28 Nov The Keeper of Maple Hollow

Annette Grayson liked the part of the day when everything finally went quiet.

The last of her third graders had been collected, the last forgotten lunchbox reclaimed. She’d stacked math workbooks, wiped stray marker streaks off desks, and turned off the humming fluorescence in her classroom until only the soft rectangle of the window remained. By the time she pulled into her driveway on Juniper Street, the sky had drained to a flat gray that made the houses look closer together than they really were.

Apollo’s silhouette waited at the front window, ears pricked. When she opened the door, the German shepherd spun once in an excited circle, toenails clicking on the hardwood, then barreled his head into her stomach.

“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing despite herself. “Give me two minutes to pee and remember my own name, and then we’ll walk.”

Two minutes turned into five while she changed from work slacks into jeans and exchanged the thin flats for boots that could handle wet leaves. She shrugged into her jacket, clipped the leash to Apollo’s collar, and stepped back outside.

The air smelled of damp mulch and somebody’s woodstove down the block. A line of clouds had rolled in while she was driving home, low and swollen, moving faster than they had any right to. The last smudge of evening color had already disappeared behind them.

“Storm’s moving in early,” she murmured, locking the door. “You get the express walk today, buddy.”

Apollo didn’t care which route she chose. He tugged toward the sidewalk, tail flagging, eager to catalog whatever news the other dogs on Juniper had left in the grass.

They headed toward the small park at the end of the street. It was the usual routine: across two driveways, pause for Apollo to sniff the same mailbox he sniffed every night, nod at Mrs. Alvarez if she happened to be on her porch. Tonight, her house was dark. Curtains drawn, porch light off.

The park was mostly empty. A swing creaked as the wind nudged it. The soccer field beyond lay abandoned, goal nets slick with leftover rain from earlier in the week. The path that looped around the park was the long way home, twenty-five to thirty minutes when the dog dawdled.

Beyond the far corner, past a stand of birch and alder, the iron fence of Maple Hollow Cemetery traced a dark line through the trees. There was a gate at that end and a narrow track that followed the fence inside, coming out on Maple Street and cutting the walk almost in half.

Annette stopped where the paved park trail met the dirt approach to the cemetery.

“Round the park and get soaked,” she said, eyeing the churning clouds, “or take the shortcut and maybe only get half soaked.”

Thunder grumbled somewhere off to the west, low and long.

Apollo had gone still beside her. His ears had tipped forward, focused on the thinning of trees ahead. The fur along his neck lifted in a slow bristle.

She gave the leash a little flick. “Come on. You’ve peed on those birch trees before. They survived.”

He didn’t move.

The fence loomed clearer as she looked. Maple Hollow’s sign hung over the gate, the white paint on its letters chipped: MAPLE HOLLOW CEMETERY – EST. 1872. The gate itself stood a handbreadth open, chain looped through but not latched, ends knocking softly together when the wind shifted.

Beyond the bars, fog had begun to collect among the stones. It lay in shallow drifts between markers, a low gray band that made the ground look uneven.

“It’s just weather,” she told the dog. “We’ll be in and out. No ghost tours, I promise.”

Apollo whined, a quiet, uncertain sound, and took one deliberate step backward.

“Seriously?” she said. “You, of all animals, are voting for the scenic route?”

Another drop of water hit her cheek. This one didn’t feel like the tentative advance scout of a drizzle. The clouds overhead had thickened into a single, dark blanket. The streetlights along Juniper flickered on in a staggered row, one after another, a little too early for the hour.

“Shortcut,” she decided. “Then towel, leftovers, and we fall asleep on the couch to other people’s problems on Netflix. Let’s go.”

She stepped toward the gate, giving the leash a firmer tug. Apollo resisted for a heartbeat, muscles taut, then yielded. He stayed pressed close to her side as they slipped under the dilapidated arch of the sign.

The hinges creaked when she pushed the gate wider.

