Galen C. Colin, Weird Tales (1924)
“ A light mist was falling—just enough to make each branch and twig along the cemetery drive moisture-laden and dripping. You couldn't see ten feet ahead of your face. I went alone. Under my arm was a grain bag in which to carry back the bones. A spade was my only tool, and I filched it from the caretaker's shed. An electric flash gave all the illumination I needed. "I was not afraid of the dead—then. A medical student seldom is. Yet, as a heritage from our ancestors, a graveyard always holds something of shuddering dread—and this was a gloomy night. ”
