Scan at Your Own Risk

SCAN AT YOUR OWN RISK

It was late afternoon, dusk not far away on this fall day, when Amara pulled her beat-up economy car into the empty parking lot of the cemetery. A moment later, she stepped out with a bouquet of seasonal flowers in orange and red that seemed extra bright against the gloom. The air was cool, heavy with the smell of damp earth, and she pulled the collar up around her neck and locked her car. She took a deep breath. On days like this, she dreaded coming here. On sunny days, she found it peaceful and pleasant, but there was nothing she could do about the weather, so here she was. She had promised her parents to visit rain or shine on the twentieth of every month, and today was no exception.

The lead-gray clouds draped over the cemetery's treetops like a heavy, wet blanket, promising rain that had yet to come. Spanish moss hung from the branches of the old oaks like lingering spirits of the dead, still reaching for the world above. A glance around confirmed she was the only one there, which was no surprise. She strode off to the entrance, ready to fulfill her duty.

Past the iron gate, Amara followed a gravel path that wound toward the older section of the cemetery. Her grandparents had bought their family plot long ago when they had the quaint idea that death could somehow keep families together for eternity. Amara didn't believe in such things and had no intention of joining them after her death. Instead, she liked the idea of having ashes scattered somewhere open and beautiful. Maybe from a mountaintop or into the endless ocean.

She passed by rows of headstones of various styles. Some were marked by fresh flowers, others by wilted, lifeless bouquets, adding to the quiet, heavy feeling of the place. Amara stopped at the end of the path by a beautiful white marble headstone with the names Marcie and Benton Carter engraved on it, along with two interlocking hearts. In the lower corner was a tiny QR code that she scanned with her phone. She then gently placed the flowers by the base of the stone and sat down in the grass. On her phone's screen, a picture of her parents appeared. They were both smiling wide, looking carefree. It was from their last trip, the cruise they'd been so excited about. She had barely recognized them in the photo, looking so happy, so alive. But that bus ride in Mexico--it had stolen all of that. Stolen everything.

Sadness welled up inside her as she gazed at the picture on her phone. It had been her younger sister Melanie's idea to put that little QR code on their parents' grave marker. Amara had not seen the point at first. Why would anyone passing by care to know more about the dead? But now, she loved the idea that anyone who stopped to read those names could scan the code and get a glimpse into who they were and the lives they had lived. She always scanned that code now when she came here. Silly, she knew, but it made them feel almost present when she spoke to them, which she always did.

Five days ago would've been their thirty-fifth anniversary. Melanie was supposed to come with her today, but she had bailed. Amara wasn't surprised--disappointed, maybe--but she wouldn't tell on her. Wouldn't want them to know the truth, especially if, by some minor miracle, they could still hear her. So, she'd keep covering for Melanie again, same as always.

"Melanie couldn't make it today. She's studying for her exams. You would be so proud of her. She's doing really great," Amara lied. She adjusted the flowers while trying to think of what to say next. She could smell rain in the air and peered up at the sky. A flash of anger hit her. Why should she be here on this miserable day while Melanie was off having fun somewhere? Enough of this bullshit, she thought.

"Actually, that's not true," she snapped, clearly annoyed. "I'm tired of covering for her. She didn't want to come. Said you're not really here, so what's the point? I know she's right, but..." A tiny raindrop hit her cheek, and she stood up.

"I better go. Looks like it might rain. I'll be back next month. Love you." Amara dabbed at her moist eyes. It wasn't from the rain, not yet, at least. Then she started back down the path.

The light was fading fast, dusk falling like a shroud over the cemetery. Thick clouds made it feel like night had already come. There were no lights here. Not that there needed to be. No one came here after dark. Amara didn't scare easily, but something about being alone in the dark with nothing but headstones and memories of the dead could make anyone uneasy. Instead of sticking to the winding path, she cut across a patch of grass. Using her phone's flashlight seemed like a good idea, and she pulled it out of her pocket. A piece of paper fell out along with it, and it fluttered away.