Inside, the graveyard smelled of wet stone and cut grass left too long in piles. The gravel path crunched under her boots. Headstones rose on either side in rows that had started straight and then sagged with time: polished black granite with laser-etched portraits beside white marble angels with missing noses, crooked markers with names nearly eaten away by lichen.

Apollo’s leash trembled in her hand. He walked, but every step was cautious, paws landing as if he expected the ground to give way.

The fog was thicker in here than it had looked from the road. It clung low over the earth, blurring the bases of the stones, curling around her ankles when she passed through it. Each breath tasted faintly metallic, as though she’d bitten her tongue.

She tried to distract herself by thinking of spelling tests and permission slips, but her mind kept sliding back to the fact that the park noises were already gone. No swing creak now, no distant traffic. Even the storm sounded further away on this side of the fence.

They followed the path as it bent between an old family plot and a line of smaller, newer stones. Apollo veered slightly to sniff at the edge of the gravel. Annette let him, as long as he kept moving.

Her next step sank.

The soil under her right boot gave more than it should have, as if the solid ground had been replaced with a soaked sponge. She pitched forward, catching herself on the nearest headstone with one hand.

Before she could lift her foot, something closed around her ankle from below. The grip was precise, fingers and thumb, each pressing through the leather of her boot and into her skin as cleanly as if there had been nothing in between. The hand—because that was what it felt like, unmistakably—was icy, the cold punching straight up through muscle to bone.

Annette gasped and clawed at the marker for balance. Apollo lunged, barking for the first time that night, teeth snapping at the patch of ground pinning her.

“Hey—hey!” Her voice ragged, she yanked at her leg. The thing holding her tightened its grip for one heartbeat, then another, as if considering.

The soil swelled around her boot, mounded by pressure from beneath. Her toes went numb.

“Let go!” she hissed, panic stuttering through her chest. “Let me go!”

The pressure vanished.

Her foot came free so abruptly she nearly fell. She staggered backward, hauling Apollo by the harness to keep him from diving into the churned earth. The ground where she’d stood settled in on itself, smoothing out, leaving only a slightly darker patch to show it had ever been disturbed.

Her calf throbbed. When she shoved up her jeans, five faint, grayish ovals curved around the flesh above her boot, already darkening at the edges. The skin under each spot felt colder than the rest of her leg.

Roots don’t do that, she thought.

A long, patient silence settled around them.

She turned to look back the way they’d come.

The gate and the park beyond should have been visible through the stones and trees—a gap of iron bars, a hint of streetlights, at least a smear of noncemetery darkness. Instead, a dense wall of fog lay across the path, a blank sheet from ground to chest height. The trees were only vague shapes behind it. No bars. No lights.

Annette’s hand tightened around Apollo’s leash until her knuckles ached.

“Okay,” she whispered. “We’re not doing that. Forward it is.”

She faced the deeper graveyard, where the fog ran thicker and the stones rose taller, and for the first time in years, she felt very small.

Apollo’s growl deepened to a low, vibrating hum against her leg.

Annette swallowed hard, squinting through the thickening fog. The cemetery was silent again—but not in a natural way. This was the hush of a place watching.

A faint light flickered somewhere ahead. At first, she thought it might be a distant porch light or a car cresting Maple Street—but no. This glow bobbed gently, swaying left and right. A lantern. An old-fashioned one, brass and glass, its flame a muted amber struggling against the gray.

The light grew brighter as it approached, illuminating a thin figure stepping out from between two tall markers. He moved with the kind of deliberate slowness that made her pulse tighten—not sluggish, but careful and purposeful, as though he knew exactly where not to step.

“Ahem,” the man said softly, his voice low and unhurried. “Ma’am? You’re a bit far in for an evening walk.”

Annette jerked backward before she could stop herself. Apollo sprang forward, planting himself between her and the stranger, teeth bared.

