—The Pulse of the Earth—
The rats formed a ring and began to dig—frantic, urgent, their tiny bodies moving with unnatural purpose.
What are they doing? I wondered, watching their feverish activity.
Just as abruptly as they had begun, they stopped.
Then came the sound: a low, subterranean groan, followed by a tremor beneath my feet—as if something deep within the earth was stirring.
I knelt, pressing my palm to the frozen soil. The ground answered with a violent shudder, strong enough to knock a man off balance.
Then came the warmth.
In the dead of winter, with a bitter wind cutting through the night, a surge of heat rose through the soles of my boots, spreading through my limbs like a sudden fever.
Beside me, the rats pressed their snouts into the thawing earth, drinking in that impossible warmth.
And then they began to grow.
Before my eyes, their bodies swelled—fur bristling, limbs thickening.
Within moments, they had doubled in size, then doubled again.
Their bones creaked under the sudden growth.
One of them let out a thin, broken squeal, as if its body were struggling to contain what it had become.
As quickly as it came, the warmth faded. The rats scattered, retreating into the shadows. The largest of them—now the size of a house cat—waddled away with clumsy, overstretched movements.
I checked my phone: 12:30 AM.
The phenomenon had lasted exactly half an hour.
I turned to leave, but the air tightened around me. A white mist rose from the ground, coiling into a vortex that spun faster with each passing second. Where it passed, the soil cracked and dried.
The mist thickened, and the temperature plummeted. Then, in a single breath, the vortex collapsed into the earth. The mist vanished. Silence returned.
It was past one in the morning—too late to push any further. I left the construction site behind.
Back at our lodgings, Jasper and Clara were asleep, though a lamp had been left on for me.
In the house next door, Fraser's lights were still burning, but no sound came through the walls.
---
— The Empty Coffin —
The next morning, Jasper shook me awake, his face pale.
"Rhan—something's happened."
I sat up, already alert.
"What?"
"Fraser's mother—she's gone."
Clara appeared in the doorway, towel in hand.
"Gone? Who's gone?"
"Mrs. Ward," Jasper said, breathless. "Fraser's mother. The one who died yesterday."
I was on my feet instantly.
"You mean the body?"
"Yes—it's missing from the coffin. Like she... walked out."
I dressed quickly. Clara moved to follow, but I stopped her.
"Not this time. This isn't something you should see."
Jasper and I reached the three-way crossroads near Fraser's house.
There, beneath an old locust tree, lay a coffin—overturned, its lid splintered and cast aside. Two wooden benches stood nearby, as if the coffin had been set upon them before falling.
A crowd had gathered—Fraser, the old man I'd spoken to the night before, and most of the village's men. Few women were present.
A middle-aged man in Taoist robes knelt beside the coffin. After a long moment of inspection, he stood and let out a heavy sigh.
"Mr. Thorne," someone called out. "What happened?"
Mr. Thorne's expression was grim. "In all my years conducting funeral rites, I've never seen anything like this." He pointed to the shattered lid. "The coffin was sealed from the outside—I drove the nails myself. But these breaks... they came from within."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
"So she... got out on her own?"
"Is it a walking corpse?"
The word hung in the air—zombie.
Some whispered a revenant.
"We should call the police," someone blurted out.
Reaves, the village headman, silenced them with a sharp gesture.
"Calling the police won't help. They'd never believe this. We need to find the body. If it's truly a walking corpse, it won't move by daylight. We search the village—now."
"Wait."
I stepped forward. Fraser saw me and nodded.
"Mr. Arcturus."
Mr. Thorne and Reaves turned, studying me with guarded curiosity.
After a brief introduction, Mr. Thorne's eyes narrowed with interest.
"So you're the one they brought in for the reservoir site. You have experience with matters like this?"
"Perhaps," I said. "But first—why was the coffin placed here at a crossroads?"
Fraser answered, his voice strained.
"It's an old custom. We call it 'escorting the departed.' Each night after death, the coffin is brought to a three-way crossroads at midnight and left until dawn. It's said... the ancestors meet the newly dead here, to guide them on Mrs. Ward."
He looked down at the broken coffin, his face pale.
"We left her here last night and returned to keep vigil at the house. When we came back at first light... she was gone."
I nodded slowly.
"I see."
Mr. Thorne watched me closely.
"Do you know a way to track the body?"
In answer, I drew the Heavenly Cross from inside my coat. As I approached the coffin, the surface of the Cross began to glow with a faint, steady light—
not bright enough to illuminate the ground,
but unmistakable as a warning response.
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.
Holding the cross above the coffin, I let it hover over the interior. Slowly, as if emerging from the grain of the wood itself, two handprints appeared on the underside of the shattered lid.
Reaves stared.
"Is that... a sacred tool?"
I didn't answer. The handprints were enough.
Mr. Thorne had been right—the body had risen from within.
"Remarkable," Mr. Thorne said quietly, almost reverently. "I have only heard of such artifacts. To see one in use..."
"It was a chance acquisition," I said simply. "Nothing more."
Reaves stepped forward, urgency in his voice.
"Can you find where she went?"
"Bring me an article of Mrs. Ward's clothing—something she wore often. And a pair of scissors. Two candles."
Fraser hurried away to fetch them.
Jasper leaned close, his voice low.
"The cloth-doll method?"
I nodded. "The same my grandfather used. The garment carries her imprint. Given form and direction, it will seek what remains of her."
"Like a bloodhound," Jasper said softly.
Fraser returned within minutes, holding a well-worn shawl, scissors, and two tall white candles.
"Focus on your mother's likeness," I told him. "Cut the cloth into a human shape. It need not be perfect—only sincere."
His hands trembled, but he worked carefully, cutting out a rough silhouette with arms, legs, and a rounded head.
I placed the doll between the candles, lit them, and held the Lumin & Umbra Sigil above it. A soft light fell from the sigil, weaving around the cloth figure.
A breeze rose—gentle but distinct—and the candle flames leaned steadily in one direction.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The doll twitched.
Then, with a sudden, unnatural jerk, it straightened—
standing on its stitched legs.
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the onlookers.
Someone raised a phone.
The doll bolted.
Not stumbled. Not toppled.
It ran—
a blur of cloth and intent—straight toward the reservoir site.
I didn't hesitate.
"Follow it."
We trailed the doll to the edge of the site, where it vanished through a gap in the temporary fencing.
The crowd stalled at the perimeter, fear holding them in place. The stories about this place had spread.
Fraser's voice was barely a whisper.
"It went inside?"
"Yes."
"Inside... there?"
I met their fearful stares and pointed past the fence, into the heart of the silent worksite.
"That's where we must go."
No one moved.