The town square buzzed with quiet unease the next morning. Though people went about their business, the disappearance of Martin Crowley weighed heavily on everyone's mind. It wasn't just the fear of losing someone they all knew—it was the unsettling circumstances surrounding it.
Sarah sat at her usual corner table in the library, poring over old town records. St. Helena's Cemetery had been in Wycliffe for as long as anyone could remember, but she was looking for anything unusual—unrecorded deaths, strange events, or connections to Elijah Moore.
Her laptop pinged with a notification. It was an email from one of her sources, an archivist in a nearby town who specialized in historical records.
Subject: Elijah Moore
Message:
"Sarah,
I pulled what I could find on Elijah Moore. He was executed in 1872 for crimes against the town. Details are sparse, but the records mention an unusual trial where witnesses claimed strange occurrences—animals dying suddenly, crops failing, that sort of thing.
They buried him in a section of the cemetery that was supposed to be off-limits. There's no explanation for why. I'll keep digging, but it seems like he wasn't a man people wanted to remember.
-Charles"
Sarah's heart raced as she read the message. Executed for crimes against the town? Strange occurrences? It sounded like something out of a Gothic novel, but she knew better than to dismiss it as coincidence.
She pulled up the photos of the grave again, focusing on the scratches she'd noticed the night before. If Moore had been a source of fear in his time, maybe those marks were some kind of warning—or a desperate attempt to seal something in.
---
That afternoon, Sarah visited the Wycliffe Historical Society. It was a small building tucked behind the post office, run by a few retirees with a passion for dusty books and forgotten lore.
"Afternoon, Sarah," said Mrs. Hargrove, the society's unofficial leader. She adjusted her glasses and smiled. "What brings you here?"
"Just following a lead," Sarah replied. "I'm looking into the cemetery—specifically, a man named Elijah Moore."
Mrs. Hargrove's expression darkened. "Elijah Moore? What's got you interested in him?"
"Something about his burial seemed odd," Sarah said carefully. "Do you know anything about him?"
Mrs. Hargrove hesitated, glancing around as if the name alone might summon trouble. Finally, she sighed and beckoned Sarah closer.
"There's a reason we don't talk about Elijah Moore," she whispered. "He was a wicked man—practiced things he shouldn't have. The kind of things that made people afraid to sleep at night."
"Like witchcraft?" Sarah asked, leaning forward.
"Call it what you want," Mrs. Hargrove replied. "The crops failed that year, and animals dropped dead without reason. They blamed him, of course, but…" She paused, her voice dropping even lower. "It wasn't just that. People claimed to see things—shadows moving where there shouldn't be, whispers coming from nowhere. After they hanged him, they thought it was over. But the whispers didn't stop."
A chill ran down Sarah's spine.
"Why bury him in the cemetery?" she asked.
"They didn't want to," Mrs. Hargrove admitted. "But he had no family to claim him, and back then, they didn't burn bodies. They thought burying him would keep his soul at rest. I guess they were wrong."
---
As Sarah left the historical society, the weight of the story pressed on her. If Elijah Moore had been tied to supernatural events in the past, it wasn't a stretch to think his grave might still hold power.
But why now? What had disturbed his rest after so many years?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her phone buzzing. It was a text from Greg.
"Meet me at the diner. I found something."
---
At the diner, Greg looked more tense than usual, his jaw set and his eyes darting toward the windows.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Sarah said, sliding into the booth across from him.
Greg didn't smile. Instead, he slid a folded piece of paper across the table. "This was in the station this morning. No one knows how it got there."
Sarah unfolded the paper. It was old, the edges frayed, but the writing was clear:
"The seal is broken. He will walk again."
Her breath caught. "What does this mean?"
Greg shook his head. "I don't know. But I don't think Martin's the only one in danger."
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Sarah felt the urgency of the situation growing. If the seal was broken, and if Elijah Moore's grave was connected to what was happening, she needed answers—and fast.
But the closer she got to the truth, the more she felt the weight of unseen eyes on her.
Whatever had been buried in Wycliffe wasn't staying buried anymore.