Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Think Something Terrifying Is Buried In My Backyard | Scary Stories

Episode Date: December 9, 2023

The inside of the lid was covered in scratches. Darkly stained scratches that could have easily been old dried blood.        Story from Brandon Faircloth Make sure to check out more of their work at u/Verastahl | verastahl.com                                    Original Post: I found a coffin buried in my back yard. There was a letter inside. : r/nosleep    Original YouTube link: I Think Something Terrifying Is Buried In My Backyard           For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

My wife left me last winter. I'd like to say it was undeserved, but the truth was I had been slowly making the transition from social drinker to sloppy drunk for the past several years. If I ever was, I had stopped being a good husband or father the last couple of years for sure. And it's a miracle Sandra tried as long as she did before packing up our little girls and moving back to her old hometown. After several months of self-pity and self-loathing, I began getting my shit together.

I started attending group meetings, working harder at my job, and rebuilding a life for myself and the people I love. I never had any illusions of me and my wife getting back together. Some things can't be unsaid or undone. But I did want to be a good father again. I wanted to gain joint custody and have a home that my kids could come and feel comfortable in, not the forced March trips I had seen with some divorced fathers who either didn't really want to see their kids, or at least did very little to make a place for a child

in their lives and their houses. So I fixed up bedrooms for both of them. They came with their mother and picked out the colors for the walls and the furniture they wanted. I was so excited to see them. But also for them to have a chance to see me. Sandra hugged me when they left, telling me that she was so happy I was doing much better. And if I could keep it up, she added, she'd be happy to agree to joint custody. This just motivated me farther. Summer was coming in a couple of months, and my hope was that I could get time with them during their break from school.

So I looked up summer programs, found attractions and parks we could go to. and set about getting someone to put in a swimming pool. We had talked about getting a swimming pool for years, but had never had the money. Surprisingly, working hard and not pissing away large chunks of money on booze allowed me to save up enough for a good down payment on the pool fairly quickly. By May, I had workers out in my backyard with a backhoe. It was a Saturday, and I was watching them with interest and satisfaction, as they began digging out the space for the pool. Within minutes, they had a good portion of it dug, but

then they stopped amid waved arms and yelling. I stepped outside to see what the commotion was. Rick Jarvis, the contractor on the job, came up to me with a strange look on his face. Uh, Mr. Sullivan, do you know anything about someone being buried on this property? I started to laugh, but it died in my throat as I realized he was serious. No, of course not. Are you saying you found someone buried in my yard? He shrugged before taking off his hat and mopping his forehead with the back of his hand. I don't know yet. The boys are still getting it up, but they think they hit a coffin down there. The coffin was a seven-foot long, three-foot long, three-foot

but wide wooden box that had been buried some ten feet down in our yard sometime before we had moved in a decade earlier. I felt the weight of dread and anxiety as they pulled the box free from the ground with yellow straps and slid it onto the grass a few feet away. One of the men approached Jarvis and told him they thought it was empty because it was so light. And after nodding, Jarvis turned back to me. It's your call, sir. It may be some weird old prank or something. We can open it up and see

if anything is even inside, and if there's not, no harm, no foul. We just go back to digging. Or we can go ahead and call the authorities, but that's going to slow things down whether there's a body in there or not. I glanced at the partially dug hole in the coffin. More time would mean more money, and it wouldn't hurt just to look. I turned back to the contractor and nodded. Yeah, go ahead and check it out. No need to call somebody unless we find something. Jarvis grinned and called a couple of his men over with a crowbar.

With a bit of grunning and the squeal of rusty nails, they pry the top off the coffin. I stepped closer as the wooden lid fell aside and felt a surge of relief when I saw it was empty. Well, mostly empty. There were several sheets of paper scattered across the coffin floor, as well as a small, mostly corroded metal flashlight that looked a good 40 or 50 years old. Looking closer, one of the men also picked out a small black rock and the stub of an old wooden pencil. Jarvis collected the item and held them out to me like an offering. Where do you want me to put these things, sir?

They're yours, after all. His expression was unreadable, but I could hear a wire of tension reverberating in his words. I almost told him to just throw it all away, but I had seen writing on those pages and was curious. So I took the items and carried them inside. When I came back out, I stopped two men from dragging the coffin away. telling them that I'd take care of it. I didn't want them wasting any more time, and I hadn't decided what I wanted to do with it yet anyway.

They'd already set the lid back on top, so I dragged the entire thing around to the side of my garage before setting it down. As I did so, the lid slid off again and landed with the interior side face up for the first time. The inside of the lid was covered in scratching, Darkly stained scratches. They could have easily been old, dried blood. My skin crawling. I leaned closer and saw what looked like a small piece of fingernail jutting out of one of the deep grooves

in the stained wood. How was any of this possible? Surely it was all fake, or there'd be a body, Right? Glancing around, I saw no one else could see the lid from where they were working, and I found myself secretly hoping they hadn't noticed it before. I wanted time to think, before anyone started yelling someone had been murdered or buried alive on the very spot I was planning on putting a pool for my little girls. Covering the coffin with a tarp from the garage, I went back inside to look at the items we had found.

The rock was a small flat oval of smooth black stone, and holding it in the palm of my hand, I was surprised by its weight and how cool it felt. It had an almost greasy texture to it, and after a few moments I put it down with mild disgust. The flashlight didn't work, of course, but from what I could make out of its shape underneath the green rust, it reminded me of flashlights I'd seen at my grandfather's house as a child. He had worked as a plumber most of his life, and he always kept a large silver flashlight close at hand.

The pencil, such as it was, consisted of an inch-long nub of wood lacquered with faded green paint and stamped with barely legible letters in what was once gold foil. Part of the name had been obliterated by sharpening, but when I held it to the light coming through the window, I could make out green heart, It didn't ring a bell, so I set it aside and began to glance through the papers. The paper was clearly old and of a very high quality. It felt more like a bed sheet than paper I was used to, and I was impressed it had survived so long in the damp of the earth.

But not only had it survived, it was fairly legible. Most of the pages were filled with a neat, slanted pencil scrawl and clearly numbered as pages of a long letter. The last was written in larger, harsh slashes across the entirety of one sheet. The black lines of lead seemed to scream from the page. Do not take anything from the coffin, bury it again and forever. Do not touch the stone. Do not answer the gravekeeper. My mouth went dry as I read the words. This didn't feel like some kind of strange joke, and my curiosity had curdled into an acid fear deep in my belly. At that moment, I felt certain in my actions, in my conviction, then I needed to do what the message demanded, at least as

best I could. I gathered up the other pages and pencil, intent on putting everything back in the coffin and telling them to rebury it. The pool could wait or go somewhere else. I'm not superstitious by nature, but something was very wrong with all of this and I wanted no part of it. I stopped short when I realized I didn't see the stone. Swallowing hard, I checked under the table and all around the floor. As I grew more desperate and tried to allow for some miracle of physics that had led to the stone rolling a farther distance, I spread out my search as I tossed my living room and adjoining rooms for the small black rock. But nothing. It was just gone. There was no chance someone had taken it. I had been standing less than two feet from it the entire time,

from when I set it down to when I saw it was missing. Still, I found myself considering asking the men outside anyway, if anyone had seen it or taken it. I felt foolish at the thought, but my self-consciousness was being outpaced by my growing dread. Reaching for the door that led out to where they were working, I froze as I looked out the window. All work had stopped, and most of the men were gathering around Rick Jarvis, who was thrashing about on the ground, as though he was having some kind of fit. My first thought was epilepsy, but then I realized he was screaming. He was clawing at his eyes as he wailed, and even from a distance I could see blood slinging

off onto the freshly turned earth and surrounding workboots. And his men, his friends and workers, they weren't trying to help him at all. They were just watching. watching and laughing. He didn't go outside. I knew of no way I could help Jarvis, and I was terrified by what I was seeing. So instead I called 911 and waited by the window as the contractors thrashing finally slowed and then stilled.

