Written from this prompt - Celtic mythology says that leaving a graveyard a different way than you entered means spirits exit with you. A fugitive sprints through a graveyard…
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It happened years ago, an unfortunate accident. No one could blame the poor soul, how would a blind woman know which way she'd gone in or out, she'd been punished for witchcraft and the town suffered for years. Getting all the spirits back where they belong, a story that had become a fable used as a warning to new crows for what happens when you fail to do your job.
Milo was about to witness what happens first hand when you can't direct someone back the way they came.
Red and blue flashed from the front, a helicopter in the sky, and dogs to the back. The figure sprinted through the entrance, weaving around the tombstones as swiftly as Milo could glide in the treeline, that screamed trouble. He had to do something before history supposedly repeated itself.
All Milo could remember was a smack and hard bump, the noise and lights fading slowly. When he came to there was only silence, an eerie silence that ruffled Milo's feathers. Something was wrong.
Looking around Milo finally understood why his feathers stayed fluffed, the graveyard is in shambles. Tombstones cracked, dirt holes as far as Milo could see, plants uprooted.
The graveyard was empty, the world was going to suffer. All because Milo had failed to do his job.