The sun rose over Wycliffe, casting a pale, hesitant light across the sleepy town. At the local diner, a small group of regulars gathered, their morning routine interrupted by hushed whispers about Martin Crowley's sudden disappearance.
"Have you heard?" Mrs. Perkins, the owner, asked as she poured coffee for a table of retirees. "Martin didn't come home last night. His sister's worried sick."
Across the room, Sarah Walker, a young journalist with a knack for digging up the town's secrets, perked up. She set down her half-eaten toast and leaned closer to the conversation.
"He was at the cemetery, wasn't he?" one of the men asked, shaking his head. "That place gives me the creeps. Always has."
"Don't start with your ghost stories," Mrs. Perkins scolded, though her voice wavered. "Martin's probably fine. Maybe he just… lost his way."
"In the cemetery he's worked at for twenty years?" Sarah interjected. The table turned toward her, surprised by her bluntness.
"You don't believe that, do you?" she pressed. "Something happened out there."
"What are you saying?" another man asked, his tone uneasy.
"I'm saying it's worth looking into," Sarah replied, already gathering her things. "Martin's not the type to just vanish."
---
Sarah arrived at St. Helena's Cemetery later that morning, a cold wind greeting her as she stepped through the rusted gates. The place looked as eerie in daylight as it did at night. Overgrown weeds tangled around the gravestones, and the air smelled faintly of damp earth.
She headed toward the caretaker's shack, where a police car was parked. Officer Greg Harris, a childhood friend turned local cop, stepped out as she approached.
"Sarah," he said, his tone a mix of surprise and irritation. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for answers," she replied. "What do you know?"
Greg sighed, glancing around to make sure they were alone. "Not much. His flashlight was found near one of the graves, but there's no sign of a struggle. No footprints, no blood, nothing."
"Which grave?" Sarah asked, pulling out her notebook.
Greg hesitated before pointing toward the far edge of the cemetery. "An old one. Belongs to some guy named Elijah Moore. Died in 1872."
"Anything unusual about it?"
"Not that I could see," Greg admitted. "But… it's weird. The soil looked like it had been dug up recently, but when I checked again, it was back to normal. Perfectly smooth."
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You're saying the ground fixed itself?"
"I'm not saying anything," Greg replied sharply. "Just don't go stirring up trouble. Let us handle this."
Sarah didn't respond. Instead, she headed toward the grave Greg had mentioned.
---
The headstone was barely legible, worn down by decades of wind and rain. Sarah crouched, her fingers brushing the earth. It felt cold, colder than it should in the midday sun.
"Elijah Moore," she read aloud. "Who were you?"
Her curiosity deepened as she noticed faint scratch marks on the nearby stones. They weren't weather-related—these were deliberate, jagged, as if something had clawed at them.
She pulled out her camera, snapping a few pictures. As she stood, a shiver ran down her spine. For a moment, she thought she heard something—a faint whisper, like wind through the trees.
But the air was still.
---
That evening, Sarah sat in her tiny apartment, poring over her research. Wycliffe's history was filled with strange stories—disappearances, unexplained deaths—but nothing directly linked to Elijah Moore.
Frustrated, she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes drifted to the photographs she'd taken earlier. One of the scratch marks caught her attention. Zooming in, she realized the lines weren't random.
They formed a pattern.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. It was Greg.
"Sarah, you need to stop digging," he said, his voice low.
"Why? What's going on?"
"There's something about that grave," Greg admitted. "I don't know how to explain it, but every time I look at the reports, I feel… off. Like someone's watching me."
Sarah's pulse quickened. "Greg, this is bigger than just Martin. If you know something, tell me."
There was a long pause. Then Greg said, "Stay out of the cemetery tonight. Promise me."
He hung up before she could respond.
Sarah stared at her phone, unease settling in her stomach. Whatever was happening in Wycliffe, it wasn't over. And she was determined to find the truth—no matter the cost.