The men around him had grown quiet now, standing motionless for several minutes until as one. They began to glance at each other with some. some degree of confusion. There were four men out there aside from Jarvis, and I could have sworn from their expressions that they didn't understand what was going on or what they were doing, but they didn't move to help Jarvis either. Instead, they went slowly back to digging the hole as though their companion wasn't laying a few feet away, dead, or dying. They looked up dazedly at the approach of ambulance and deputy sirens, not showing any real apprehension or concern.

Moving to the front door, I ran out and waved at the approaching vehicles, pointing around to the back of the house. The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. I was kept at the front of the house talking to a deputy, but I caught glimpses as two EMTs loaded Jarvis, still somehow alive, into the back of the ambulance while two other deputies questioned his men. For my part, I told Deputy Ellison that I had seen Jarvis having a seizure and clawing at his face and that his men had seemed to be acting strangely, but that I had not seen any of them actually try to hurt or help the man. All of this was true, but I left out any mention of the coffin or what we had found inside. I'd thought about whether to go into these extra details with law enforcement or the

EMTs while I waited for them to arrive, having given only bare bones details to the 911 operator when I called it in. In my estimation, one of two things was true. Either there was something supernatural and sinister going on here, or there wasn't. If there was, me telling other people about it would do little good except undermine my credibility, and possibly have the other writings I hadn't looked at yet taken away from me. If everything had a mundane explanation, then the coffin and its contents were likely irrelevant. Even if the coffin had contained some kind of toxin, they would likely find it through testing Jarvis. I knew there were holes in my reasoning, but I was still possessed by the feeling that that dire warning I had read was earnest and true,

which meant I needed to assume I was dealing with something that I didn't understand, and that wouldn't be understood by the average doctor or cop as well. So I held things back, hoping it would all go away, but knowing in the recesses of my heart that I wouldn't be so lucky. 20 minutes later, I was driving to the hospital. Before I had left home, one of the other deputies had come up and told Ellison that the other men had given very little in the way of statements, beyond that Jarvis had started having some kind of fit, and they didn't know why.

The deputy said with a meaningful look that based on their responses and demeanor, he had suggested they all get checked out medically. But they had refused treatment and started leaving the workside once he was done with his questions. Ellison had clenched his jaw and nodded. Just make sure you have all those birds info so we can talk to them again. Turning to me, his expression softened slightly. I can't make them see the doctor and don't have any reason to arrest them, but this is all very fishy sounding. I appreciate your help, and I'll be talking again to you soon.

I knew that Ellison didn't entirely trust what I had told him either, and I didn't blame him. As I turned into the hospital parking lot, I went back through what I had said for the tenth time, wanting to make sure I hadn't left out anything that might be helpful, while not delving into those things I felt I needed to keep to myself. able to think of anything. I stepped out of my car and headed into the visitor's entrance to the ER. I had hoped to see some of his workers coming to check on Jarvis as well, as that would at least give some indication of them having returned to normal. But no one came.

For the next two hours, I sat on an orange chair of molded plastic in the outdated and stale-smelling waiting room, my only company the drone of some afternoon talk show from a ceiling-mounted TV, and a sad-looking old woman who sat on the opposite end of the room. I wasn't even sure why I was there, other than I felt somehow responsible for what had happened to Jarvis, and I hoped that by staying, I might either get some answers or at least absolve myself of some guilt. After the first hour, a doctor came out and told him, me, that they had him stable and sedated, and they were planning on doing surgery that evening. But that since I wasn't family, it would probably be at least a day or two before I'd be able

to go in and see him. When I asked if his eyes were going to be okay, the doctor had just given me a bleak look and said he couldn't discuss any medical details with me while shaking his head slowly side to side. I felt sick to my stomach as he left. I debated leaving then, but I didn't really want to go back home and had nowhere else to be. So I sat, turning things over in my mind for several minutes before realizing with a start that I had the pages from the coffin with me. I had been worried about the deputies finding them, so I had gently folded and tuck them

into my back pocket before they arrived. Pulling them out now, I glanced again at the page of screaming warnings before setting it aside. As far as I could tell, the rest of the sheets of paper were all one long letter. So I started reading it from the beginning as the day outside passed through soft twilight in its journey toward darkness. To whom it may concern, my name is Emily Thurman. I write this in the bedroom that has served as a prison for nearly 20 years, or at least as a cell within the larger prison that is this house, this family, this existence. I was treated well enough for the first two decades of my life, for during that period I played the role of a dutiful daughter in a well-to-do family as was expected. When my uncle Frederick attempted to interfere with me sexually was the night that my troubles

began. He was not held to account thanks to my father's misogyny and my mother's desire for her brother's favor and business acumen. Even then, our family was heading for shallower waters financially, and this was more than two decades before the collapse of 1929. For my part, I was treated coldly for my accusations, if not called an outright liar. This caused me more than a little distress, but I had resolved to marshal my resources and leave the cooling embrace of my family for leaner, but hopefully greener, pastures elsewhere as soon as

possible. one night, in January of 1909, three months after the incident with my uncle, I found myself woken roughly by strange men. My first thoughts were of robbery or abduction, but as I was carried through the house, I saw my family standing by and watching. Father looked troubled, but stood silent. Mother and Frederick stared blankly into the distance as I was carried out of the distance as I was carried by them, screaming and thrashing against my captors. It was all for naught. I was thrust

into a waiting motor car that marked the beginning of my journey to Greenheart Home. Greenheart Home, as I would soon learn, was a private institution tucked away like a handmaiden secret in the black woods of Northern California. One could call it a mental ward, a resumed. A residential ward. A treat or a prison and not be wrong. But Greenheart's true purpose was as a place of forgetting. Wealthy and prominent families would send their troubled children, their embarrassing parents, their undesirable mistakes to Greenheart, and there they would stay under the guise of mercy and the pretense of establishment. My official diagnosis, at Greenheart home was melancholia and female disease, as though being a woman was some

kind of blight in and of itself. Those first few weeks I railed against every encounter, demanding my freedom, or at least to speak to someone in control. Over time, I learned that my freedom had died as soon as I spoke out against my uncle, that whoever was in control, the salient point was that it was not me. This led, as one might imagine, to a period of depression. Greenheart was not an unpleasant place aesthetically, as keeping up appearances and salving the conscience of those families that dump their refuse here without a certain veneer of

comfort and respectability. But a gilded cage is still a cage, and I wanted no part of any of it. My attempts to escape were foiled, and eventually my period of despair became burdensome in its own right. So one day I woke up resolved to make a kind of life in that place. I had shunned most social contact since my arrival, but once I opened myself up to the other women there, I found several fast friends. Just to be able to talk to people again, particularly others that shared my plight, was a blessing. In some ways, the next two years were the best of my

life, as bizarre as that might seem from the outside. Living at Greenheart was much like living most places, and that eventually you grow accustomed to things you would have never thought possible. At any given time, there were around 150 women and young girls at Greenheart home, and the fact that periodically people would be gone without warning, never to return, seemed strange but not sinister. We would be told their family had sent for them, and that would be the end of it. We had no way to dispute it, and no recourse even if we had the desire. It wasn't until later that we began to realize what was really happening to our fellow inmates. The ruler of that terrible little kingdom was a man named Dr. Chester Middleton, a psychologist

of some esteem to hear the nurse's talent, though the only times we ever saw him was passing through as he spoke to this nurse or that orderly, occasionally at mandated functions, and the night of the fire that ended it all in 1911. But even before that night, there was always a tension in the air at Greenheart, a hidden power struggle between two unlikely opponents, the head doctor and the gardener. Elias Meeks was a large and sullen man, with a stormy disposition and a thick eastern European accent that seemed to come and go depending on on whether he wanted you to understand his dark mutterings or not. He had apparently been the groundskeeper at Greenhart home for a number of years, and everyone seemed to be terrified of him.