The man held the lantern higher but stayed several feet away, as though he sensed how close the dog was to attacking. The warm glow revealed a long canvas coat buttoned to the throat, boots slick with dew, and a cap pulled low enough to shadow most of his face. Even so, she could make out the angles beneath—sharp cheekbones, thin jaw, a mouth set in a grim expression.

He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either. He had that ageless quality some people carry, as if time had lost track of them.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. His voice held the cadence of someone who had spent most of his days alone. “Paths close after dusk.”

Annette forced air into her lungs. “I—uh—storm coming. Just cutting through. But I think we… we got turned around.”

The man hummed as if this did not surprise him. “It happens.”

Apollo didn’t stop growling. If anything, his hackles had risen farther. His stare was locked onto the lantern-bearer, trembling with distrust.

The man nodded toward the shepherd. “Good instincts on that one. The animals always know.”

Annette bristled. “He’s not usually… like this.”

“Not his fault.” The man’s eyes drifted past her, toward the rows of stones behind them. “Fog’s thick tonight. That’s when they move.”

Annette’s skin crawled. “Who?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he angled the lantern so its light cut across the path. The fog recoiled, not dispersing, but pulling backward in a slow, unnatural curl, as though something within it had no desire to be seen.

A cold ribbon of fear snaked up Annette’s spine.

The man cleared his throat softly. “It’d be best to stick to the lane.”

She hesitated. She didn’t know this person. She shouldn’t follow him deeper into the cemetery. She shouldn’t follow anyone. Every true-crime podcast she’d ever fallen asleep to screamed at her to turn around, run, scream, anything.

Then the cold in her ankle pulsed—the precise shape of fingers that had clamped around her just minutes earlier.

Her breath hitched.

Apollo whined again, but this time it wasn’t anger—it was fear.

The man watched her carefully, as though reading the thing in her expression she couldn’t quite say aloud. He lowered the lantern slightly, the flame steadying inside the glass.

“It appears you’ve been marked,” he said quietly. “Best not stand still. They tend to notice.”

Annette felt the blood drain from her face. “M-marked?”

He gestured to her leg. “Lift your cuff.”

She didn’t want to. She already knew what she’d see. But she lifted the fabric anyway.

The five gray ovals around her ankle had darkened, each one now a faint bruise. But beneath the surface, she swore she saw something else, a soft shimmer, pale and cold, as though the marks were lit from within.

The man nodded, confirming her fear. “Yes. Marked.”

Annette swallowed, suddenly dizzy. “What does that mean?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he motioned with the lantern, its beam widening like a guiding hand.

“Walk,” he said. “And keep to the gravel.”

She took one involuntary step backward, clutching Apollo’s leash. “Who are you?”

The man’s lips twitched—not a smile, not exactly. “Name’s Ezra Pike,” he said. “Caretaker.”

“The caretaker?” she echoed. “I… I didn’t think anyone worked here anymore.”

His eyes returned to the fog that had begun creeping closer to the lantern glow. “Oh, someone does,” he murmured. “Every night, whether he wants to or not.”

Annette shivered. She wasn’t sure if the cold came from the night air or the marks burning faintly against her skin.

Ezra nodded down the path again. “Best get moving. We don’t linger after dark. Not if we can help it.”

Another roll of thunder rumbled overhead, closer now. Annette looked at the suffocating fog behind her, then at Ezra’s lantern, the only stable light in the cemetery. Apollo tugged her forward, whining urgently.

Her choice wasn’t really a choice at all. “Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll follow you.”

Ezra inclined his head once in acknowledgment, then turned. His lantern cut a narrow corridor of amber through the gray.

Annette and Apollo stepped into it.

And as they walked, the fog closed silently behind them, sealing the path as though they’d been swallowed whole.

Ezra walked a few paces ahead, his lantern swaying in a slow, hypnotic arc. The amber glow carved a narrow passage through the fog, but only just. The mist pressed close at the edges, rippling as though something moved within it.

