Acre upon acre of graves, tombs, crypts, sepulchres, mausoleums and vaults; curling thorns and vines, strangling, clawing. Death lives here; the reminders of the fallen, forgotten in timeless apathy. No one tends the overgrown, stunted gardens. Even the sun has forsaken this place.
Inside one of the crumbling crypts is a tomb. Brittle creepers crawl across the cold stone. On top a woman lies prostrate; her thick, wavy chestnut hair cascades about her head; her skin is pale and translucent in the half-light. Gradually her eyes open. Her pupils, fully dilated cover the iris. She pulls herself gradually up onto her elbows.
�Here is where Betsey�s strange erotic adventure begins.