Page 6 of All the Things We Buried

FIVE

DORIAN

We both wore matching gray jumpsuits. Industrial. Forgettable. His face was hidden beneath a black ski mask, stretched tight to his skin. I watched our reflections in the glass, two men inside a borrowed sedan, breathing like beasts about to break from a cage.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned forward, popped open the floor compartment near my boots, and reached inside. The metal clinked as he pulled out two silver guns.

The moment he handed one to me, something in my chest went still.

“More chaos, more fear,” he laughed, tossing one to me before slamming the compartment shut.

Just like that, like it was a regular Tuesday, we stepped out of the car and walked straight into the bank.

We pushed the glass doors open and moved fast.

“Everyone down!”

He shouted first as I grabbed a wooden stool near the wall. I smashed it against the floor and used one of the thick legs to jam the door handle shut behind us.

Panic rippled through the room.

“Don’t move!” he yelled again, this time pointing at the woman behind the front desk and the off-duty cop in line. “You two! To the vault. You have thirty seconds.”

All I could hear was their screams, crying, and gasps for help. They collapsed to the floor, too scared to move, every single one of them.

And me? I felt nothing. I didn’t even feel my heart beating. Just a cold, tight tunnel vision.

Because I had only five minutes. That’s how long we had until real cops would show. One minute to hit the vault, four to disappear. Which meant I had less than sixty seconds to grab the bags and run.

The woman from the desk shook and typed in the code, and the vault door creaked open. She and the cop began stuffing stacks of bills into two black leather bags the mechanic had thrown at their feet. They didn’t speak. They didn’t blink. Just moved fast.

As soon as they zipped the bags closed, he shoved them toward me and nodded. “Run.”

So I did.

I took one bag and gripped it in my fists, already heading toward the back. As I ran, I noticed that one last bag was left behind near the vault door, so I turned around.

But the image in front of me played like a movie that didn’t have a happy ending.

The mechanic was holding the bank manager by the face, kissing her like they were the only two in the world. She wasn’t pushing him away. She was whispering something, her lips brushing his ear.

“The kid’ll take the blame... he doesn’t even know it.” She moaned, “You’re a genius, baby. We’ll be millionaires.”

It hit like a knife.

I froze.

My hands tightened around the bags, breath catching in my chest. Rage burned hotter than fear now, hotter than adrenaline. I didn’t care who they were. I didn’t care what they planned. All I knew was I was getting out with the money and leaving alone .

I threw the bags over my shoulders and turned, sprinting toward the right side of the bank where an emergency door led into the alley.

I burst through it and kept running.

My ears rang. The mask stuck to my skin, suffocating me. I could feel sweat burning down my back like acid. My whole body shook like I was dragging fire through my veins.

The alley was long, narrow, and darker than it should’ve been. I could feel the chill shift as I ran; something cold had crept into the space between me and the street.

I slowed. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.

That’s when I saw him again.

Ian.

He stood at the edge of the alley, just beyond the shadow line. Pale. Still. Watching me the same way he did back at the gas station.

I lifted my head, eyes wide, heart in my throat.

He didn’t speak. Just turned slowly and pointed to the wall.

Taped to the rusted brick beside the dumpster were six old posters of missing children. Their faces were sun-bleached and half-torn, but I could still make them out. All from around the area. Some were younger than Ian. A few... the same age.

He stepped closer.

Right up to my face.

And then he screamed.

No words came, just a blast of noise, of air and anger. His eyes turned white, and his breath came out in dry clouds that scattered into the air.

I stumbled back, dropped the bags. My legs gave out as I collapsed behind the dumpster, panting, hands trembling.

I ripped the ski mask off and shoved it inside one of the bags, trying to hide it like it meant something.

And that’s when I saw the paper. It was stuck to the inside of a damp box near my knee. One word stood out in faded red marker: “Help Needed”

Underneath it, there was an address.

I knew the house. Gloomsbury Manor.

The house had found me again. It knew I was back, and it has been waiting. But for me now, that would be the only place where no one would find me, where I can hide from everyone.

I stood, takingthe paper with me.

Then I ran up ahead, just around the corner, where there was a narrow stretch of road with a small bar on the left side. Parked out front, like some god sent it to me, was a black Harley Davidson withkeys still in the ignition.