Mostly this was a subtle thing. The staff would avoid him whenever possible, avoiding his eyes when he approached. For Meek's part, he radiated a feeling of menace like living heat, But I never saw him be actively cruel or violent with anyone, which was more than I could say for some of the nurses and orderlies. But that did little to lessen our fear of him. We would watch him cutting the grass or repairing the roof, and my small group of friends would instinctively pull closer together as we hustled past. He would occasionally take special care with a private cemetery at the edge of the grounds,

And it was from this that he earned the nickname that we all called him by when he was out of earshot. The Gravekeeper. I let out a small gasp as I felt my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. Pulling it out, I didn't recognize the number but decided I should answer given the day I was having. It was Deputy Ellison. Where are you at, Mr. Sullivan?

I'm still at the hospital, the ER waiting room. Why? There was a pause, and I could tell the deputy was debating how much he should say. Letting out a deep breath, he went on. Because out of those four guys out there with you and Jarvis today, two of them went home and murdered their families in the last hour. We've got be on the lookouts for the other two, and I was about to put one out on you if I couldn't get a hold of you.

I couldn't breathe. How was any of this possible? I... You're still there, Mr. Sullivan. Yes, yes, I'm here. They... They killed their families. I could hear the weariness and the other man's voice.

Yeah. Worst thing I've ever seen. We had to shoot one of them down and the other one is still hold up in his house. But as far as we can tell, we have at least... six dead so far. Seven, if Jarvis doesn't make it. I was about to tell him what the doctor had told me when the lights went out, plunging the waiting room into total darkness. After a moment, a couple of security lights flickered on fitfully, but no more. Looking around, I saw no people or any of the normal noises I would expect in a hospital. Even the little old woman had left

at some point. It was like I was in a tomb. Deputy. The power just went out here in the hospital. It's dark. Another moment of contemplative silence, and then his voice was back, shot through with anger and fear. That's impossible, even if the hospital loses power. power, the backup jenny's would kick in within less than a second. There's too much that can go wrong if they really lose power. I gritted my teeth as I started slowly making my way to the double doors that led into the deeper bowels of the hospital.

Peering through the narrow windows and the doors, I saw only darkness, punctuated by two dim and flickering security lights on my end of the hallway. The other end was utterly black and devoid of life. I'm telling you, it's dark. No lights outside either as far as I can tell. And I don't see any people. It's like a ghost town in here. I'm leaving, but you should get someone over here.

You stay put, the deputy said, his voice more shrill this time. You were either a potential victim or a potential suspect, but either way you're a person You and me are going to talk more before you go anywhere. I'm on my way." With that, he hung up and I found myself staring dumbfounded at my phone. It took me only a moment of internal debate to decide he could go to hell and that I'd see him later when I wasn't scared out of my mind. Something was terribly wrong here, and I was leaving.

That's when I heard the voice. somewhere deep in the shadows. In the moment it took for me to register it fully, I felt a surge of relief at having contact with another person. Then I realized who was speaking to me from some nearby darkened hall. It was Rick Jarvis. His voice was strange in gravely, and he had a strange lilt to his words. that I didn't remember from my prior conversations with him.

But it was him all right. And he was calling to me. I know you're out there, Solly. I may not can see ya, but that's all right. Yeah, that's all right. He trailed off in a wet, uneven croon, almost as though he was lost in thought. Then he was back. His voice brighter and closer sounding.

Yeah, I can't see ya, but I can smell ya, Sully. Just stay where you are, and I'll be with you shortly. My heart thudding in my chest, I turned to run towards the exit just as I heard a metallic clunk ring through the doors. I hit them hard and bounced off, the magnetic locks giving very little as I shoved against them again and again. After my fifth attempt, I stopped, forcing myself to slow down and think, slow down, and listen. There had to be emergency exits they couldn't lock like this, that he couldn't lock like this.

I just had to avoid him for, there you are, my boy. The voice was right behind me now. Loud is a gunshot in the dark. Now, let's get to know. each other better. I had never really been afraid before. I thought I had. When I was bit by a snake when I was seven, the night I got sideswiped by a semi coming

home from college and had to wait until the fire department could cut me out of my ruined car. The first time I realized, Sandra didn't love me anymore. Those were all frightening, but they were mainly a mixture of pain and surprise. my body's adrenaline and my mind's expectations being thrown into chaos. A moment of peril, that time and distance would turn into forgotten trauma or an interesting story. A scar or a monument not to the danger, but to my surviving it.

When the thing that had once been Rick Jarvis slammed me against the doors of the emergency room at Richard County Hospital, my vision blurred as he was a man. Its tears of pain and terror flooded my eyes. The parking lot beyond was dark, but in the distance I could see the lights of a gas station at the nearest intersection. It could have been on the moon and not felt farther away. A hand pressed my forehead against the glass painfully, even as his body pinned me against the release bar of the door.

I heard myself let out some kind of short animal squeal as I tried to wriggle free. but I didn't struggle for long. For one thing, I could tell he was far stronger than me. For another, I could feel the first touches of true fear as its cold fingers caressed my heart. True fear isn't about being hurt. It isn't about losing your belongings or even your life. True fear is about losing yourself. What you are, what you mean, What you love. It's the feeling of a beast hungrily roaming the rooms of your heart, a nameless despair that has finished eating your hope and has moved on to your soul.

As I felt the thing I'd come to know as the gravekeeper breathing hot, fetid breath into my ear, I understood being afraid. As he chuckled, digging his fingers into my ribs, lightly at first. And then hard enough that I felt wet, hot pain on my right side, I could sympathize with my brain's flight into sheer animal terror. When I realized how excited and happy he was, how aroused and joyous my pain and fear made him as he pressed himself tight and began digging into me, I felt myself sliding towards a slavering abyss.

You need to understand that I was criss. crying and slobbering during all of this, begging to be let go. We were in a vacuum of fear and pain. Dignity and pride had no chance of survival in such harsh conditions. In the moment, I felt like I would have done anything just to get his burning hands off of me, his probing fingers out of my skin. But there was something more than that, worse than that, occurring at the same time. In the still darkness of my inner self, there was a moment of contact and recoil, like a

field mouse scenting a snake in its burrow, my spirit, delicate and shuddering, somehow recognize the rotten thing that hid in that poor man's mead. And in that moment, I think my soul glimpsed into eventual doom. So are you scared enough now, Sully? starting to understand. Are you ready to quit running and get down to bibs and bobs, my boy? A new wash of rotting breath hit me, and I found myself wondering absently if the man pinning me to the door was already dead. I almost answered automatically. As I said, I'd already been begging, but this was the first time he had asked me a direct question in the

eternity since he had first found me in the dark. Do not answer the gravekeeper. The words blazed across my mind, and I kept silent. Several seconds passed, and then I was suddenly free. I let out a gasp as though coming up for air before turning around. I had no idea of fighting back or even trying to defend myself. But I did want to see him for some reason, as though it would bring some kind of understanding. I was disappointed at first, his face and form lost in shadow beyond a dim outline. The security lights in the room were behind me, and so weak that the light did little but make him a more tangible bit of darkness.