Apollo stayed glued to Annette’s leg. He didn’t growl now—he watched, his gaze flicking constantly to the shifting gloom around them. Every so often, his ears twitched at sounds she couldn’t hear.

“Why does the fog move like that?” Annette asked quietly.

Ezra didn’t turn. “Because it listens.”

Her throat tightened. “To what?”

“To whatever calls from below,” he murmured.

Annette wished she hadn’t asked.

The path curved past an old cedar whose trunk split halfway up like a twisted finger pointing skyward. Beyond it, a small structure materialized from the mist. At first she thought it was an abandoned shed, but as the lantern light strengthened, she recognized familiar shapes: a warped window, a patched tin roof, a narrow porch with a single missing board. A wooden sign hung crooked above the door, so weathered that the paint had peeled to nothing.

Ezra stepped onto the porch. The boards beneath him gave a tired groan.

“Inside,” he said.

Annette hesitated. Nothing about a stranger leading her into a decrepit shack in a fog-choked cemetery felt wise. But the cold ache in her ankle flared again, and Apollo whimpered softly, nudging her forward.

Ezra didn’t touch the door. He just pressed his hand to the latch, and it shifted open with barely a sound.

The interior smelled faintly of motor oil and damp paper. Tools hung neatly on the walls: clippers, trowels, a rusted hedge saw whose blade had dulled to a rounded edge. A desk sat beneath the small window, a leather-bound ledger lying open atop it. A stovepipe jutted through the ceiling, though the stove itself held no fire.

Ezra set the lantern on a ring mounted beside the stove. Its glow spread unevenly across the room, leaving the corners in soft shadow.

Annette stepped inside with Apollo, who immediately paced a tight circle around her, pushing against her legs as if to herd her toward the center of the room.

Ezra closed the door behind them, shutting the fog out. The moment the latch clicked, Annette felt the air shift. The damp chill eased. The sound of the wind faded. Even her breathing steadied.

Ezra lifted the ledger and paged through it with a practiced, careful motion. The paper crackled, older than it should have been.

Annette tried to find her voice. “Are you really the caretaker?”

“I was.” He traced a finger down a column of names dated decades earlier. “Longer than I intended.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

Ezra didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted to the window. The fog pressed faintly against the glass, as though curious.

After a long moment, he said, “You stepped beyond the fence after dusk. That’s what started it.”

“Started what?”

“You got their attention.” He nodded toward her leg. “Once they claim a living soul, they remember it.”

Annette’s pulse thudded in her wrists. “Who remembers?”

Ezra’s eyes flicked to hers, steady and solemn. “The resting. Those who were disturbed. Those who woke too early.”

Annette backed up a step until the back of her boot tapped Apollo’s paw. The dog stayed pressed to her, nose twitching toward the door, as if detecting the scent of something just beyond the threshold.

Ezra approached her slowly, not close enough to touch, but close enough for her to see that his pupils looked almost reflective in the lantern glow.

“When did it grab you?” he asked.

She swallowed. “At the edge of the older stones. Something… under the ground.”

Ezra let out a breath like someone acknowledging a problem that had long been coming. “Then we’re running out of time.”

Annette clenched her hands. “Why me?”

“Because you crossed their boundary with no keeper to guide you. Because the gate wasn’t latched. Because they’re… hungry.” His voice dropped. “And because they know I’m fading.”

Her breath thinned. She wasn’t sure whether to step back or forward. “Fading?”

Ezra turned the lantern slightly. The flame inside fluttered against the glass. For a moment, she saw something impossible: Light glowed faintly through his ribs, as though he were fashioned from translucent paper rather than flesh.

Annette took a sharp breath.

Ezra noticed. He lowered the lantern. “This flame is the boundary. As long as it burns, they stay quiet. But it’s grown weak.”

A scraping sound whispered along the siding outside, long. slow, and purposeful.

