The paper Greg had shown her weighed heavily on Sarah's mind as she left the diner. The ominous phrase—"The seal is broken. He will walk again."—echoed in her thoughts. She couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out, though she wasn't sure what she was racing against.
Determined to uncover the truth, she returned to the cemetery under the cover of twilight. The air was colder now, sharp with the scent of damp soil. St. Helena's seemed different tonight—more oppressive, as if the shadows themselves were watching her.
Sarah held her flashlight tightly, her pulse quickening with each step. She made her way back to Elijah Moore's grave, careful not to disturb the uneven ground. Kneeling, she studied the area by the weak beam of her flashlight.
The scratches she had noticed earlier were clearer now. They weren't random—they formed an intricate design. She traced the lines with her finger, realizing they were symbols, though their meaning was lost on her.
"What are you hiding, Elijah?" she whispered to herself.
As she leaned closer, a gust of wind blew through the cemetery, extinguishing her flashlight. Sarah froze, her breath caught in her throat. The darkness was absolute, and for a moment, she thought she heard faint whispers again.
No. Focus.
Fumbling, she smacked the flashlight until it flickered back on. The beam illuminated the grave, but something had changed. The dirt, which had been smooth earlier, now bore fresh marks—like clawed fingers had raked through it.
Sarah stumbled back, her heart pounding.
---
Back at her apartment, she spread out her notes and photographs, trying to make sense of the symbols. She scrolled through her phone, searching for anything that matched, but the results were frustratingly vague.
It wasn't until she clicked on a link to an old folklore site that she found something promising: protection sigils. The article described how ancient communities used symbols to ward off evil or trap spirits.
Her blood ran cold. The scratches weren't random—they were part of a protective barrier. And if the barrier was broken, then…
A loud knock at her door shattered her thoughts.
She jumped, clutching her chest. The knock came again, harder this time. She crossed the room cautiously, her hand hovering over the doorknob.
"Who is it?" she called out.
"It's Greg," came the muffled reply.
Relieved, she opened the door to find him standing there, his face pale and drawn.
"You're not going to believe this," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He pulled out his phone and showed her a photo. It was another piece of paper, identical to the one he'd given her earlier, but this one had new words scrawled across it in jagged handwriting:
"The grave is open. Beware the watcher."
---
Meanwhile, on the Outskirts of Town
In a dimly lit farmhouse at the edge of Wycliffe, an elderly woman sat in a rocking chair, staring into the fire. Her hands trembled as she clutched an old, leather-bound book.
"They never should've disturbed it," she muttered, her voice barely audible.
The flames flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room. Suddenly, the wind outside picked up, rattling the windows. The woman stiffened, her eyes darting toward the door.
She knew what was coming.
With trembling hands, she opened the book, flipping to a page covered in symbols. "Protect this house," she whispered, repeating the words like a mantra.
The wind howled louder, and then came the sound she had feared most—footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approaching her door.
The woman's voice faltered. The footsteps stopped.
There was a long silence, and then a single knock echoed through the farmhouse.
She clutched the book tighter, tears streaming down her face. "Stay back," she pleaded, but the door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.
The shadows shifted, and the woman let out a scream that was swallowed by the night.
---
Back in Town
Greg paced Sarah's living room, his frustration mounting. "This doesn't make any sense," he said. "Martin's gone, and now this? It's like something's messing with us."
Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at her research. "It's not random," she said. "The symbols, the warnings—it's all connected to Elijah Moore. Someone sealed his grave for a reason, and now that seal's broken."
Greg ran a hand through his hair. "You're saying he's... what? Alive?"
"Not alive," Sarah corrected. "But something tied to him is. And whatever it is, it's dangerous."
As she spoke, the lights flickered. Both of them froze, their eyes darting to the overhead bulb.
"Power surge?" Greg offered weakly.
Sarah shook her head. "No. It's him. He's coming."
The lights went out completely, plunging the room into darkness.
And in the silence that followed, the faint sound of whispers began to grow louder.