"Shit!" she grumbled and went after it. It wasn't anything important, but it had her name on it, and she didn't want to leave it behind. There was no wind, but the stupid paper kept drifting away. It finally stopped under one of the grand old oaks. She bent down to pick it up when her phone's light caught something--a small plaque nearly hidden by the overgrown grass. Intrigued, she cleared away the grass and realized it was a grave marker.

The marker was small, less than a foot long, and just a few inches tall. The name, Curt Owen, Born 1902, Died 1937, was etched into the weathered metal. Amara squinted, noticing something small in the bottom left corner of the plaque. It was too small to read, so she used her phone's camera to zoom in. To her surprise, it was a QR code. She tapped the link on the screen, and a man's face immediately appeared. His face was swollen, bruised, and covered in cuts, his eyes wild and desperate. He was in a dark, cramped space.

"Ya gotta help me, ma'am. I didn't do nothin' to them women. I'm swearin' on my life. I'm innocent, I'm tellin' ya."

Amara's blood ran cold as she stared at the screen, horrified and confused.

"Please. You look like a nice gal. I'm beggin' ya to help me out of here. Please."

A suspicion that this was some kind of prank gnawed at her. She glanced around, expecting to see someone filming her. Waiting for her to fall for it. But no one was there. Her eyes darted back to her phone.

"Who are you, and why the hell are you on my phone?" she asked, both creeped out and weirdly curious.

"The name's Curt Owen. I was put here, left to rot in this grave. Them women I supposedly killed, I didn't do it."

The man seemed genuinely desperate, almost convincing, but Amara knew it had to be a prank. What else would it be? She glanced around the cemetery again, sure there had to be someone lurking with a camera, waiting to catch her reaction, but there was no one. The place was as dead as, well... a graveyard. She snorted at her own thought and smirked at the man on the screen.

"If you're Curt Owen, you've been dead for almost a century. Pretty good trick to show up on my phone like this. Whoever put that QR code on that marker has a sick sense of humor." Her smirk grew into a smile. "But, I have to admit, it's pretty cool. In a morbid kind of way.

Anger swept across Curt's face. He moved closer to the camera, glaring right at her.

"This ain't no fuckin' joke, miss! I'm down here, breathin' and sufferin'. I need your help. You gotta help me."

Amara was now wholly convinced it was all a prank. This guy was good. Maybe a little too good. He could make it in Hollywood with that performance. Another raindrop landed on her face. It was time to get going before it started to pour.

"I got to go, but I give you a thumbs up for your effort."

Curt's voice rose in panic. "No, no, no, no! Don't ya dare walk away. Listen to me, I'm inno --"

Amara chuckled, turned off her phone, and slipped it into her pocket. "People are nuts," she muttered, shaking her head as she started back down the path.

The first thing she did once she got back to her Riverside Avenue apartment was double-check her windows and slide the security latch across her door. Then, she settled down with a salad she'd grabbed at a drive-thru and poured herself a glass of wine. She flipped through channels, but no matter what she tried to watch, she couldn't shake that strange phone conversation at the cemetery. What a bizarre experience, she thought. She couldn't make sense of it. She didn't know where that man on the screen had been or how he could see her. When she clicked on the QR code on her parents' headstone, it just went to their page on the funeral home's website. This thing with Curt Owen was... different. She figured it must be some new technology she didn't know about yet. Still, that whole event had left her feeling uneasy.

It was getting late, and she decided a good night's sleep would put that creepy event behind her. She went to get ready for bed, took a shower, and brushed her teeth. When she turned the light off in the bathroom, her picture looked distorted in the mirror. It gave her goosebumps. She quickly turned the light back on. There was nothing wrong. Just her own reflection looking back at her. She felt silly and thought to herself, you're losing it, kid, and turned the light off and went to bed.

She woke with a jolt, heart pounding, to the sound of a man shouting in her room. Wide-eyed, she scanned the shadows for an intruder but could not find one.