Apollo stiffened, a deep vibration running through his chest.

Ezra moved to the window but didn’t look out—he simply listened. “They’re circling,” he said softly. “I’m afraid they’ve caught your scent, m’aam.”

Annette pressed a hand over the cold marks on her ankle. “What do they want from me?”

Ezra turned to face her fully. His expression held a sorrow she didn’t know how to read.

“They want their keeper,” he said. “And you carry the mark.”

Another scrape sounded, this time closer.

Annette’s pulse hammered. “What exactly are you saying?”

Ezra stepped between her and the door. “I’m saying you need to leave this place before they decide you’re ready to replace me.”

The lantern flickered sharply, casting his face into stark relief.

“And you need to do it soon,” he added. “Before the light dies.”

The scrape outside lingered where the door met the frame.

The lantern guttered, dimming the room.

Ezra stilled.

“Too late. They’re here.”

The lantern flickered again—once, twice—each disturbance shrinking the room’s warmth by inches. The walls seemed to lean inward. The shadows under the desk stretched unnaturally long, as if reaching for the light.

Apollo pressed hard against Annette’s leg, trembling.

Ezra didn’t move. He stood perfectly still between her and the door, one hand hovering near the lantern’s handle. His eyes stayed fixed on the wood planks at their feet.

Scrape.

This time, the sound came from directly outside, slowly dragging along the base of the shack, as though something long and rigid were being pulled across the foundation. The vibration traveled up through the floorboards.

Annette flinched. “What is that?”

Ezra didn’t turn. “One of them. They always start with the marked.”

The cold on her ankle pulsed again, stronger this time, spreading just a touch higher, like chilled water soaking upward through her skin.

Annette grabbed the desk for balance. “It hurts.”

“It will,” Ezra said quietly. “They’re calling to you.”

Scrape.

Now from the other side of the shack.

The lantern dimmed. The room cooled. Even the air seemed to tighten.

Ezra finally turned, taking in the thin cracks forming along the lantern’s inner glass. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Annette took a shaky step closer. “What is?”

Ezra hesitated only a moment. “The boundary is failing.”

The marks on her ankle throbbed again, syncing with the lantern’s erratic flicker.

A faint voice drifted through the wall—soft, paper-thin, impossible to locate.

“…Annette…”

She froze, her blood turning to ice. She hadn’t told anyone her name.

Apollo barked in a sharp burst, teeth bared at the wall.

Ezra lifted the lantern. “Do not answer them.”

Annette’s hands shook. “They k-k-know my na… How do they know my name?”

“They know anything the soil remembers,” he said. “And Maple Hollow remembers a great many things.”

The next sound was worse. The ground outside shifted, the deep, damp strain of earth moving from underneath. A low groan of roots and dirt tearing as something heaved and pushed, forcing its way upward.

Annette’s breath hitched. “Ezra—”

He grabbed her wrist, his touch colder than she expected but steady. “Don’t look at the walls. Look at me.”

Outside, another grave erupted with a wet, muffled crunch. Soil cascaded down in heavy clumps. Something stood up. Another dragged itself free.

“…Annnnnette…”

This whisper was closer, right outside the window.

The lantern dimmed, then flared violently, golden light exploding across the shack’s interior. Ezra winced, as if the brightness burned him. The flames inside the glass swirled in unnatural patterns, flickering faster than any flame she’d ever seen.

“Stay behind me!” he said.

Another grave burst. More soil spilled. More air displaced. The shack walls shuddered.

“Ezra…” Annette tightened her hold on Apollo’s leash, though she doubted she could hold him if he panicked. “What’s happening?”

“The dead are waking,” Ezra said. “Too many. Too soon.”

A soft thump hit the wall. Then another. Then another—multiple impacts from different angles, as though palms or fists pressed against the boards with quiet insistence.

The lantern spat sparks against the glass. Ezra lifted the lantern higher. The bones of his hand were visible through his skin now, faint outlines illuminated by the light inside him.

