A Stranger's Ghost
The fog clung to the cemetery like a shroud, the splintered oak watching over the empty grave as Vera Kingsley fought across the rough ground. Her spotlight from the flashlight wildly slashed through the fog as she searched for Jack Hayes, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. Her officer's instantaneous disappearance, pulled away by an unseen rope, had broken the shaky hold she'd maintained. The vacant coffin and Kane's report of the medallion lingered on her mind, but Jack must be located now. The air clung to her with the damp scent of wet soil and the faint hint of metal, reminding her that death by violence here was under this cursed ground.
"Jack! "'she said, her voice carried away feebly by the mist before being swallowed. She moved slowly, gun tightly clutched, eyes cast over the spaces between graves. The graveyard stretched out in a rambling maze, the graves slanting unevenly like rotten teeth. A dilapidated hut loomed before her, its ruined roof and broken windows promising starkly a grim refuge—or evil."
She strode up, her boots crunching through dead leaves, and pushed open the creaking door with her shoulder.
The inside was stagnant, the furniture a mess of broken-down chairs and cobwebs. The one chair that was in the middle had a splintered back, but Jack was not in sight. Vera swept her flashlight across the room—vacant areas, a shattered mirror with her taut face staring back, nothing more.
"Damn it," she muttered, turning away. Coming out, the beam of her lamp caught on something—figures standing still in the mist. Her breath froze. A group of children, their skin drawn and pallid, stared at her with unflickering eyes. They did not make a sound, their small forms wrapped in tattered robes, their stillness unnatural—like ghouls risen out of the earth. There were more than a dozen of them, ranging from toddlers to pre-teens, their faces vacant but disturbingly focused on her. Vera's gut churned, an instinctive fear rising up.
"Hey! Who are you? Are you lost?” she called, her voice trembling despite her effort to stay calm.
No response. The children remained frozen, their eyes on her, until some unspoken quiver seemed to pass through them. And then, suddenly, as bidden, they began to move—first slowly, and then with a jerky, spasmodic speed, running towards her. Their silence was the worst, no yell, no scream, but only the soft slap of their feet on the ground. Vera ran, pumping legs moving her swiftly through the cemetery.
Behind her came the children, their steps unnatural, zigzagging among headstones with ease that defied their gaunt appearance. Her flashlight swung wildly, illuminating their white faces in fleeting glimpses—sunken eyes, open mouths. Fear overwhelmed her, but she pushed on, sidestepping a hanging branch and leaping over a fallen log.
Her breath was gasping, the mist confusing her, until she tripped on a rock.
She staggered, falling across the muddy ground, her pistol falling from her hands.
She had no time to rise before hands closed over her arms and pulled her to her feet. She struggled, ready to strike, until she heard the voice.
"Sheriff! It's me, Jack!" His face was scratched and pale, his uniform in tatters, but alive.
“Jack!” Vera exclaimed, relief flooding her as she steadied herself against him. “You’re okay! What the hell happened? What snatched you?”
Jack shook his head, his eyes wide with bewilderment. "I don't know, Sheriff. I was standing beside the grave one minute, and the next a chain had wrapped itself around my legs. Dragged me across the ground—felt alive. Then it just released me. Took shelter among the bushes, and those kids—they were chasing you, but they're gone now. Disappeared like smoke."
Vera hunted through the fog, her heart still racing with her own. The children were truly gone, the night once more still. "We need to go get Kane. Something isn't right here—something other than a killer." She drew out her pistol, her mind reeling with the threat that legend might be real.
.
.
.
As Kane Baker stood alone on the other side of the cemetery, the lantern supporting a weak ring of light around him. The medallion burning in his pocket, its presence a living reminder of the dark history he'd uncovered. The fog closed in, suffocating the world, and a muffled whisper began to work its way through the air—barely perceptible at first, and increasing. His name, spoken with a rough voice: "Kane… Kane…"
He spun, his hand reaching into his pocket for the medallion, its three-pointed star glinting. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice tough though icy rivulets crept up his spine.
The whispers coalesced into a figure emerging from the fog—a man, or what was left of one. The body was cadaverous, the meat pale and decaying, the eyes empty but bright with eldritch light. Martin Carey, or his spirit, stood before him, the air around him crackling with an unseen energy.
Kane stepped back, his breath stalling. "Martin Carey?" The figure inclined its head, a macabre grin spreading across its rotting face.
"You know my name, boy. Good. Saves time. I didn't want your officer. He's not one of the bloodlines—the Baker's family, and the others."
Kane's fists were clenched hard, the medallion digging into his palm. "What do you want from me? Why do you keep taking and murdering children?"
Martin's voice was a tight rasp, laced with venom. "An eye for an eye. My family was stolen by your grandfather—my life was meant to be lost. I escaped that grave, bound to Moriah's power, to take theirs in revenge. But you… I respect you, Kane. Eight years old, and you fought your way out. A scarce spirit. Leave this alone and live, since you made it into adulthood. Stick to solving it, and I'll kill you like I killed your cousin Tommy.”
A cauldron of rage seethed in Kane's breast. He stomped forward, swinging a fist at the specter, but his hand passed through with a gentle whoosh, meeting nothing but chill air. Martin's form dissolved into the mist, the whispers dying in a derisive laugh. Kane stood there, panting, the medallion vibrating in his hand.
