We were twelve-year-old boys, and reveled in various forms of black humor and sarcasm. But the irony conveyed by these headstones was a little too black even for us. There was something fundamentally wrong here, we both knew.
And Leah was even more vocal in her disapproval.
“I say we skip this house,” she said. She stood up. “I don’t know who these people are, but I don't want any candy from them.”
As if her declaration had summoned the occupants of the house, the front screen door creaked open. We all looked up.
“Do you kids want any candy or not?” the owner of the house asked us....
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