“We need to move,” he said.

“How?” Annette asked. “They’re everywhere.”

“That’s why we must go now.” Ezra’s expression hardened. “If we wait another moment, they’ll block every path.”

The scraping at the door intensified. The knob rattled. A slow pressure pushed inward, warping the hinges.

Apollo barked with desperate urgency.

The lantern flickered violently—and a crack formed across its glass face.

Ezra froze. Annette did, too.

The flame inside sputtered—

—dimmed—

—and went out.

The shack plunged into darkness.

Outside, something exhaled, low and eager.

Annette’s fingers dug into Apollo’s fur. Then, with a sudden, violent surge, the lantern reignited. Its light was blindingly white and searing.

Ezra staggered as the light shot upward through him, illuminating the contours of his ribs, spine, and skull, the silhouette of a man made of thin paper and trapped flame.

“Now!” he croaked, voice fractured. “Run!”

The door exploded open, rotting hands upon its every inch. Pale shapes swarmed the threshold—gaunt figures with distorted joints, hollow sockets, and jaws that hung too loose, all of them whispering in one harmonious, dreadful breath:

“Keeper…”

As if in response, Ezra and the lantern light became one. The fire within the lantern blazed, and in unison the flame inside him roared outward, forming a barrier of gold that caused the dead recoil with shrill whines.

Annette shielded her eyes and stumbled forward, Apollo dragging her toward the gap before she even consciously chose to move.

Ezra’s voice cut through the blaze. “Run for the gate! And whatever you do, do not look back!”

Annette didn’t. She bolted into the fog as the dead lunged and the shack behind her exploded into shrieks.

The cold night air sliced at Annette’s lungs, but she didn’t dare slow. Apollo charged ahead, nearly pulling her off her feet, muscles coiled with a frantic, desperate energy she had never seen in him. His nails skidded against the gravel as he strained toward the path—any path—that would lead them out.

Behind them, the dead surged.

Their bodies didn’t thud like human footsteps. Some glided. Others moved with sickening jerks, like marionettes yanked by tangled strings.

Their whispers threaded through the fog in a broken symphony.

“Keeper… Keeper… Annette…”

She clamped her hands over her ears, but the voices seeped through skin and bone. Apollo barked wildly, teeth snapping at empty air as they sprinted past rows of crooked stones. The fog parted just enough to show a sliver of path, then closed again behind them like a mouth swallowing its own breath.

Ezra’s flame flared somewhere far behind, a burst of gold slicing the gray, followed by a chorus of shrill, airless cries.

Annette didn’t look back. She forced herself forward, stumbling over tree roots half-buried near the edge of the path. A headstone rose out of the mist directly in her trajectory; she swerved at the last second, shoulder brushing cold stone hard enough to bruise. Apollo yanked her onward, guiding her through the labyrinth.

“Good boy!” she gasped, barely able to speak. “Keep going—keep going—”

A shape materialized to her right, a gaunt figure crawling out from behind a stone, joints cracking, its jaw unhinged. Its head rotated farther than a neck should allow. Empty sockets fixed on her like pits carved into wax.

Apollo lunged, snapping, and the thing recoiled.

Just then, she heard something behind them.

Ezra.

His lantern-light shot across the fog in a single arcing beam, striking the creature’s face. Its flesh sizzled in the glow, and it shrank backward, collapsing behind the stone like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Keep running!” Ezra’s voice echoed, warped and distant.

Annette obeyed.

The ground sloped downward. Her boots slid on the damp soil, nearly losing her balance as she and Apollo hurtled into the older section of Maple Hollow, where the stones leaned inward.

The cold on her ankle surged up her calf in a chilling wave, causing one of her legs to buckle. Apollo barked at her, circling back, nudging her with frantic urgency.

“Not now!” she rasped, gripping his collar and forcing herself upright.