Then his face was lit by alternating blossoms. of white and blue light. I sucked in an involuntary breath at the sight of him. His skin seemed impossibly dry and hard, as though it was made from some kind of malleable resin or polished stone. His eyes? Where his eyes should be, were raw red pits of ruined flesh riddled with, I wasn't sure. It reminded me of a picture I'd seen once, of a cave-lined with jagged quartz, sharp crystals growing toward each other, digging through the meat of the earth to form something new in the void. But where the picture had been strangely beautiful, this was the opposite. It was some kind of unnatural decay.

Step back from the door, Sullivan. Turning. I realized that Deputy Ellison had been trying to get through the door for several seconds. I took several steps back, and he slammed a collapsible baton into the glass sharply, glancing at the Jarvis thing. I saw he was just standing there passively, as though he was waiting for something. A second strike, and the glass was spider-webbed. A third, and it went cloudy before tumbling free of the frame. Both of you get down on the ground. Now! I went to to obey, but hesitated. I didn't want to get on the ground with that monster so close by. To my surprise, he was already getting down on his hands and knees, a small smile crawling

onto his rigid lips, causing them to crack and bleed as it widened. He whispered across the distance to me in a tone that seemed on the edge of laughter. Don't you worry, Sully. We'll be together again, really. soon. Three more people, Mr. Sullivan, two nurses and a doctor. Dead. Killed by that maniac Jarvis, despite him having whatever he has wrong with him. On top of that, another 20 staff and patients that were unconscious for nearly two hours with no memory of what happened. So today, in a town that considers it something if we have two murders a year, we've got 10 dead people in one day because before I forget we had to kill the second worker who spontaneously decided his

entire family needed to die today. I could see Ellison was struggling to maintain his composure, trying to do his job of interrogating me while being far out of his depth and understanding. I sympathized, but I didn't have any answers either, at least not yet. I sighed. Look, I don't know what's going. on any more than you. Bullshit! He yelled, throwing down a plastic evidence bag that contained what I recognized as the pages of the letter. In my panic at the hospital, I had forgotten

them in the waiting room, and by the time I had remembered, it was too late. I don't know what this shit is, but I can tell from glancing at it that it's old and strange. Just like that That coffin you had the men digging up today." My eyes widened and he smiled bitterly. Oh, yeah. We know about that now too. I sent a unit back to your house and they found where you had hidden it. Could see the fresh dirt on it and put two and two together.

We're a small department, but we're not idiots. And you need to stop treating us like we are. I sat back in my chair and sighed. I don't think you're stupid. I just don't know what's going on and I'm trying to figure it out. But you need to hear what I'm saying. That thing you arrested. It's not Jarvis. It's some kind of monster. You need to kill it or bury it somewhere deep if it won't die. The deputy sat down across the table from me. The interview room was with, well lit and I could see the exhaustion and fear on his face, but his voice was steady

when he spoke. You don't have to convince me that something abnormal was going on, or that that son of a bitch is a monster. But we don't execute people, even if they deserve it. He's locked up tight, and aside from getting him checked out medically in the morning, His ass won't leave that cell until he's before a judge on Monday. You have my word." I shook my head.

That won't work. He's strong and he can affect people, make them do things. I don't know what he is, but we aren't safe here. Ellison was going to respond farther when he got a call on his cell phone. I'm in the middle of, What? That's not. Who else was down there? him. The color was draining from his face as he spoke, and he was already heading toward

the door as he talked. Almost as an afterthought he turned to me and pointed, Keep your ass in here. I'll be right back. I felt my stomach nodding as I waited. I considered leaving, but I didn't know that running would help anything. Shifting in my chair, I felt a flare of fresh pain in my side and grunted. They had cleaned the wound and put a bandage on it, but they asked me to hold off taking any pain meds until my interview was done. I'd agreed at the time, but now I was starting to regret it. I jumped when the door suddenly swung open.

I was expecting either Ellison or the monster, but it was a younger female deputy instead. She smiled as she came in and gave me a can of ginger ale. Sorry, this is taking so long, very chaotic at the moment. I smiled weakly at her. What's going on? Deputy Ellison just went running out of here a few minutes ago like there was an emergency. The girl looked down and then glanced at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. I really shouldn't say anything.

Please, I'm really freaking out in here. Is there anything you can tell me? She nodded and sat down across from me. Well, the guy they brought in with you, the murder suspect, they were keeping him in a holding cell downstairs, locked tight, camera in the cell the whole nine yards. And now he's gone. Escape somehow, but no one knows how. The only thing they found was some kind of weird rock sitting on the bench in the cell.

I stood up suddenly, knocking my chair over as I backed to the wall. Shit, shit, I told him, I, we have to get out of here. We're not safe, we have to. The deputy was wide-eyed as she stood and retreated to the door. Look, I shouldn't have said anything. Just calm down. We're safer here than anywhere. Trust me, if that guy was still in the station, we would know it.

Just stay here and I'll get Ellison for you. She paused and then added, Just please don't tell them what I told you. I need my job. I took a deep breath and tried to get control of myself. Yeah, yeah, your secret's safe with me. I'm sorry. I just, I hope you find him soon.

He's very dangerous. She nodded, her face solemn. I believe you. We'll probably be calling in the state police on this one, Anyway. She opened the door but stopped halfway through, turning back to me. Hey, you want any ice with that drink? I waved my hand.

No. No, this is fine. Thank you. The girl's face hardened as her lips peeled away from her teeth in a mockery of a smile. The voice that came from her was rough and unnatural, but I recognized it right away. That's too, Sully. A thin line of drool began to drip out of the corner of the girl's mouth as it spoke. I'm crawling towards you, my boy.

Going to crawl right up inside you, to stay, I think. The thing wiped the drool away absently as it looked at me with her unblinking hazel eyes. Yes, I think right up inside you to stay. I'd expected that she was going to close the door back and attack me, but instead it just waved and walked out of sight down the hallway. I considered running out screaming, but I worried that might provoke the thing inside the young deputy. So instead I kept my back against the far wall of the interrogation room and called Deputy

Ellison on my phone. I told him what had happened. in a brief whisper, and he said he was on his way. True to his word, less than a minute later he was running into the room. Shutting the door, he looked at me with anxious frustration. Have you seen her again? I paused, weighing if this could be another trick, the gravekeeper having taken over Ellison now, but decided it seemed unlikely and worth the risk to trust Ellison for a moment.

I shook my head. No. She just told me about Jarvis disappearing, tricked me into answering a question, and seemed satisfied with that. She left out of here going to the right and I was scared to follow her. He nodded. I don't blame you. Based on your description, I had the front desk check for any female deputies that left

in the last few minutes. Rachel Minas left in a hurry. Just a minute ago. I told dispatch to get a hold of her. but I don't know how likely that is based on what you're telling me. He sat down at the table with a sigh and gestured to the other chair. Look, I know something really crazy is going on, and I'm past thinking it's likely your fault.

But you're clearly involved whether you want to be or not. It wants something from you. So if you have any more information, now's the time. time to give it to me. Sitting down across from him, I recounted the details I had omitted earlier about what had happened at the house, as well as what I had read so far in the letter from the coffin. Ellison listened intently, not speaking after I had been finished for close to a minute. Okay.

Well, several things. First, you should have told me all this to start with. might not have helped anything, but it wouldn't have hurt. Second, the way the items were in the coffin makes sense. Or, well, it doesn't make sense. But it's consistent with the theory I had about Jarvis. I frowned at him. What was your theory?

