Page 12 of Wednesday

After he left, I tried to focus on the paperwork, on the mundane reality of cemetery regulations and visitor logs. But the hours dragged endlessly, each minute ticking by with excruciating slowness. I found myself checking the window repeatedly, watching the sun's gradual descent toward the horizon.

By the time sunset painted the cemetery in shades of amber and gold, I was practically vibrating with anticipation. I pulled on my security jacket and grabbed my flashlight, heading out for the evening patrol while the day's last light still lingered.

I started my patrol in the section where freshly dug graves might attract Morrow. Helena Ross's plot looked pristine. No sign it had ever been disturbed.

I continued through the newer sections, then toward the older graves where I had first encountered him. Moonlight spilled across Victorian angels and weathered obelisks, creating elongated shadows that seemed to reach for me as I passed. Every dark space between monuments might have concealed his gaunt form, every rustle of leaves might have been footsteps.

But two hours into my patrol, I had seen no sign of Morrow. Disappointment settled cold and heavy in my stomach. I mentally shook myself. This is what I wanted. Distance. His absence was a good thing.

I completed my standard patrol route and returned to the cottage. The small space felt confining, the walls too close, the air too still. I poured a cup of coffee I did not want and stood at the window, staring out at the moonlit graves.

He was out there somewhere. Feeding, maybe. Or watching me from the shadows. By midnight, restlessness drove me out into the night again. I made my way to the hidden entrance Morrow had shown me the night before. My hand trembled slightly as I placed it against the stone, pushing as he had done.

For a terrifying moment, I thought it would not open for me. Then stone grated against stone as the door swung inward, revealing the yawning darkness below. I hesitated at the threshold, common sense finally breaking through my compulsion.

What was I doing? This was not like me. I did not take risks. I knew the sudden obsession was unnatural, but my feet refused to walk away.

I pointed the flashlight of my phone into the darkness and started down the stairs. The door fell closed behind me and I shivered. It felt colder than I remembered, the air damper and heavier. Oppressive. Without Morrow's presence, the tunnel seemed to press in on me.

I kept one shaking hand on the wall until I reached the base of the stairs. I glanced both ways, shining my light down each tunnel. They looked identical. I took a left and then another before I had to stop. I tried to remember the route we had taken the night before.

Left here? Or straight ahead? I listened for any sounds, but there was nothing my shallow breathing. I kept walking, passing through a tunnel so narrow I had to turn sideways to pass. It ended in a chamber the size of the cottage’s living space. I paused at the threshold and shone my light around the room.

It was different from the other chambers, the air saturated with Morrow’s unique wet earth and copper scent. Against the far wall stood something like a bed. A slab of stone had been covered with layers of shredded fabric. Scattered around the strange nest were books, their spines cracked and pages yellowed with age.

I was not supposed to be here. Morrow would know I had been snooping. I turned to leave when something on a shelf caught my eye. A modern spiral notebook.

Without thinking, I picked it up, flipping open the front cover. As I turned the pages, the handwriting deteriorated from neat script to jagged scrawls. My eyes caught a few sentences as I scanned the journal entries.

Saw something in the oldest section tonight. Not human. Administration says it was a vagrant. They're lying.

More graves disturbed. It's not animals. The damage is too precise. Too deliberate.

It's watching me. I feel it every night now. Waiting. I'm not sure what for.

The final entry sent a chill down my spine:

Confronting it tonight. Bringing the gun. If no one else will protect this place, I will.

I closed the notebook, my hands trembling. I did not need to read a name to know the owner. Frank Tillman. The man Morrow had killed and consumed. My predecessor.

I needed to leave. Now. I turned, my flashlight beam sweeping across the chamber. My heart stopped when a pale form loomed out of the darkness.

Morrow stood in the entrance, his gaunt form filling the narrow passage. His gaze was fixed on me, eyes shining like a nocturnal animal. Dark fluid stained his mouth and hands, evidence of a recent feeding. His lipless mouth was set in a hard line, no trace of his usual unsettling smile.

I stood frozen, Frank Tillman's notebook still clutched in my hand. Morrow's gaze moved from my face to the journal and back again. When he finally spoke, his grinding voice was soft, dangerous.

"What are you doing here, Carmen Ruiz?"

Chapter Six

The notebook slipped from my nerveless fingers, falling to the stone floor with a damning slap. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

"I asked you a question," Morrow said, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated through my bones. He took a step forward, his movements unnaturally smooth. Predatory. "Why are you here?"

I backed against the stone bed, my heart pounding. "I was looking for you."

"I see." Another step closer, his body unfolding from its hunched position to tower over me. “You found me.”

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