Fingers erupted from the soil beside her, long and gray, clawing upward as if testing the air. They flexed toward her ankle, seeking the mark beneath her skin.

Apollo snarled, teeth flashing, and she dragged him past before the hand got a hold of her.

The fog broke suddenly, just for an instant, and she saw the iron fence of the cemetery in the distance.

The gate.

It hung open, still swinging slightly on its old hinges.

Hope flared, sharp and brief. Then the fog surged upward, swallowing the view whole, leaving them in claustrophobic gray once more.

“Come on!” she shouted at the mist, at the ground, at anything listening. “Let us out!”

A growl that didn’t belong to Apollo rolled through the cemetery. This was deeper, older—the sound of a tremendous amount of earth being disturbed. The sound of something hungry waking.

The ground ahead of them bulged, and a corpse crawled free, this one more intact, its limbs bending stiffly as if recalling their purpose. Its mouth opened in a manner that suggested it intended to speak, but only dust poured out.

Annette’s vision blurred with panic.

Then the fog behind her erupted in gold. Ezra again appeared—his increasingly frail, translucent form shimmering, chest hollow and radiant, ribs glowing like bars of a cage holding light inside him. The lantern in his hands burned so brightly she couldn’t distinguish its frame from the fire.

“Run!” he bellowed, commanding her.

The dead around him shriveled amidst the glow, retreating in jerky, twitching spasms. The corpse blocking Annette’s path froze. Its sunken head snapped away from Ezra, repelled by the illumination.

Ezra stepped forward, lantern blazing. The dead reeled away from him in widening arcs.

Annette and Apollo bolted past the frozen corpse. Before them, the path stretched on, the fog thinning just enough to again reveal glimpses of the dark iron gate.

She ran harder.

Behind her, Ezra’s light intensified, a crackling roar filling the night. The fog ignited in gold, illuminating silhouettes of dozens—no, hundreds—of dead collapsing back into their graves, dragged down, as if by an invisible force.

Then a deafening crack split the air, and Ezra’s lantern shattered. The burst of light that followed was blinding, a wave of brilliant energy racing through the cemetery, flattening fog, ripping through shadows, forcing every awakened corpse back into the soil with violent, tortured cries.

Annette hit the gate, gripping the bars with both hands, Apollo pulling hard beside her.

They crossed the threshold—and the world snapped back.

The fog vanished. The air stilled. Even the storm beyond the grounds seemed to pause.

Behind them, Maple Hollow lay cold and silent, the gate swinging shut with a hollow clang.

Ezra was gone.

Annette pressed her palm to the iron gate, her body wracked with shuddering sobs.

Somewhere deep in the cemetery, a final spark flared briefly, small and defiant, before fading, and once more, everything went quiet.

* * * * * *

Annette didn’t remember the walk home.

She remembered gripping Apollo’s leash so tightly her fingers numbed. She remembered the weight of her own breath, sharp in her chest. She remembered the silence after the cemetery gate had shut behind her.

When she stepped into her living room, she slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Apollo pressed against her legs, tail tight, eyes fixed on her ankle.

The cold.

She felt it, still clinging there, a tight band just above the boot line, as though the fingers had never fully released her. Annette peeled off her sock. The five gray ovals remained, faintly luminous under the skin, as if lit from within by dying embers.

She covered them quickly. She didn’t want to see them anymore.

She sat on the couch with Apollo curled beside her, one hand buried in his fur. The house hummed with refrigerator noise and the soft tick of the kitchen clock, mundane sounds that felt almost surreal after the unnatural silence of Maple Hollow.

When the sun finally rose, she drove herself to the sheriff’s office, Apollo in the backseat, head low. She told herself she needed to report the open gate, the unsafe grounds, the fog.
She told herself that. But really, she needed someone else to confirm she hadn’t lost her mind.

Sheriff Talbot listened without interrupting. He didn’t type anything. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He simply leaned back, arms crossed, studying her with a careful, measured calm.

