The laughter followed Sarah and Greg all the way back to town. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it gnawed at their nerves like a shadow they couldn't shake. By the time they reached Greg's car, they were both tense and silent.
"Do you hear it too?" Greg finally asked, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.
Sarah nodded. "It's like it's mocking us."
The car rumbled to life, and they drove in silence through the deserted streets of Wycliffe. The streetlights flickered ominously, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to stretch toward them.
"We need a plan," Greg said, breaking the silence. "If we're going to reseal that grave, we can't go in blind."
Sarah pulled out the ancient book Mrs. Ackerman had given them and flipped through the pages. The text was a mix of faded handwriting and strange symbols, and the diagrams made her stomach churn.
"This is going to take more than just showing up with a shovel," she muttered. "We'll need supplies—candles, salt, maybe even some of those herbs she had."
"And weapons," Greg added. "Just in case."
Sarah glanced at him. "You really think a gun will stop a spirit?"
"No," he admitted. "But it makes me feel better."
---
A Gathering Storm
As they approached the cemetery, the air grew colder, and the wind picked up, howling through the trees like a living thing. The gates to St. Helena's groaned as they swung open, though neither of them touched them.
"That's not creepy at all," Greg muttered, stepping out of the car and pulling his flashlight from his belt.
Sarah followed, clutching the book tightly. "Stay close," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
They moved cautiously through the cemetery, the crunch of gravel under their feet the only sound. The graves seemed different now, as if the earth itself had shifted. Some headstones leaned at odd angles, and the ground around Elijah Moore's grave looked disturbed—as though something had clawed its way out.
"We're too late," Greg said grimly, staring at the gaping hole where the grave had been.
"No," Sarah said, her voice firm. "It's not over yet. Whatever came out of here hasn't regained full strength. We still have a chance."
---
The Ritual Begins
Sarah set the book on the ground and began drawing a circle around the grave using salt from a pouch Mrs. Ackerman had given them. She placed candles at four points around the circle, muttering the instructions from the book under her breath.
Greg stood watch, his flashlight scanning the darkness. The wind had died down, leaving an eerie stillness that was almost worse.
As Sarah lit the last candle, the whispers returned.
"Do you hear that?" Greg asked, his voice tight.
"Ignore it," Sarah said, though her hands trembled. She focused on the words in the book, chanting them as best she could. The language was foreign, the syllables harsh and guttural, but she forced herself to keep going.
The air grew heavy, pressing down on them like an invisible weight. The candles flickered, their flames bending unnaturally.
Then came the laughter—louder this time, echoing all around them.
"You think this will stop me?" a voice hissed, low and venomous.
Greg spun around, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. "Who's there?"
The voice laughed again, and a shadow emerged from the treeline. It was human-shaped but wrong—its limbs too long, its movements jerky and unnatural. Its eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark.
"Stay back!" Greg shouted, raising his pistol.
The figure didn't respond. Instead, it moved closer, the air around it crackling with energy.
"Sarah, hurry!" Greg yelled, backing toward the circle.
"I'm trying!" Sarah snapped, her voice shaking as she continued the chant.
The shadow stopped at the edge of the salt circle, its form flickering like a flame. "You cannot contain me," it growled. "I am bound to this place, and this town will be mine."
Sarah ignored the creature, pouring all her focus into the ritual. The symbols on the ground began to glow faintly, and the wind picked up again, whipping through the cemetery.
The shadow howled, a sound that pierced the air like nails on a chalkboard. It lunged toward Sarah, but the salt circle flared with light, forcing it back.
"You're hurting it!" Greg shouted.
"Good," Sarah muttered, her voice stronger now. She repeated the chant louder, her words slicing through the darkness.
---
A Temporary Victory
The shadow thrashed and screamed, its form dissolving like smoke caught in a gale. The wind roared, snuffing out the candles one by one, and then everything went still.
Sarah collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath. Greg knelt beside her, his face pale.
"Did it work?" he asked.
"I don't know," Sarah admitted. The grave looked untouched now, the salt circle intact, but the air still felt charged with menace.
"We need to talk to Mrs. Ackerman," Greg said. "If this thing's still out there…"
Sarah nodded, but a sinking feeling settled in her stomach. She knew the ritual had only bought them time. The shadow's final words echoed in her mind:
"This town will be mine."