He puffed out a long breath. That he didn't escape. That he just went away. I don't really know what that means yet, but I saw no way how he could have gotten out of that room short of teleportation, and I saw no reason why he would leave a souvenir behind either. Because Minus wasn't lying about the rock. We found one in the cell, just like you described from the coffin. And then, with me watching it as another deputy went to go get an evidence bag, it just vanished

into thin air. his hand through his hair, he went on. The thing is, Minus was never in that cell with him, or with the rock. As far as I know, she wasn't even in the jail section of the sheriff's office. She's a road deputy, and it'd just come back from the end of a shift. I didn't know what to make of that. I'd always assume that the rock was somehow tied to people getting taken over by the thing, but that seemed unlikely if what he was saying was true. A thought occurred to me. Was she at one of the workers' houses when you were dealing with them?

Maybe she got infected there somehow. Ellison shook his head. No, she's a good deputy, but green hasn't been on the road six months. She was one of the few we kept out of a normal patrol while we were dealing with all this other. He tapped the bag containing the left. You say there's more you haven't read. Yeah, I got interrupted by Jarvis at the hospital. I shuddered involuntarily at the memory and tried to push it away.

We should finish it and see if it gives us any ideas. Glancing at his cell phone, he pushed the bag to me. Go ahead. Just read it out loud. The first time that we witnessed the strange power dynamic between the between the gravekeeper and Dr. Middleton was during one of our rare social interactions with the men's ward at Greenheart home. For various reasons, there was generally strict segregation between the sexes, with separate wings, dining halls, and recreational areas for men and women.

For the most part, it was easy to forget that they were even there, and that was typically preferable. The monthly picnic on the vast front lawn of Greenheart was always an ordeal. Some of the women eagerly anticipated the day, putting extra effort into their appearance and making every attempt to garner attention from one or more men during the three hours we worked together. For me, it amounted to huddling amongst my friends and trying to avoid eye contact with those men that were actively looking for female companionship. While the picnic was was supervised. Our caretakers were far from assiduous, and I came to understand that they would deliberately turn a blind eye if a couple wandered off into one of the distant stands

of trees or bushes closer to the outer perimeter fence. There was no way for them to escape, after all, and if some indiscretion led to a pregnancy, they had means of profiting from that as well. It should be clear that I do not hate men. Far from it. But I've never seen much benefit in purely physical Congress of that sort, and it wasn't as though I could establish a relationship with someone that I saw briefly once a month. While I pitied their plight as I did my own, I had no desire to be an outlet for some strangers pent-up lust. So I resigned myself to small conversations with my friends, watching the clouds, reading the latest book I would get out of the lending library. I enjoyed poetry the best,

and on this particular day I was reading, funnily enough, men and women by Robert Browning. I was thoroughly engrossed, but I looked up when I heard a commotion up near the top of the lawn near the building. You think you're clever, doctor. The gravekeeper's accent was light, but his voice laden with threat as it rolled across the grass. He was talking to Dr. Middleton, who took a step back as he raised his hands. I don't know what you mean, Meeks. I could hear anger in the man's voice, but it broke as he said the gravekeeper's name. Meeks let out a wet, nasty laugh. Oh, you know well enough, I think.

Yes, I think you do. He took a step toward the doctor, who retreated and kind. You think I don't know about your little side ventures?" He looked off in the distance for several moments, to the point I thought Dr. Middleton was going to respond before he was cut off by the gravekeeper's next words. I do. I do. I don't care about the babbies, but I do about the trucks.

You can't. You stop them. Or I'll stop you. As he said the last, I had the odd image of a hand stopping the pendulum of a clock, killing its motion, its life. I learned later that several of my friends who watched the scene unfold had the exact same image as I. One of the head nurses headed over to the argument, presumably to help the crumbling Dr. Middleton,

but the gravekeeper turned his gaze on her, pinning her to the spot. This little swore is over, nurse. I want everyone back inside. Now, need peace and quiet on my lawn so I can hear myself think." The older woman's mouth moved wordlessly as she turned to glance at the doctor. Even at a distance you could tell by his rounded shoulders and the way he ignored looking at her that he was beaten. Yes. Um, yes, let's cut it. short this month. I have much work to do." Dejected. The nurse turned and started calling for the nurses

to collect their charges and return them to their respective chambers in the Greenheart. We gathered up our things and headed for the building. But as we approached the top of the lawn, I felt something at my core tremble. I turned and saw the gravekeeper, looking at me, his dark eyes steady, as the death-watch gaze of a crocodile or an angler fish, seeing and not seeing at the same time. My heart leapt, and then leapt again when his gaze followed my movements. What are you looking at, my girl? His voice was rough and deep, and at such proximity it took all I had not to run at hearing it. Turning away from him, I lowered my head and murmured, nothing.

Most of my attention was on keeping my steps measured as I crossed the threshold into the building, on not showing the fear I felt. But then I heard his chuckle behind me as he muttered something low. What I feared then was confirmed over time. I had been somehow marked by the thing we called, the gravekeeper. As for his low muttering, it didn't make sense to me when I was at Greenhart, but sitting here in the spring of 1931, I see its significance all too clearly. That's one, my pet. Yes, I think that's one. I looked up at Ellison. This is the same kind of shit he was saying to me, or she was, minus. But you know what I mean. It's something to do with tricking some people into answering him several times.

I don't know why it's not like that for everybody, but it can't be. From what you're saying, that deputy would have never even seen him. He nodded. His face drawn. Yeah. I mean, no. She wouldn't have ever had a chance to be asked shit by Jarvis. Shit.

Keep going. I want to know how we stopped. this, son of a bitch. And this is all we have to go on. I knew from the pages I was holding. There wasn't much left, and my heart sank at that realization. I'd been hoping that this letter from the past would hold some hidden key to how to stop this thing. That's what always happened in horror movies, right? You just had to put the puzzle together, and your reward would be the thing that could slay the beast. But there was no point in dampering our spirit. it's more by saying it out loud. Instead, I finished the letter. Over the next several months,

I saw and heard gossip of several more confrontations between Meeks and Dr. Middleton. In most of them, it seemed the gravekeeper's primary point was to shame and cow the doctor, but there did seem to be some common thread regarding something the doctor was doing that Meeks didn't like. It wasn't until Christmas Eve of 1911, that I fully understood what that was. We were all gathered in the dining hall having our dinner, roasted geese, figgy, pudding, and bowls of steaming potatoes filled every table. And despite our situation, the mood in the room was actually something close to Mary. Dr. Middleton sat at the head table, sourly picking at his food while pretending to pay attention

to one of the other doctors that had come on at Greenheart just a few months prior. The head doctor's face changed as the doors at the opposite end of the room banged open. It was the gravekeeper. He strove down the middle of a long hall, and I shuddered as he spared me a knowing glance in his passing. Without any real effort, he leapt the five feet onto the raised platform where the head table sat, his hands loose at his sides like a gunfighter from the stories my father would read me as a little girl.

I told you, Doc, but you thought you knew better, thought you were smart and could fool me. Middleton visibly paled. I don't know what you mean, Meeks. I heard that rough chuckle again. Sure you do. You kept sending out our cattle here. He gestured back in our direction.

Sending him to another butcher. He suddenly slammed a fist down on the table, caving it in and sending food flying amid screams of terror and shuffling feet. The gravekeeper's voice somehow carried over the commotion, and I wonder now if he was speaking at all, or if I was hearing him in my mind. But I'm a greedy selfish. selfish butcher, greedy, and so very hungry." Middleton's face went red with anger.