When she finished, throat tight, he reached into his drawer and pulled out a slim folder. “Ezra Pike,” he said, sliding it across the desk.

A grainy black-and-white photo clipped to the top showed the man she’d followed through the fog. In the image, he was thinner and younger, but his appearance was unmistakable.

“He was the caretaker,” Talbot said. “Died in ‘73. Some boys from out of town came looking to rob graves. Found more than they bargained for.”

Annette gripped the folder. “He helped me.”

“People say that sometimes.” Talbot leaned forward. “They say he shows up when Maple Hollow starts acting up.”

“Acting up?” she echoed, incredulous.

He shrugged. “Old land. Old bones. Bad history.” He nodded at her pant leg. “Let me see it.”

She hesitated, then pulled the fabric up. The marks had darkened overnight. Talbot’s expression tightened with recognition.

“You’re not the first with those.”

Annette’s breath caught. “What do they mean?”

“That something in there noticed you.” He didn’t sugarcoat it. “And something in there never forgets.”

Apollo whined softly at her feet.

Talbot closed the file. “You stay away from that cemetery, Ms. Grayson. Day or night. And keep your dog close. Animals often sense things well before people do.”

She nodded faintly, feeling the weight of the sheriff’s gaze long after she’d stood and left.

That evening, she avoided the park. Avoided looking toward Maple Hollow at all.

But Apollo didn’t. As they passed the street, he stopped abruptly, hackles lifting. His gaze was fixed on the cemetery gate, half-hidden by trees. Behind the fence, the faint, unmistakable glow of lantern-light pulsed, warm and flickering.

Annette’s chest tightened.

“Ezra?” she whispered, before she could stop herself.

The glow flickered once, as if acknowledging.

Then it vanished.

* * * * * *

Two weeks later, frost came early. It clung to the gutters like spun glass, crisped the grass in brittle sheets, and left thin white halos around every streetlamp. Annette bundled herself in two scarves and an old coat, Apollo’s leash wrapped securely around her wrist.

They walked the long way home now. Always. She hadn’t taken the shortcut through the park since that night. She hadn’t stepped near the tree line bordering Maple Hollow. But she still felt the cemetery watching—quietly, patiently—as though the land itself remembered the sound of her footfalls.

Apollo pulled slightly at the leash, nose twitching. He’d been jumpier these past two weeks, flinching at shadows, growling at gusts of wind that carried no scent she could detect.

“Easy,” she murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just a walk.”

But even as she said it, she glanced across the road toward Maple Hollow. The new chain on the gate gleamed silver under the streetlight, taut and freshly installed. A CITY PROPERTY sign hung stiffly in the cold. Beyond it, the cemetery sloped into darkness, quiet, still, and harmless.

Almost.

Mist rose between the stones. Not the thick fog from before, but a thin veil, drifting lazily along the ground. She could pretend it was moisture from the frost. She could excuse it, rationalize it, dismiss it.

Until she saw the light.

A lantern glow—warm gold and steady—moved slowly between the graves.

Annette stopped.

Apollo froze beside her, ears sharp, a soft whine trembling in his throat.

The lantern drifted past a row of crooked headstones, bright enough that she could make out the faint silhouette of the man holding it. Tall. Straight-backed. Familiar.

Ezra Pike.

He turned toward her. Or perhaps the light simply swayed. Either way, she felt seen. Acknowledged.

The pressure around her ankle pulsed once, the faint bruise warm through her sock. Annette swallowed hard, forcing her breath to steady.

The lantern dipped, a small, solemn bow, before drifting deeper into Maple Hollow, fading until it became a dim ember swallowed by the mist.

Apollo pressed against her leg.

Annette adjusted her scarf, tightened her grip on his leash, and walked the rest of the way home without looking back.

“Good night, Mr. Pike,” she whispered.  “And thank you.”