Bring Back The Dead

He could hear it. Or was it maybe the wind? He stood up. He had been sitting against that gravestone for days, maybe weeks. He thought he'd heard it, the sound that had made his nightmares come to life every night since he was there, at that graveyard. Then came the visions, the expectation. What would happen when it became real? Would he fall, as he had dreamt before? Or would he remain there, silent, vigilant, as he was supposed to be?
He couldn't stand the falseness of his actions. Or were his thoughts the false ones? No, he thought. He had been dreaming about it for months, so much he wished it would become real at any moment. But it wouldn't. He had made his mistakes. The gravestone now lying behind his back proved it. And the necklace he was holding tight in his hand. He knew what the symbol meant, he just wished the dead had known it too.
Oh, how different his life would be if the dead had known it too...

But now there he lies, bloodstained, against the gravestone. He looked at the collar and whispered:

"Bring back the dead..."

The gravestone against his back suddenly moved. Was this real? Or was it another nightmare?