver, he thought, chuckling at the bad pun.