"Amara! Wake up," the man yelled. "Wake the fuck up! You got to get me out of here."

She whipped her head toward her phone, where the voice came from. It was lit up on the nightstand, and she snatched it up. To her bewilderment and horror, Curt's frantic face was once again on her screen. Anger bubbled up as she stared at him. This was beyond unsettling.

"How the hell did you get my phone number?" she snapped. "This is not cool."

"Please. I'm beggin' you. All I ask is that you set me free." His voice was still desperate but had taken on a softer tone, almost pleading.

"This is not funny. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to have to call the police." Her voice was firm. She didn't know how he was pulling this off, but she was done with it--whatever it was.

Curt's tone shifted as he tried to keep calm. "I ain't tryin' to be funny. This ain't no joke. I don't rightly understand how this all works. All I know is that you're the first person I've been able to reach since they buried me. Please, I'm beggin' ya. Help me out."

Amara scoffed. "You think I'm a fucking idiot?"

Curt looked at her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes, and Amara felt her anger ebb away.

"This is ridiculous. What do you want me to do? Go dig at the cemetery?" she said with a dose of sarcasm.

Curt's face brightened, his eyes filling with sudden hope. "Would you do that, please?"

She just about laughed out loud. Was this guy stupid? He looked so sincere she almost believed him. "Hell no! I'd be arrested. Probably go to jail." But then that sneaky feeling of this being a prank wormed its way back inside of her again, and she chuckled to herself.

"I know. I get it. You want me to go to the cemetery and start digging while someone is filming me so I end up going viral on TikTok or something.

"I don't know what that is," he said, his face as serious as ever. And for a split second, she believed him. "Please, Amara, I beg ya from the bottom of my heart. I've been trapped down here for so long. If ya dig up the truth, you'll see I ain't no killer. I just need a chance to clear my name, to show the world the truth."

This was all so bizarre that she didn't know what to think. Part of her wanted to believe him, to uncover the truth of whatever this was, but another part of her knew it was too outlandish to be real.

"I'm not going to the cemetery at night with a shovel," she replied, her voice edged with mild amusement and a touch of mockery.

Curt took a deep breath, visibly trying to keep his frustration in check. "No one will be here if you come now."

Amara's gaze lingered on his earnest face. She didn't know what he was up to, but she wanted to find out.

"Please..." he begged softly.

Her gaze lingered on his face, torn between disbelief and curiosity. She glanced at the time--almost one in the morning. Maybe if she could get Melanie to come along, they'd drive out there and get to the bottom of this.

Amara pulled into the cemetery parking lot, choosing a spot near the gate under one of the streetlights. She would never, ever have come here alone, not in a million years, if it hadn't been for Melanie promising to meet her. She had woken her up when she called, and she had been quite tipsy. Apparently, she'd been out celebrating with friends at some event. She had promised to take an Uber, and Amara would drive her back home when they were finished with this... graveyard digging. Amara shuddered at the thought. It sounded insane, even to her. She sat in her car with the doors locked and waited.

Fifteen minutes went by, and there was still no sign of her sister. She picked up her phone and called her. It rang for a good twenty seconds before she answered. To no real surprise to Amara, she sounded sleepy and still drunk.

"Are you coming or what?" Amara asked, irritation creeping into her voice.

"What?" Melanie replied, her words slow and slurred.

Amara sighed. "You said you'd meet me at the cemetery."

"No," came the answer. "I thought you were joking."

Then the line went dead. Melanie had hung up on her. She could feel the anger bubbling up again. She shoved the keys into the ignition and started the car, then sat there for a moment, thinking. She'd left her bed, come all the way out here in the middle of the night, and for what? Nothing. The thought only fueled her anger. Fuck it, she thought, turning off the car and stepping out. She needed to solve this mystery with Curt, whether Melanie showed up or not. If she left it alone, it'd haunt her for weeks, maybe longer, driving her crazy. And right now, she was angry enough that any fear she might have felt out here alone was buried deep, barely noticeable. She opened the trunk and took out an LED lantern and a medium-sized garden shovel. Maybe not the tool for serious grave digging, but enough to poke around and get some answers. With the shovel and lantern in hand, she headed off to the gate.

