She slammed into him with all her weight, knocking the flashlight aside.
He grunted, struggling, panic flooding his voice.
"Get the fuck off me, I'm calling the police!"
But before he could reach for his pocket, Morgana's mouth opened in a feral snarl. She sank her teeth deep into the side of his neck, tearing through skin and muscle.
The man's scream shattered the stillness — raw, high, unrecognizable. He clawed at her shoulders, legs kicking in the dirt. Morgana bit again, deeper this time. Blood burst over her face, blinding one eye.
He tried to speak, but only a wet gargle came out — a bubbling mix of blood and air.
"Ghh—khhh—"
His voice broke into short, gasping moans, choking, fading. The sound of life leaving him filled the air: a rattling breath, a strained wheeze, a low gurgling that grew weaker with every second.
Morgana's teeth tore until the soft cartilage of his throat was visible, the hollow of his windpipe catching the light from the fallen flashlight.
Then came one last shudder, a final rasp — a hollow, rattling exhale — and silence.
The only thing left was the faint drip of blood into the dirt and Morgana's ragged breathing.
As she tried to stand, her body convulsed. She dropped to her knees and vomited hard onto the dirt — the same pieces she had torn from the man's neck spilling out with a wet, crimson splatter.
Morgana pushed herself up, her breaths ragged and wheezing. Her whole body trembled as she looked around — first at the man's corpse sprawled in the dark, then at the open grave waiting for her.
She wiped the blood and dirt from her face with the sleeve of her forearm, leaving streaks across her pale skin. Her breath hitched, uneven, but her eyes stayed fixed on the grave.
She stumbled toward it, dirt clinging to her bare feet.
Her gaze shifted to the man's body again.
I need something to open that coffin.
Kneeling beside him, she searched through his pockets, but all she found was a small knife strapped inside his jacket.
"That'll do," she muttered under her breath, gripping it tight.
Morgana dropped to her knees beside the coffin, dirt caking her hands. She gripped the knife and jammed its edge into the seam where the lid met the base. The metal scraped, refusing to sink in.
Her jaw clenched. "Come on!…" she hissed through her teeth, forcing her weight against it.
The knife barely budged. She pressed harder, her shoulders trembling, teeth grinding as she twisted the handle left and right.
A harsh metallic squeal cut the air. The blade slipped, slicing her palm. She winced but didn't stop. Her hair clung to her sweaty face; veins bulged along her neck as she fought the coffin's resistance.
"Damn it!…" she muttered, the words breaking between her gritted teeth.
Her hand balled into a fist. She slammed it down onto the wood. Once. Twice. Again.
"Open!" Her voice cracked. "Open, damn you—open!" The shout echoed across the cemetery, then died in the still air.
Her shoulders sagged. Tears welled up and spilled freely now, cutting clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks. Her breath came shallow and shaking as she pressed her forehead to the coffin.
"A-I'm sorry, Dorvy," she whispered, her voice trembling between guilt and delirium. "I didn't mean to hurt you… I never wanted this."
She wiped her tears with the back of her dirty sleeve, smearing mud across her face.
"I promise," she murmured, barely audible, "I won't leave you alone again. I'll bring something to get you out. Just wait for… a little longer."
Her fingers brushed the edge of the lid one last time, gentle now, almost tender, before she rose unsteadily to her feet, knife still trembling in her hand.
"Don't you give up on me, Dorvy…" she whispered as she turned her back to the coffin.
Far ahead, a faint yellow light blinked through the trees — a cabin.
She made her way toward it, every step uneven and heavy. The air inside the cemetery hut was thick with the smell of oil and dust.
A man slept in a chair near the door, head tilted back, mouth open in a shallow snore.