Shut up, you fool! You'll ruin us both! I watched as Meek's hand shot forward and threw the doctor's head. Bone and viscera exploded out onto the other staff that were now scrambling desperately off their platform and toward the doors. I don't want to share. You see, never have. So I think it's time to start fresh.

He turned around to face us, slinging his arm hard enough that meat and gore splashed against the far wall. Yes, I think it's time for a change. A number of staff and inmates were at the doors by now, but they couldn't escape. Only the door nearest me seemed to be open, and people flooded out of it as flames began to appear along the walls and tables. I had been somewhat transfixed by the horror unfolding before us, but the warmth of the fire brought me to my senses. I pushed away from the table and headed for the door, pushing my way through the crowd and out into the cold night air.

Even through the crackling of the flame wreath walls and the distance we had moved from the building, I thought I could hear Meeks laughing. Nearly 40 people died that night. By the next morning, I was on a train headed back here to my family. My trip was uneventful, and my return home was unceremonious. There was no discussion of Greenhard home or my unwilling confinement. there. Life had moved on without me. In carrying the perspective I had gained at Greenhard home, I found myself grateful for being removed from it. I missed my friends terribly, but never

saw or heard from them again. I was told in blunt terms by my mother that I was welcome to stay as long as I behaved. But if there were any further problems, or if I attempted to leave my family's tender care, they would see me put in a state hospital that would make Green Heart seem like a paradise. The certain reality of that threat terrified me, and to my shame kept me a largely silent and docile prisoner over these years. I quickly divorced myself from all but mandatory family functions, staying mainly in my room or the library at times when I knew others weren't apt to be around. I was like a ghost haunting my own home, and that separation was a comfort.

I lost myself in books and writing poetry, and occasionally talking to a distant aunt on our new telephone. She had no ability to help, my predicament, but she was a kind voice in the dark nonetheless, And while I was initially put off by the alien means of communication, I soon came to look forward to her calls once every week or two. The last of my calls with my aunt was strange from the beginning. She seemed uninterested in what I was saying, and her manner of speech seemed somewhat abnormal.

I was wondering if she was sick or preoccupied by some trouble when I realized she was asking me a question. Would you like me to come and visit you, Emily? My chest flared with happiness. I had wanted to ask her for months, but was afraid that the suggestion might have the opposite effect of pushing her away. Trying to not sound over-eager, I paused before breathlessly answering yes. There was a strange, smacking sound on the other side of the line.

Ah, there we are. That's too, my girl. Don't you worry. I'll be visiting you real soon to get the last one. I had dropped the phone with a clatter and ran from the house, but to no avail. I was caught, I was locked in, and I was just watched closer afterward. My family apparently having warmed to the idea of acting as my wardens and preferring it to the embarrassment of public institutions. It was in this trap that I stayed waiting for him to come, waiting for it to come. For how could such a thing be human? I heard some days after my last phone call that my aunt had taken her own life, but I knew the lie of it. That thing had murdered her and was coming for me next. Except, it never came.

Years passed, and as time dulled the edge of my fear and trepidations, the banality of my existence, made me almost pine for something as strange as whatever the gravekeeper might be. Of course, that was a foolish wish, but it was one that was soon granted. It was my mother this time, asking if I wanted any lunch. And as soon as I answered, I felt the change come over me. It felt as though someone had set fire to my brain. I stumbled back from the threshold of my room and collapsed against my bed,

sliding to the floor as the world receded to black. When I awoke, I knew I was ruined. Tainted. I could feel him nesting in my mind, in my soul. He didn't take control often, but I could feel him sending out tendrils as he probed my thoughts and feelings. I began to have dark and perverse thoughts, as well as the reoccurring image of a face that was both meeks and not meeks. Its mouth a red slash full of broken knives, cutting and recutting the long purplish tongue that lulled out of its mouth, wet and hungry. I could feel that mouth in my mind consuming me bit by bit, replacing me with something

else. I could feel that dark tongue roving and questing, burning everything with its acid touch. I could feel it licking the inner chambers of my heart. My mother is dead now, and they've decided I'm to blame. The past two weeks have convinced them that I'm evil, possibly possessed. As I don't remember spans of that time and given what I know, who am I to argue? They mean to bury me, bury me and leave this house forever. So whether that last idea is truly theirs or the banks, that's another matter.

I wish I had it in me to fight them. But I'm too tired. And considering what lives inside me now, perhaps it's the best thing. I always wrote such happy poems. I was embarrassed to have anyone read them because of their optimism and bright view of a world beyond the borders of places like Greenheart home or my own family. Perhaps the idea that there are good people and good places, places where truth and love and kindness can find light enough to grow tall and strong is a fantasy. But I don't think so. I just think it's foreclosed to me now.

Last night, I woke to find that a new poem had been written. His poem. Not mine. It was titled The Magpie Song. There's a flock of magpies round me, round me. They soar as high as you can see, you see. They took my eyes, but fairly paid, for I rest in their eyes as he. even trade, spanning the land and the sea, the sea. There's a flock of blackbirds in flight, in flight.

They move to and fro every night, every night. They took my ears, beaks sharp and wry, but it favors me with each sobbing cry, found in the spaces away from the light, the light. There's a flock of crows crying loud, crying loud. They cast shadows great as a cloud, a shroud. They took my tongue and so my voice. By then I was strong. They had no choice. It's with their pink darts.

I taste the tears. The tears. There's a sky full of rooks, and it's a sky full of rooks, And it's me, it's me. See the remains in the field. I used to be, used to be. But now I move free, still young and hungry, still reaching out into the void. I see you shining there.

Your spirit, unawed. I think he wrote it at least in part. To mock me, to twist something that I love, and show me how he's going to taint every corner of my life, letting me watch until it's all gone. But I've lived a small life. I blame my family for some of that, but I can't lay at all at their door. Perhaps I should have been braver and bolder, stronger. I should have found a way.

But it's too late for me now. They mean to bury me tonight. As horrible as that is, I won't fight them. The one benefit of having such a small life is that it's easier to risk it, easier to finally be brave. I'll gladly give my life if I can carry the gravekeeper with me. Keep him. It from touching others.

protect the goodness that I know is out there somewhere in the world. I hear them coming from me now, so I must end this. I will try to hide this on my person as well, as the means to write more if I have the need and the ability. I've just realized what I've been writing this all with. I don't remember this pencil, and I wonder where... It ends there. My mouth was dry, and I felt on the verge of tears, both for Emily and for myself.

I felt no closer to a solution, and I could tell Ellison felt the same. We stared at each other for a moment before I asked a question that had been in the back of my mind since I started reading us the rest of the letter. Why do you believe me? Why do you believe any of this? I laid the letter down and sat back. I could just be crazy or a liar. I could have fake this letter, be giving these people bath salts or something.

So why are you so willing to believe that the gravekeeper is real? Ellison rubbed his mouth and gave me a wan smile. I'd like to say it's just my gut. My cop's instinct. But my instincts have never been that great, if I'm honest. The real reason is because this isn't the first time I've ever seen a monster. I raised an eyebrow and he went on. Not this thing.

Nothing like this thing, whatever it is. But there was a time when my brother got taken by someone. Some thing. I was a teenager at the time. And I was stupid. Thought I'd track him down, hunt down whoever took him. Wound up, I was the one being hunted. I got drug to a place where it had my brother. Turns out I hadn't been too far off, but I was too late. He was torn apart. I saw tears welling in his eyes as he looked away to the wall. Suddenly this man was there.

He killed that thing and saved me. I leaned forward. My eyes wide. How did the man kill it? Maybe that'll help us. He laughed softly. You'll think I'm lying. But he killed it with a crowbar and an electric drill.