The cemetery was dead quiet. Not a sound, not even the usual noises of the night. The cloud layer that had hovered at treetop level earlier in the day had now settled, smothering the grounds in a thick, heavy fog. Amara's footsteps crunched loudly on the gravel path, disturbing the peace. She knew she was alone, but every so often, she glanced over her shoulder just to be sure.

She held the lantern out in front of her, the light casting a diffused halo that barely cut through the fog. This is straight out of a horror movie, she thought, a prickle of fear sneaking back in despite her efforts to keep it at bay. Spotting the grand old oak off the path, she stepped onto the grass and made her way to Curt's grave. The silence pressed in, thick and unsettling. No one's around, she tried to convince herself, but it didn't make the place feel any less creepy. She pulled out her phone, intending to scan the code again, but before she could, Curt's face appeared on her screen, like he'd been lying in wait for her, right there in her pocket.

He seemed calmer now than he had before, his eyes lit with a faint glimmer of hope. Amara took one more look around the cemetery, half-expecting to see someone watching her. She just wanted this to be over with so she could get out of there.

"Okay, I'm here, but if this is a set-up, I swear I'll beat you to death with this shovel. Got that?" she said, adding a layer of bravado to hide the fear in her voice.

"This ain't no set-up. You'll see."

He sounded so sincere it was hard not to believe him. Okay, here goes, she thought, and with a deep breath, she stabbed the shovel into the earth. The crunch of dirt sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder again. When she didn't see anyone, she kept digging.

She didn't have to dig deep before the shovel hit something hard with a dull thud. A wave of fear and excitement crashed over her. Oh my God, she thought, I've hit a casket. And then came the awful realization: she could go to jail for this. What would people think? Would she lose her job? Would she be the talk of the town for grave-digging in the middle of the night?

Was she going insane?

Amara dropped to her knees, shining her light down into the hole. It wasn't deep, maybe two feet. and she could just make out something rough and splintered--old rotten wood. She brushed some dirt away, staring at it, uncertain, until a wild idea hit her. She knocked on the wood.

"Can you hear this?" she asked, looking at Curt's face on the phone.

"Yes! Yes!" he cried, excited.

"You're putting me on. You can't possibly be in there."

The thought that this couldn't be anything but a bad prank crept back into her mind. She scanned the area for movement, raising her voice so whoever was behind this could hear.

"Alright. You can come out now. I admit, you got me." But the cemetery remained silent.

"Just let me out, Amara. You'll see this ain't no prank. I swear it."

Reluctantly, she pocketed her phone, and with a deep breath, she began to clear the dirt from around the wood, trying to ignore the sick feeling twisting in her gut.

It didn't take her long to uncover the casket. The thing was cheap, simple plywood. She wedged the shovel under the lid, took a breath, and cracked it open. There was a soft hiss followed by a stench that made her flinch and turn away. She winced, then braced herself and pried the lid all the way off.

Inside, a skeleton stared back at her, its bones twisted and brittle, cobwebs clung to the empty eye sockets. The jaw hung open as if frozen in a silent scream. She felt a chill creep down her spine as she looked at it. With her hands trembling, she pulled out her phone. Curt's face appeared, his expression blank with confusion. Anger rose in her chest. She'd had enough.

"Asshole," she spat. " I knew you were just putting me on. Now I have to cover this up."

"I don't understand," he said, sounding mortified. "I can hear you loud and clear, but I'm still trapped down here."

Amara pointed her phone at the corpse. "See that? Does that look like you?"

Curt's eyes softened, a look of pure sadness taking over his face. She almost wanted to comfort him, but she pushed the thought away. She was still mad.

"...Am I a ghost?" he asked, his lower lip quivering.

She looked over her shoulder. The cemetery was so quiet. So eerie. Turning back to him, she replied, "I don't believe in ghosts."

