Disclaimer: The characters belong to Paul McCartney; the world belongs to Joss Whedon.
It was still early in the evening when the freshly dug earth was first disturbed by the hand of the vampire breaking the surface. It was a slow process: she took over twenty minutes to pull herself free from the grave. There was no one there to meet her – no sire to collect her nor slayer to slay her. She'd been sixty four years old in life – a life ended by a particularly cruel young vampire who took momentary sadistic delight in the ongoing torment it would cause to turn the old woman rather than simply feed from her, then moving on, forgetting her as had many before him.
As she brushed some of the dirt from her clothes, she could see Father McKenzie across the graveyard locking up the church, but he paid her no heed, and she lacked the strength needed to attack him. She was unable to satisfy her instinctive need for blood that way; being turned at the age she was, she lacked the strength of the young, and would be forced to spend her existence shunned by her peers, scavenging for animal prey.
As alone in death as she was in life, Eleanor Rigby set off into the woods.