When he was done, it was just gone, disappeared. Before today, it was. was the most bizarre thing I'd ever seen. And it's still a close second. I went to ask him something else, but my phone rang. It was Sandra, and she was screaming. I drove behind Deputy Ellison, his patrol car's lights forging us a path as we sped through town and out to the interstate. All we had to go on were three words Sandra had said in the middle of her terrified screaming at Hideaway Lodge. I didn't understand the reference, but Ellison told me Hideaway Lodge was a large motel

along the interstate. When I learned it lay somewhere between my town and where Sandra was living with the girls, it made more sense. It also drove home that it might not just be her in jeopardy, but our daughters Alice and Christy as well. out of my mind with fear. I was running out of the building when Ellison caught me. You need to take a breath, man. I tried to pull away, but he held me fast. I know, and we're going to get them. But you aren't good to anybody if you kill yourself getting there.

Let me help. I shook my head. No, no cops. I'm going to do what I have to do and I can't have someone between me and them. I can't Let this keep going on." Ellison smiled. His eyes hard but not unfriendly. I'm not talking about cops. I know enough to know this is something special, like when that thing got my brother. I'm not helping you as a deputy."

He glanced out the window to the parking lot. Though I'm not above running the sirens to get us there faster. We pulled into the gravel parking lot in a cloud of gray dust and Ellison was already in the office before I was fully out of my car. I almost followed him in, but held back out of fear that a harried civilian partner would only weaken his authority. In a minute he was back out and heading toward me. Guy said the two men checked in about two hours ago. He said there have been other people in the car, but he never got a good look. Then half an hour ago he saw a patrol car pull

up. He pointed down to the corner of the building. That's minus's patrol car. The motel manager never saw her, but he said the car has a move that he's noticed since it arrived. Ellison glanced worriedly up at the fourth floor of the motel. Based on how he described the men, I think we just found the last two of Jarvis's workers. What's the room number? I could hear the barely restrained anger in my voice. I'd been trying to be patient, but I needed to get up there now and he was wasting time. He glanced back at me. I'm getting to that. But first you need to hear me. We're likely walking into a hostage situation with two homicidal maniacs and a trained arm officer with a monster in her brain. Best case scenario, I'm probably going to be fired. Worst case, most of us wind

up dead or puppets for that damn thing. I'm not trying to be a hero here, but you need to follow my lead. Listen to what I tell you to do and stay out of my line of sight on them at all times. You clear? I nodded and he patted me on the shoulder. Okay, let's go get your family back. They're in room 403. We went up the stairs slowly, looking around constantly, for a nearby ambush or a distant threat. But there was nothing. If there was anyone else even staying at the massive motel, you couldn't tell it by what we saw as we ascended to the fourth floor. We reached 403, and I went to knock, but Ellison shook his head. He gently pushed me to one side of the door as he moved to the other. Once in position, he drew his gun

and quietly tried the knob. The door opened, easily, into a well-lit room. On the bed was Sandra and the girls. Their hands tied in front of them and pieces of ripped bed sheet tied across their mouths as gags. Standing on either side of them, like bodyguards, were the last two men from when the coffin was found. They were both caked with dirt and filthy, and I could tell from their close.

clothes that they had recently urinated on themselves. As we stepped into the room, the smell of rotten meat and shit emanating from them made me gag. For their part, they barely even glanced at us as we entered. Their eyes only ticking in our direction briefly as they continued their slack-faced manning of the post. Ellison gestured for me to stay back as he checked the small bathroom just inside the entry door. A moment later, Later, he was back out and into the room proper. Looking around. He saw what I saw.

No deputy minus. Holding his gun on the men, he edged around them to glance out at the small balcony that looked onto a distant clump of scrub pines. She wasn't hiding out there either. Then I saw it. The Rock's back. I pointed to the room's television stand. A couple of inches in front of the TV was the smooth, flat stone.

I had the crazy urge to pick it up. Open the sliding glass door and hurl it out into the woods. But I knew it would do no good. There was no stopping this, just containing it. I had to get it away from the others. Put your hands on your head and step to the front door. When you reach the outside of the door, get down on the ground. If you do anything else, I will shoot you."

I looked up and saw Ellison was trying to get the workers out of the room. Sandra and the girls had been squealing with some mixture of joy and fear since we entered. But I'd been so lost in looking for Minus in finding the stone that it was only now that I thought to comfort them as best I could. It's okay. It'll be okay. You're safe now." I registered movement from the two men only a moment before the gun went off.

They weren't heading for the front door or even to attack me or Ellison. They were charging the sliding glass door. They first hit it with a crash, even as the second was shot, but neither of them seemed to slow down. One more blow to the glass, and they were through. At first I thought they were trying to escape, but they never slowed. Instead, they hit the waist-high railing hard, tearing it free as they tumbled over and passed it before falling to the ground below.

Ellison stepped out on the ruined balcony and looked down. Shit. I think they're dead or close to it. He glanced up at me. Get your girls free. I need to call this in now. I nodded and went to them, hugging them briefly before freeing their mouths. and hands. They were all hugging me back, crying and asking if it was over. I lied to them and

said it was. Hopefully it wasn't much of a lie. I planned to end it all soon. Pulling back, I focused on each of them for a moment, trying to burn their faces into my memory. I wanted something good to hold on to when I was alone in the dark with that thing. I love you all, so much. I started to cry as I went on. I know I haven't always been a good person, and you always loved me in spite of my mistakes. There may be a lot of weird things you hear in the next few days, and I know you may never understand most of this. Heck, neither do I, but always know how much I love all three of you. You were always the best part of me.

Not wanting to prolong it any further, I turned to grab the stone, intending on taking it back downstairs and driving it far away from here, find some secluded place to bury it, and me, hopefully really forever this time. But it was gone. Missing something, Papa? was only four and still mumbled a lot when she talked, but this was loud and clear. The voice was hers and not hers. I felt my knees weakening as I heard its voice woven through. What me to help you look for it? I turned back and saw a knowing grin on my little girl's

face as it mocked me. Sandra and Alice knew something was wrong. They were frowning at Christy. And after a moment, Alice was sliding off the bed and coming closer to me. Sandra reached out to touch Christy's face, and I moved to stop her. But I was too late. Our baby girl launched herself past the outreached hand and bit down on Sandra's face. Blood sprayed against the wall as Alice joined her mother in screaming in terror. Ellison came back in from the balcony and dropped his phone when he's saw what was happening. We both moved to pull Christy off, but she was impossibly strong. I was yelling, but I have no idea what. I was out of my mind with anger and fear, and as I watched, the thing

in Christy was crawling up Sandra's face with its gnawing, questing mouth. It had started on her left cheek, but it quickly moved along its path of ruin to Sandra's eye, as it bit down. down on the interior of her eye socket. A wet, crunching sound was met by Sandra's keen animal whale as she passed out. The goddamn thing was making her eat Sandra's eye. Anger flared brighter in my chest, and I planted my feet. Ellison, seeming to sense my intent, braced against the slumping Sandra as I yanked as hard as I could to pull Christie off. of her, fearing it still wouldn't be enough. Except it was more than enough. Just as I pulled, Christy just let go. We stumbled and fell past the carpet, past the broken glass door, to the

end of the broken balcony. For a moment, I stood on the edge, trying to tilt us back the other way, working against momentum and gravity and inevitability. And then we were floating through the through the air, and I could feel the deep rumble from my little girl's chest as we headed for the ground. It was laughing. It was over the next moment. Pain flared through my body, and I let out a scream of agony that turned to despair, as I realized I wasn't that badly hurt.

