Stone Me

It was Stephen's fault.
He shouldn't have done it at all.
We told him. "Stop it Stephen, it's a sin. Stop".
But I think that's what made him do it more. He didn't care.
Yer man came out of nowhere. Honest to God, none of us saw him.
We were running so fast out of the graveyard to get away from Stephen that we couldn't have noticed. Some of the stones Stephen had grabbed hit me on the back of the legs. It didn't hurt, but still. They gave a different kind of bad feeling. He'd grabbed them straight off someone's grave. Could have been a priests'.
I remember the grey hair and dark suit. No tie. And the way he walked - like he was in his living room getting up to close the curtains or something.
"Your friend is right" - (me!) - "You've upset some people".
The voice, velvety - like a Wispa with a warm cup of milky tea.
Stephen looked up at him. His twelve year old eyes trying to understand.
"I came here in 1992".
My friend's hand opened just enough for the last few pebbles to clack clack clack to the ground.
"I'd advise you to sleep with the light on tonight".
We all did.

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