No one was there, so I didn’t think, I didn’t pause. I ran toward it, threw my leg over the seat, stuffed the bag in front of me, and kicked it into gear. And as I drove off, from behind me, the bar door burst open. An older biker stumbled out, beer bottle still in hand.

“Hey! That’s my Harley!” he shouted, rage rising.

But it didn’t matter.

I was already gone.

It was just past six in the evening when I reached the hilltop cemetery. The sun was low, getting more orange, bleeding light across the sky. I could still hear sirens somewhere in the valley below, bouncing between buildings, but up here, everything felt still. The world was quiet around the dead.

I drove to the end of the narrow gravel road and stopped at the edge, just a few feet from his grave. I didn’t get off right away. Just sat there straddling the stolen bike, staring at the headstone like it might say something back.

My father’s name was written into cheap gray stone. No flowers. No visitors. Just cracked earth and weeds curling along the base.

They said he died a year after Ian.

I didn’t cry. Not then. Not now.

Eventually, I climbed off the bike. As my boots hit the ground, I noticed the man I took the bike from had rigged two storage tanks to the sides. I crouched down to see inside them, expecting old clothes or scraps.

In the first tank, cushioned by dirty rags, I found a small glass container. Inside, it was a miniature pylon, curled by side like a toy. On the top, written in thick black Sharpie , was one word. “Nagi.”

I lifted the tank carefully, holding it in both hands. Nagi moved in the sunlight, showing scales and a flicking tongue. My throat tightened.

“You’re mine now, Nagi,” I said, stammering like a child. My tongue always turned clumsy after the adrenaline wore off.

I carried her to the shade of a nearby tree and set her down gently. She pulled herself tighter under the shadow. I took a moment, breathing in, before heading back to check the second tank.

This one held an old phone. Still charged.

I pulled it out and took it with me to the tree. The ride through the heat had drained me, and the relief of sitting in the cool grass made my whole body ache. I opened one of the bags from the bike, grabbed a bottle of water, and stared at the phone for a long time.

I dialed, remembering the number like it was carved deep in my bones.

The line clicked once, then again. A girl answered. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Young. Maybe new staff.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I replied, dry-mouthed. “Gloomsbury Manor?”

“Yes.”

“Is Vivienne there?” My tongue slipped again on her name. My voice cracked from too much sun, too little water.

“One moment.”

I heard footsteps. Then the unmistakable sound of heels. That sound was burned into my memory. And then her voice came through, smooth as usual.

“Hello?”

I didn’t wait.

“Hello, Mother. Did you miss me?”

Silence stretched across the line. I imagined her standing in the long hallway near the parlor, hand frozen over her mouth.

“I need a place to stay low for a while,” I said. “I can see you moved on without us. Still hunting kids, or did you find a new hobby?”

She cleared her throat, the same way she always did when she didn’t want to give herself away.

“Dorian, my son,” she said. “My home is your home.”

“I bet it is.”

I paused. Let her sit in the silence.

Then I said, “Prepare me a spare room. I’ll be there tonight.”

I ended the call and threw the phone against a nearby rock. It broke as soon as it hit. Nagi hissed at the sound, agitated. I knelt beside her and ran my fingers along the glass.

Then I stood and turned toward the headstone again.

It hadn’t moved, but something in me had.

I remembered being three years old when my father smashed a bottle across my back. That was the first time before many followed. My scars never healed right, and the pain never told the full story, but my nightmares did.

I crouched near the grave and let the silence answer for him.

“Hi, Dad,” I said softly. “Hope hell is treating you well.”

As if in reply, a few fat raindrops fell from the sky. They splattered against the headstone, then against my arms. Just a few. Not enough to cool the heat. Just enough to warn me.

If that was his way of saying sorry, he could keep it.

You can’t hurt people and apologize when it’s convenient. If you’re going to be cruel, you own it. You don’t get to rewrite your story from the grave.

Bad people don’t become good just because they say they’re sorry. Good people don’t make you afraid to come home. A parent who loves their child doesn’t leave them broken.

And if they do, they don’t get to be called a parent anymore.

They’re just another problem you eventually have to cut from your life.

Because if you don’t, that poison spreads. It curls into your spine, and before you know it, you’re no different than the monsters that made you.