Curt looked heartbroken, and it was almost painful to watch. But she knew this couldn't be real. Someone was definitely fucking with her, big time.

"I'm covering this up, then I'm going home. And don't ever contact me again," she snapped. She was about to turn off the phone when Curt spoke.

"Now I'll never get another chance to prove it was Martin Renquist who took those women's lives. My name won't ever be cleared."

Amara froze. That name rang a bell. "What did you say?

"I said no one will ever know it was Martin Renquist who killed those women."

Her pulse quickened. She knew that name from somewhere. She was sure of it. "Martin Renquist?" she asked.

Curt nodded, his gaze somber. "Yeah, he's the real killer."

"I think I saw that name here somewhere," Amara said, a memory clicking into place. She knew she'd passed his grave on the way to her parents' plot and walked by it more times than she could count. Without another word, she strode off into the sea of gravestones, searching for it. At last, she found it-- a big, impressive headstone in gray marble engraved with Martin Renquist. Born 1905. Died 1978.

Amara felt excitement grow. Gone were the feelings of fear and anger. She held up her phone, and Curt's face lit up with excitement as he read the inscription.

"Is that him?" she asked.

"Yes! That's him! I remember he was three years younger than myself." His voice hardened. "I reckon that bastard got to live thirty-eight years more after they buried me. That ain't right."

Amara quickly searched his name, scrolling through numerous news clippings and accolades, and frowned.

"Are you sure it's him? Says here he was a prominent politician and a family man with four kids."

"It's always the ones you least expect, ain't it?" he muttered, his voice dripping with resentment.

As she stood there, uncertain what to do next, her eyes drifted back to the headstone, and she noticed something she hadn't before: a QR code. She aimed her camera and scanned it. The screen flickered, then revealed a new face. Aghast, she stared at her phone. A man in his seventies had appeared. To Amara, he looked like a predator as slick as a silver-skinned shark with black eyes and a sinister grin to match.

"Who... are you?" she stammered, feeling a chill. Curt seemed like a decent enough person, but this guy? Her instincts screamed danger.

Amused, Martin studied her with a look that made her skin crawl.

"Well, well, well, pray tell, what brings such a delicious young lady to my humble... grave?" he asked, glancing around with a smug smile.

Amara quickly switched back to Curt's screen.

"What do I say to him? Hurry," she whispered, heart pounding.

Curt's face grew serious. "Ya gotta get him to confess his crimes," he urged.

Amara paused, then changed back to Martin.

"Did you kill five women between 1932 and 1936?" Her voice was firm, just shy of accusatory.

Martin raised an eyebrow, scoffing., but quickly composed himself, a calculating grin spreading across his face.

"My dear girl, if I were to grace you with the truth, might there be some sort of reward? A token of victory, perhaps?

"An award? Why would you need one? You're dead," she replied, fighting to stay in control of the conversation.

Martin glanced around his narrow tomb.

"I've been trapped up in this gloomy, stifling cavity for ages. If you could find it in your heart to release me, I promise you, I'll spill every secret you're chasing.

Amara didn't trust him. He was slippery and dangerous; she could feel it and feared losing the upper hand.

"Release you? You mean... opening up your grave?

His eyes gleamed. "Ah, yes. Would you be so kind?"

This was too weird to be true. This has to be a prank. There's no other explanation, she thought. She glanced around the cemetery but saw only silence and shadows. It all seemed real, but it just couldn't be. She walked back to Curt's grave, hoping to move out of Martin's earshot, and switched over to him on the phone.

"What's happenin'? What did he say?" Curt asked, urgency in his voice.

"He wants me to dig up his grave," she said, realizing it didn't sound as batshit crazy as it had before.

She picked up the shovel by the dirt pile with her free hand and showed it to him.

He looked dead serious. "Are you plannin' on doin' it?" He didn't seem to think this was bizarre at all.

"I'm kind of curious myself now," she said nervously, trying to laugh it off, and headed back to Martin's grave.

