The night was as black as if someone had knocked over an ink bottle, spilling ink across the whole world.
Raindrops fell like peas, pattering down in torrents, as if the heavens were beating out a death-metal song on a drum kit.
A mass grave: the name tells you all you need to know. It's a place where the dead are buried.
It's always creepy there, and with weather this ghastly today, it was enough to make anyone's skin crawl.
Seventeen-year-old Ye Qingshuang felt she was probably done for.
She struggled to open her eyes. Her whole body felt as if it had been taken apart and put back together, every bone howling in protest.
