Be warned- the walk home is long and dark.  

By that time, everybody would have left except the few expectant stragglers by the entranceway.  You would need to make your way, cautiously, across the risky intersection (an unfortunate accident), and onto the sidewalked hill.  The sky would be a darker shade of black as you tread on and over the twigs, leaves, ice patches... silence interrupted by the comforting buzz of the cars that sweep past, spewing their indistinguishable diesel smoke.  Their criscrossed lights lead you on intermittantly, illuminating a certain landmark here, a post there.          

By now, you are almost home, and the remaining path is guided by lampposts, stooping ravens with tiny embedded suns.  But when you cross the cemetary, dread tiptoes its way suddenly onto your throat, not because of ghosts or curses, but of something much nearer and immediate; anyhow, the air is crisp and clear, and there shuuld be nothing to fear.

Not until you reach your destination at least, a too-familiar noise grows and closens, your hand trembling as the door opens to wash you in light, heavy light.