When she arrived, she switched to his screen, showing him the shovel.

"Alright," she said. "Tell me about the murders."

Darkness fell across Martin's face.

"I shall unfold each bloodstained chapter, every grim and gruesome detail, only after you've bestowed upon me the sweet freedom from this cold tomb."

Amara could almost feel his icy fingers squeezing her spine. There was no doubt about it; this was a very dangerous man. She had to be very careful or... what? Wasn't he dead? Amara didn't believe in ghosts, so what was she afraid of? She didn't know, but her instincts told her this whole thing had been a very bad idea.

"No. I don't trust you. You tell me about the first murder, and I'll dig two feet, then you tell me about the second one, and I'll dig again."

Martin blinked slowly, no doubt weighing her offer. Then he gazed at her with eyes as cold as a January wind in the Arctic. Amara felt her temperature drop in an instant.

"Vanessa Barden, barely nineteen, a naive beauty unaware of her potent allure. I performed the act myself, her breath ceasing under the pressure of my own hands. The rush, the exquisite thrill of her life energy flowing into me, was a sensation unlike any I had ever known."

Amara stared at her phone. There was no doubt in her mind that he had spoken the truth. She shivered in horror when she realized that she was communicating with a murderer. She wanted to run away. Run back to her car and never come back. But what if he followed her just like Curt had? She had to see this through somehow, even if she had no idea how.

"Go on," he said in a cold, measured voice. It's your turn."

With a shaky hand, she propped the phone up by his gravestone and raised the shovel. And for the second time in one night, she began to dig open a grave.

Amara wiped her brow as the shovel hit two feet, her misty breath dissolving seamlessly into the fog. She returned to her phone, where Martin watched her progress with cold, predatory eyes.

"Who was the second?" she demanded, hoping it came across as confident and not freaked out.

"LouMarie Jones. Merely twenty, still playing coy with her youthful charm. Attempting to echo the allure of my maiden kill, I found her lacking. The taste had dulled, the thrill faded," he said, sounding almost bored. "It was a razor that offered the novel titillation I craved. With a swift, deliberate cut across her throat, the warm, life-affirming surge against my hands restored the sensation I'd hungered for."

Amara stared at him and felt a wave of revulsion, but she couldn't show weakness now. She had to stand strong against this man. This monster.

"I looked you up online. It said you were a prominent politician with four kids and a wife of almost forty years. Why? Why did you feel the need to kill?"

The fog swirled around the headstone like a restless spirit, bringing with it the damp smell of decaying leaves. Martin's smug smile returned, a predator playing with its prey.

"When a man ascends the highest peaks of his desires," he said, slow and deliberate, "he begins to crave the thrill of what's forbidden. It's human nature, my dear."

Amara swallowed, bile rising in her throat. She didn't want to look at him any longer, so she jammed the shovel back into the ground. The dirt gave way with a dull crunch.

"The third one?" she asked, keeping her voice steady.

"She was an unfortunate miscalculation. A sly attempt at career advancement by flirting her way into my grace. I strangled her with my belt. No pleasure or thrill, I assure you, just a simple necessity." His tone was cold, detached, as though recounting a dull errand.

His flippant demeanor made her fists curl.

"What was her name?' she demanded.

"Irrelevant. Barely a footnote in the grand narrative, not worth the effort to recall." He smiled in a slippery, slimy way while his eyes were devouring her.

Amara felt her skin crawl and goosebumps crop up over her whole body. Irrelevant. The word rang in her ears like a slap. No one was irrelevant.

"Now, kindly continue. I can hear you getting closer." Now, it was his voice that was demanding.

Amara continued to dig. Around her, the fog seemed to come alive. It moved across the graveyard in deliberate swirls. Restless. A breathy hissing in its wake.

Clunk!

The shovel hit the lid of the casket. Amara glared at Martin, who leaned closer to the screen, delighted and eager.

"So enticingly near. Go on, my dear. Don't stop now."