I had landed on Christy, dragging myself off of her. I rubbed dirt and blood off her face as I tried to do. to wake her, to wake it. Ask me your question. I'll answer, I'll answer. One of her eyes fluttered open, the other one crushed closed and tangled in a mass of welling blood. Her good eye couldn't focus, but I knew she was searching for me. Daddy? She looked like she was going to say something else. But then she was gone. I screamed and cried, beating the ground and hitting myself over and over. My arm was broken, and the pain that tore through me with each blow seemed like the least of what I deserved. Why hadn't it taken me? Why hadn't it just asked its last question?

Because the questions were never the point, my boy. Ellison was standing over me, and I saw now that Alice and Sandra were there too, forming a rough semi-circle around me and the crushed horror of our baby girl. I don't need the questions to take you. Never did. Alice said as it smirked at me. But I'm very old, and I get bored. Sandra said, it's more. It's more. fun if I spice it up, and it's easier to take the special ones like you, my long-term host, if you have a bit of hope and a sprinkle of mystery to go with your terror and despair. Ways you can fight me," Ellison said. Rules that can protect you."

Alice added, Some noble sacrifice you can make to atone for being the steep. stupid little waste that you are. Sandra's smile was thin and cold as she shoved me lightly with the toe of her shoe. And what can I say? It makes you tastier too. Unlike the others, I'll hold off a good long time before I eat you. But what can I say? I like to season my meat. I had no response to give, and apparently it needed none. The world exploded as I suddenly felt an enormous pressure in my skull. I had the image of the rock appearing there, tearing and pressing at the brain tissue

to make room. I knew that was impossible. I'd be dead or in a coma from something like that, but I somehow knew it was still true. was like Emily described. I could feel it inside me now. Sandra, Alice, and Ellison all slumped to the ground like puppets with their strings cut, but when I checked them, they were alive. I didn't have any way of knowing if they would ever be okay again, but then again, nothing could ever be okay again. I looked down in my shirt, covered in my baby's blood, and I had to be okay. I stripped it off before running from my car.

The gravekeeper was quiet in its new home and didn't stir as I drove away from the motel in the nearby town. I went deeper into the country for nearly an hour, searching for what might be a good spot to hide my car. When I found it, I left my car, cell phone and wallet behind, taking only a tire tool out of my trunk to use as a makeshift shovel. I walked for another two hours when I came upon what had likely once been some kind of large animals burrow. It only took a bit more digging to make it large enough for me to fit inside and be out of sight. Not wanting to waste any time,

I put Ellison's gun to my head and tried to pull the trigger. Except it wouldn't let me. I cursed, I screamed. I tried using both hands, but nothing I did worked. It just sat silent, letting me try and fail over and over again. Please, just let me die. Please, please, please, please. I knew I was growing hysterical, and I was fine with that. Maybe it couldn't prevent a natural death by stroke or heart attack as easily. I had to find a way to... This is it? It was a young man's voice. Yes, he's in there.

I thought I was going to vomit half a mile back, but it is much stronger here. This was an older, deeper voice. I was trying to decide how best to stay hidden or escape when a strong hand suddenly shot into the burrow and pulled me out. I looked up as a large old man squatted down quickly and injected me with something. Almost immediately, I felt blackness slipping in, but I still jerked when I heard the whirr of an electric drill. I thought of Ellison's story and closed my eyes gratefully.

Wait. This was the younger man again. I can sense something about this one too. You can." The older man sounded curious, but I still heard the drill drawing closer. Interesting, but no time to risk it. Not with this one. No.

Stop. The young man spoke again. Don't drill him. He's different. It's different, I mean. I think it wants you to drill it. I don't think it's like the others. I think it is the seed in his head.

or at least the seed is containing it somehow, limiting it. The electric drill came to a stop. How could you possibly know any of that? I opened my eyes again, and I could barely see anything. Everything was a blur, but I could hear the worry in the young man's voice. I don't know, but I do. It's like I remember it somehow. It's weird, but we can't deal with this thing like normal."

The older man sighed. Well, then we'll have to... But then I fell into the black. I'm restrained in a small warehouse basement that the young man, Jason, told me they had planned to turn into new living quarters, but that this seemed a much more important use. They've told me what their plan is, and I can see now that they've seen now. how much the idea of it pains them. They never apologize for it, but I can tell they wish there

was another way. The older man, Dr. Barron, says they are letting me record this narrative, everything that happened from the beginning, both for their work and so that my story can be heard and remembered. I asked them how they found me, and they tell me that Ellison had called them when we were on the way to the motel. When I asked them why they were weren't afraid that the gravekeeper might take them over or use me to hurt them. They share a glance before telling me that while there are always risks, they have some unique immunities to these kinds of things and are experienced with such matters. Dr. Barron lightly gripped my chin then, and it was clear he was no longer talking to me,

rather the thing nesting in my brain. Besides, I don't think it wants to fight us. I think it's exactly where it wants to be. I saw Jason's eyebrows go up behind him. What? Why do you say that? The doctor kept hold of me, looking into my eyes as though trying to peer through and behind them to the monster.

from everything we've heard of this creature, it's very old and cunning, very good and getting its way. I felt the dull thrill of fear as his face hardened, and we may not know why yet, but we will. And when that day comes, the gravekeeper may learn it isn't quite as smart as it likes to think. I wish things had turned out differently. I'm scared of being alone with that thing, and my only hope is that the burial carries me beyond its ability to keep me alive. They tell me Ellison and Alice are okay,

or as okay as they can be. They seem normal, at least. Sandra is alive, but still in serious condition. My family will never understand what really happened, but I think that may be for the best. As bad as not knowing might be, the truth is so much worse. I'm at the end now. Jason has stayed with me to record my story, and I hope he takes to heart what I say next. These men are good men, and I bear them no ill will.

They're just doing a better job of what I already tried to do. Do. Up above, I can hear the beeping noise of the cement truck as it approaches the edge of the subterranean room, my man. I hope that it's enough. So listen to me before you go, Jason. Listen. Whoever hears my story, keep me buried, buried forever. Do not ever let the the gravekeeper out again. Please. Don't. We both know that's not the way this will play out, don't we, boy? I turned off the recorder and looked down at where Mark Sullivan was chained on the floor. The voice coming out of him now was rough and hard on the ears.

We both know we'll be seeing each other again. I thumbed the button to back the tape up to before the gravekeeper had spoken. Yeah, I suppose we do. Sweet dreams, you son of a bitch. Moving up the steps to the surface floor, I nodded to my grandfather's reflection in the side mirror of the truck. Looks good, Grandpa. With that, I started the flow of concrete into the room below. The thing down there was chuckling to itself, But soon the flow of liquid rock silenced it, and within ten minutes it was done. I turned around at a hand on my shoulder and smiled at my grandfather sadly.

I really hate this. He rubbed his mouth and puffed out a long breath. I know. I do too, but it's the best temporary solution we have. He glanced down at the slowly hardened and concrete. Did he get to finish saying? his peas. I nodded. My grandfather studied me a moment. Did the gravekeeper ever come out to talk? I hesitated, but I didn't forget who I was talking to. He most likely already knew

the answer. At the end, just I'm going to get you my pretty bullshit. He shook his head. Don't do that. We're right to be afraid of that. thing. You were right when you realized it was different somehow. Even down there, we're not done with it. It's still very dangerous. I stuck the recorder in my pocket and suppressed a shutter as I stepped back from where Mark Sullivan and the gravekeeper lay entombed. Yeah, I know it is.