Page 3 of Take Her to the Grave

"I miss you both so much," I whisper, placing a bouquet of white roses between their graves. The flowers seem to glow in the gathering darkness, like pale ghosts of all the things left unsaid. "I'm trying to make you proud, but sometimes it's so hard being alone. The new book is doing well – you'd love the irony, Dad. Your practical daughter who was going to be a lawyer is making a living writing fantasy stories instead."

A sad smile tugs at my lips as I imagine their reactions. Mom would be proudly displaying my novels on her coffee table, probably with little bookmarks noting her favorite passages. Dad would be telling everyone at his law firm that his daughter was the next big author, completely missing the embarrassed looks from his colleagues.

"The house is still standing," I continue my update, a ritual I perform every visit. "I finally had the kitchen renovated like you always wanted, Mom. And Dad, I'm keeping up with the maintenance schedule you wrote out for me – oil changes every 3,000 miles, check the furnace filter monthly, clean the gutters in spring and fall."

Alone.The word echoes in my mind, taking on new weight as I suddenly become aware of how thick the fog has grown. The cemetery's peaceful melancholy shifts into something more oppressive, like a held breath before a scream. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I have the distinct, primal sensation of being watched.

I turn quickly, scanning the deepening shadows between the surrounding stones. Nothing moves except the mist, yet I can't shake the feeling of hidden eyes upon me. The yew hedge that normally provides such a sense of privacy now feels like it might be concealing something sinister in its dark depths.You're being ridiculous,my rational mind insists.It's just the atmosphere getting to you. Too many late nights writing dark shit.

But something deeper, more primitive, screams that I'm not alone. It's the same instinct our ancestors must have felt when they sensed a predator's gaze from the darkness beyond their fires. My heart begins to race, its rhythm rapid and erratic. The fog seems unusually thick now, curling around the bases of the monuments in ways that defy natural movement. It's almost as if it's... reaching.

A twig snaps somewhere behind me, and my pulse leaps into my throat. I spin around, but the heavy fog has reduced visibility to just a few feet. The surrounding monuments loom like dark sentinels in the haze, their familiar shapes transformed into menacing silhouettes. The stone angels that watched over my parents' graves with such benevolence in daylight now seem to wear expressions of horror, as if witnessing something terrible approaching.

Get a grip, I scold myself.You're a grown woman, not a little bitch afraid of some fog. But even as I try to convincemyself, I notice how unnaturally quiet the cemetery has become. No birds call from the twisted oaks. No distant traffic sounds penetrate the grounds. Even the wind has died, leaving nothing but a dense, waiting silence.

"Hello?" I call out, hating how small and vulnerable my voice sounds in the vast stillness. "Is someone there?"

No answer comes, but the feeling of being observed only intensifies. The fog gathers around me, as if deliberately trying to disorient me.This isn't natural, a panicked voice whispers in my mind.Fog doesn't behave like this. I take one last look at my parents' graves, then turn to leave. I've stayed too long – darkness is falling quickly now, and I need to find my way back to the main gate.

As I hurry along the path, I glimpse a tall figure standing motionless between two distant mausoleums. My steps falter, and my breath catches in my throat. The figure seems impossibly tall and still, like another statue except for the unmistakable feeling of power it radiates. But when I look again, there's nothing there but shadows and swirling mist.Your imagination is running wild, I tell myself, but my feet quicken their pace anyway, boot heels clicking rapidly on the stone path.

This isn’t real.

The sound echoes off the monuments, coming back to me distorted, as if multiple sets of footsteps are following methrough the dark. I resist the urge to run – running would be admitting there's something to run from. Instead, I force myself to maintain a brisk but dignified pace, even as every nerve in my body is screaming at me, begging me to flee.

Just a few more minutes, I promise myself.Just get to the main path, then the gate, then your car.But even as I form this rational plan, a deeper truth settles over me like the unnatural fog: something has changed in my sanctuary of sorrow. Something dark is here and it has taken notice of me.

And somehow, I know with terrifying certainty that something big is about to happen.

Chapter Two

DEADLY DISCOVERY

The fog has becomea living thing, writhing around my legs as I try to find my way back to the main gate. Something's wrong with my sense of direction – I've walked this path hundreds of times, but nothing looks familiar anymore. The weathered headstones I pass don't match my mental map of Ravencrest's geography. I should have reached the Milton mausoleum by now, but instead I'm in a section I've never seen before.

Don't panic, I tell myself, though my heart is already racing.The cemetery isn't that big. Keep walking and you'll hit either the fence or the main road eventually. But as I move through the cloud of mist, a horrible thought occurs to me: what if I'm walking in circles? The fog is so dense now that I can barely see ten feet ahead, and every monument I pass looks like a twisted shadow of itself.

A gust of wind sends dead leaves skittering across my path, their dry rustle like whispered warnings. The temperature seems to have dropped at least ten degrees in the last few minutes. I pull my coat tighter, but it does nothing to ward off the supernatural chill that's settled into my bones. Because that's what this is, isn't it?Supernatural. The writer in me knows the signs – the unnatural fog, the disorienting paths, the feeling of being hunted...

Stop it, I scold myself.This isn't one of your novels. There's a perfectly rational explanation for everything happening right now. But even as I think this, I notice how the silence has deepened. Not just quiet – a complete absence of sound, as if the very air is holding its breath. My boot heels on the gravel path should be echoing off the stones, but instead each step falls into a void of absolute stillness.

Movement catches my eye – a shadow darker than the surrounding gloom, slipping between two ornate obelisks about thirty yards ahead. My body freezes, primal instincts warring with rational thought.It's probably just another mourner, I try to convince myself.Or a groundskeeper working later than normal. But if that's true, why does every cell in my body scream at me to run in the opposite direction?

Before I can decide what to do, I hear it: the distinct sound of metal striking earth, followed by the softer impact of soil being displaced. Someone is digging.

Walk away, my survival instinct begs.Whatever's happening, you don't want to know. Get out of here now. But my traitorous feet are already moving toward the sound, drawn by the same dark curiosity that compels me to write about the monsters that lurk in humanity's shadows. The fog parts slightly as I approach, revealing a path I've never noticed before, leading down a gentle slope between two massive marble angels.

I move quietly down the path, grateful for the damp earth that muffles my footsteps. The digging sounds grow louder, accompanied now by something else – a low voice muttering in a language I don't recognize. The words sound ancient, full of hard consonants and guttural vowels that make my skin crawl.

Twenty feet ahead, the path opens into a small clearing ringed by towering cypresses. Their branches seem to bend inward, creating a natural dome that holds the fog at bay. In the center of this space, a tall figure stands over a freshly dug grave. Even in the dim light, I can tell it's a man – broad-shouldered and large, dressed in what looks like an expensive black suit that somehow hasn't collected a speck of dirt despite his labor.

He's holding a shovel, but what catches my attention is the object at his feet: a long bundle wrapped in dark fabric, roughly the size and shape of a human body.

My heart stops.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I should run. I should scream. I should dosomethingother than stand here frozen, watching this scene unfold like some twisted tableau from a nightmare. But I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't even blink as the man sets aside his shovel and crouches beside the wrapped form.

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