"Who was the fourth?" she asked, bracing for what he would tell her next.

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath of pleasure.

"Ah, Julia McKenzie. A soul enthralled by darkness, she yearned to bare her inner self... Through my blade."

The words hung in the air, heavy and grotesque. Amara stared at him, uncomprehending at first. Then the meaning hit her like a freight train, and she stammered in disbelief.

" ...You cu... cut her open?"

"She desired it. I simply obliged."

Amara wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the phone as far as she could and never look back.

"Now open the fucking casket!" He hissed like an angry serpent threatening to strike.

"No," she said through gritted teeth. "Not until you tell me who the fifth one was."

They glared at each other. Then, his grin faltered, his eyes narrowing, and he growled.

"Curt fucking Owen! That's who. A mere trifle, an impertinent little mouse nosing around my political bastion. Dared to threaten the veil of secrecy around my... diversions. His audacity was his downfall. The merciless blows of my crowbar sealed his fate."

Amara felt dizzy. The ground beneath her seemed to shift, and her legs wobbled.

"You framed him for the murders," she whispered in disbelief.

Martin's expression changed --surprise, or perhaps recognition of something unseen. Before she could process it, Curt's translucent shape appeared behind her.

"You did it," he said in a gentle voice.

Startled, Amara spun around. She had forgotten about Curt. He wore a work shirt with rolled-up sleeves and high-waisted pants held up by suspenders. In his hands, he held what appeared to be some sort of flat cap. He walked up behind her, surrounded by a ghostly fog.

"Curt?" she asked, unsure she was seeing this. Could this really be him? Or had her exhaustion and the night's horrors finally broken her mind?

"You got him to confess. You cleared my tarnished name."

He looked around the graveyard as stunned as Amara was that he was now above ground.

"I am finally free."

"What happens now?" Amara asked, bewildered.

He gazed out into the distance.

"I see a light. It's pulling me towards it. I reckon that's where I ought to be headin'."

Amara looked, but she didn't see any light.

He turned to her. His face was peaceful and sincere. Their eyes met.

"I knew one day, an angel would appear. From the depths of my heart, I thank you." He bowed slightly and then staggered forward. Astounded, Amara watched as he disappeared into the fog. "Oh my God," she thought. "He's a ghost."

The fog floated towards Amara. It swirled around her feet, and then smoke-like tendrils felt their way up her legs. Mesmerized, Amara couldn't help but watch.

"Now it's my turn. My liberation." Martin's voice broke the stillness and the trans. Amara was jolted back to reality.

"I'm not setting you free. You're a murderer."

Martin's face transformed into something wicked. A monster. His pitch-black eyes bore into hers, and she froze.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice," he said in that smooth, dangerous voice that promised her harm if she didn't comply.

"Of course I do. I'm up here, free. You're trapped down in a hell hole somewhere. Where you belong." Her voice faltered, but she refused to let it break completely. She turned off her phone, pocketed it, and shoveled the dirt back into the hole.

The fog was becoming more turbulent. Leaves rustled in the trees as a breeze whined its way through the cemetery.

Amara felt a vibration in her pocket. It was her phone ringing. She thought that Melanie was probably calling to apologize for flaking out, so she stopped digging and pulled her phone out. Her breath caught when she saw the screen.

MOM.

Her mother's smiling face stared back at her, the word glowing beneath it. Her heart kicked into overdrive, blood pounding in her ears. This wasn't possible. They'd turned in their parents' phones after the accident. She knew it for a fact. With a shaky finger, she hit the answer and speaker buttons.

"...Hello?"

The voice that came through wasn't her mother's.

"Refuse to open my coffin, and I will make you regret it. I may be confined, but my reach is far more extensive than this grave."

In a panic, she punched the end call button, but the phone stayed on.

"Perhaps I should pay a visit to your dear mother. Or your sweet little sister. How old is she now?"

The color drained from Amara's face. Horrified, she stared at her phone.

