*The dead don't always stay buried.*
A string of unsettling events had begun to taint the quiet neighbourhood—incidents whispered about behind drawn curtains, where no one dared speak too loudly. They were tragic. They were strange. And they were getting closer.
Mrs. Grace clutched her grocery bag tighter as she stepped through the front door of her old two-story house. The familiar creak of the wooden floor greeted her—but something felt… off.
As she shut the door behind her, a sudden draft kissed her skin, cold and sharp. She froze. The air was wrong. Too cold. As if someone—or something—had entered right behind her.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the light switch. The silence inside was deafening, pressing against her eardrums like a scream trapped underwater.
She turned quickly.
No one. The hallway was empty.
A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. *You're losing it, Grace,* she told herself. *Just the wind. Just the house settling.*
…different strange occurrences—each more unsettling than the last. She tried to convince herself it was all in her head. That the footsteps behind her were echoes, not someone following her. That the shadows that moved without light were tricks of her eyes.
The neighbors downstairs had told her she was overthinking. *Too many horror movies,* they'd said with a knowing laugh. *You watch enough of those, you'll start casting yourself in them.*
Maybe they were right. Maybe being alone in the house was playing tricks on her. Her two kids were away at boarding school—her choice. Her work hours had gotten hectic, and she didn't want them growing up in a home that was always empty.
That night, the silence was too loud.
To distract herself, she settled in to watch a movie. Something light. Anything to stop the silence from pressing against her skin.
Midway through the film, the lights suddenly blinked off. Her heart jumped, but the television remained on. She frowned, trying to calm her nerves. *Probably just a bad bulb,* she reasoned. *I'll fix it tomorrow.*
She tried to focus back on the screen, but then—
A sound.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Not from the TV.
It came again, this time closer. A scraping sound… no, more like… footsteps. Slow and steady.
Her body went rigid.
The sound was coming from the far end of the room—the one corner the flickering light from the television couldn't reach. A place swallowed by shadows.
She held her breath.
*No one else is home.*
Her hands moved frantically across the couch, searching for her phone or the remote—anything—while her eyes remained fixed on the dark corner where the sound had stopped.
Or paused?
She wasn't sure.
But something was there.
And it was watching her
Her fingers scrambled across the cushion until they brushed her phone. She snatched it and switched on the flashlight.
Nothing.
The beam cut through the darkness but revealed only furniture and stillness. No figure. No movement. Just her own heavy breathing echoing in her ears.
*Was she imagining things again? Was this all in her head—like the other times?*
She hesitated.
Should she call the neighbors?
What if they thought she was unstable? What if they reported her? She was a professor, after all—respected, intelligent. She couldn't afford rumors. Mental breakdowns. Whispers behind her back.
No. She had to keep calm.
She forced herself to sit back down. Just a movie, some noise. That's all she needed.
Minutes passed.
Nothing.
The silence slowly soothed her nerves. She even let out a small, shaky breath, just beginning to relax—until a sudden rustle cut through the room like a blade.
She froze.
Her eyes darted toward the same corner.
This time, she saw it.
A figure. A shadow shifting in the pitch black. It wasn't the TV. It wasn't her mind.
It was something.
A face-twisted, burned, eyeless with jaw curled up
Smiling..
Her scream ripped through the house.
***
By morning, news had already spread:
Mrs. Grace was dead.
Found drowned in her own bathtub. No signs of struggle. No break-in.
The police sealed the apartment and launched an investigation. After initial checks, they concluded it was likely an accident—perhaps she had fallen asleep in the bathtub and drowned.
Some of her students came by that morning—Mrs. Grace had been their professor. Among them was Starr.
As the paramedics wheeled Mrs. Grace's body past them, Starr's eyes caught something that froze her in place.
A mark.
A strange, ancient-looking symbol on the back of Mrs. Grace's hand—faint, but unmistakable. Starr had seen it before… at the excavation site.
Her blood ran cold.
Could it be connected? Could this death be tied to what she had been warned about?
She began digging. Connecting dots.
It didn't take long to notice a horrifying pattern—one by one, everyone who had been at the site that day had either disappeared or died under strange circumstances.
Liam the only one left alive… barely. He lay in a coma, fighting for his life, and doctors weren't optimistic.
Starr clutched her phone, scrolling through pictures and reports. Her heart pounded with every name she crossed off the list.
Was it just coincidence?
Or was something truly hunting them down?
If so… who—or *what*—would be next?