The wind swept across the small town of Wycliffe, carrying a deep chill that rattled loose shutters and whispered through empty streets. At the edge of the town lay St. Helena's Cemetery, a sprawling expanse of moss-covered gravestones and decaying statues. Few ventured there at night, but Martin Crowley had no choice.

As the cemetery's caretaker, he was responsible for addressing any disturbances, no matter how late. That evening, an anonymous call claimed someone had broken into the grounds. Martin, armed with nothing but a flickering flashlight, grumbled his way down the uneven dirt path.

"Probably just some prank," he muttered, the beam of his light dancing across crooked gravestones.

The cemetery was unusually quiet. No owls hooted from the skeletal trees, and the usual rustle of leaves was absent. Martin tried to ignore the unsettling stillness, chalking it up to his nerves.

Then he heard it.

A faint whisper, almost too quiet to catch, floated on the breeze. He stopped, his heart thudding in his chest. Slowly, he turned the flashlight toward the source of the sound, but the light revealed only rows of silent graves.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking slightly.

The whispering stopped.

Martin exhaled, forcing a chuckle. "Just the wind." He pressed on, but the uneasy feeling lingered.

Ahead, something caught his eye—a patch of freshly disturbed earth. He frowned. That grave had been sealed decades ago, the marker almost unreadable from years of erosion.

"What's this now?" he muttered, kneeling to inspect the dirt.

As his fingers brushed the soil, a deep groan rumbled from the ground. He froze, his breath hitching.

The groan turned into a vibration beneath his knees. Before he could react, the earth shifted violently. Martin stumbled back, his flashlight tumbling to the ground and spinning wildly.

In the flickering light, the soil split open. A claw-like hand, skeletal and covered in dark, rotted flesh, thrust upward, clawing at the air.

Martin scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding as the thing began to rise. A shadowy figure emerged, its form half-decayed but unnervingly agile. Its glowing red eyes locked onto him.

Martin backed away, his voice caught in his throat. The creature stepped forward, its movements jerky yet deliberate.

"Stay back!" Martin shouted, his voice trembling. He grabbed a nearby branch, holding it out like a weapon.

The creature paused, tilting its head in an almost curious gesture. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, it lunged.

Martin's scream echoed through the empty cemetery, swallowed by the cold night air.

By morning, Martin was nowhere to be found. His flashlight lay abandoned near the disturbed grave, but the earth was now smooth—perfectly undisturbed, as though nothing had ever happened.