Oakwood

The graveyard has a theremin in it, and the theremin is you.

Your hand goes out over the grass and the air gives back a note. You tip your wrist and the note climbs. You drop your hand and the whole yard hushes.

There are four stones, the names worn soft. At the foot of each, a small teal ghost bobs. Each has a voice of its own: glass bells, a music box, an organ with the crypt still in it, a banshee.

Above them hangs a full moon with a ring around it, and under the moon a singer with a strap across her chest and no guitar on it. She is holding the one flat note you heard from the water. She has held it some years. Nobody has joined her.