Perched on a cliff, over looking the sea, the abandoned graveyard sits. A bitterly cold and bleak place to stand over an open grave, with no shelter from the fierce North Sea and the biting cold wind. No flowers grow here, only thistles with roots of steel survive and thrive. The headstones bear no names, only numbers, for buried here are the bones of the insane, the inmates of the forgotten asylum.
Dragged kicking and screaming over the threshold to a lifetime of torture and humiliation, each mentally afflicted wretch stripped of their identity, heads tattooed with a number and left to fester with every sickness of the mind. Disease was rife, the weakest, the luckiest, succumbed swiftly. The unfortunate ones, those with bodies stronger than their minds, endured years of suffering. Tormented by the plague that infested their heads, they roamed inside the walls of their prison, fighting a never ending battle against thoughts they could not escape.
As bodies fell, they were buried with neither compassion nor humanity, the only reminder of who they had once been the number crudely etched on the headstones. They were not destined to rest in peace and so each night, as the moon emerges out of the black sea, the lost souls of The Cemetery awaken.