"No! Go away!" Amara yelled, jabbing at the button again and again. The phone wouldn't respond. She tried to power off the phone, but it refused to obey.

"Either liberate me from this suffocating tomb or prepare yourself for relentless nocturnal visits and daytime specters. Consider it your lasting requiem until your own curtain call." His voice didn't just sound demanding--it promised harm. Amara knew with sickening certainty that Martin meant every word.

"Stop! Leave me alone," she screamed, sounding desperate.

"I assure you, once freed, I shall not linger in your existence. You hold no fascination for me. I only seek my own freedom.

Amara stared at her phone, her thoughts swirling in a storm of fear and uncertainty.

"You have my word."

"Will you disappear just like Curt?"

"I vow to vanish, leaving no trace in your life."

Amara looked down into the grave. Her mind raced. If she freed him, would he truly go? Or would she unleash a nightmare worse than anything she could imagine? She shuddered, imagining his voice haunting her forever. Her hands gripped the shovel tighter. She wanted to do the right thing, but the lines between right and wrong blurred in the darkness of the graveyard. Resolving to end this, she drove the shovel into the coffin's hinges. With a loud crack, the lid loosened. This time, no foul air escaped. She popped the lid wide open.

EMPTY!

Amara's stomach dropped. Her breath came in short bursts as she stared into the casket. Nothing. No body. No answers. Just the hollow void of rotting wood.

"It's empty," she burst out, turning to her phone. "Where are you?"

A cold chill brushed the back of her neck, and she sensed movement behind her. Slowly, she turned.

Martin's ghostly form emerged from the mist, dark and twisted like something from a nightmare.

"In every shadow, in every whisper of the wind, I exist. Boundless, unchained to wander as I will, to play as I desire. Yet fear not. You shall remain untouched. The world offers ample distractions."

Amara's legs turned to jelly. She thought she'd never been this scared before in her life.

Martin chuckled, the sound low and menacing. Then his form began to dissipate, the fog swallowing him, and then he was gone.

With her heart beating like a jackhammer in her chest, she stumbled back, almost tripping over the uneven ground, before turning on her heel and running. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her. The fog swirled with purpose now, as if alive, chasing her with ghostly tendrils reaching for her feet. The shadows seemed to stretch longer, darker, urging her to run faster. Her mind screamed a single mantra: Get away. Get to safety.

The cold night air burned her lungs as she burst through the cemetery gates. All she could think about was getting to her car and driving the hell out of there. Nothing else mattered.

When she reached her car, heart pounding and adrenaline-fueled, she fumbled with the key fob, pressed the wrong button, and the car alarm blared into the night like a shrieking siren.

"Shut up!" she hissed, stabbing at the buttons. Her shaking hands finally found the right one, silencing the alarm. She unlocked the door, threw herself inside, and slammed it shut. Her thumb pressed the lock button, the satisfying click bringing fleeting relief. But she knew a locked door wouldn't stop a ghost. She put the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving the cemetery and its horrors behind her.

Driving through the city, Amara began to feel the grip of the night loosening. The warm glow of the streetlights and the steady hum of civilization calmed her nerves, a lifeline pulling her back from the edge. She turned on the radio, soft music drifting through the car like a lullaby. The surreal events of the night played back in her mind, but they felt distant now, almost unreal. She almost questioned whether or not she had just imagined it all.

She drove on. The adrenaline waned, and exhaustion swept in like a tide, ready to fill the gap. It was hard to stay awake, and she had to force herself to concentrate and focus on the driving.

She blinked hard, forcing herself to stay awake as she turned onto 12th Street. The quiet road felt safe. She could almost see her apartment from here. The music on the radio softened almost imperceptibly. Amara barely noticed until she was jolted wide awake again by that voice.

"Just remember, Amara, the shadows are my domain. Sleep tight... don't let the nightmares bite." A chilling laughter followed before it faded away, and the music returned.

Terrified, with her eyes wide and a death grip on the steering wheel, Amara couldn't help but let out a scream, loud and desperate, into the empty night.

23