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Digging a grave is hard work.

My whole body hurts. Muscles I didn’t even know I had are screaming with pain. Every time I lift the shovel and scoop out a little more dirt, it feels like a knife is digging into a muscle behind my shoulder blade. I thought it was all bone, but clearly, I was wrong. I am acutely aware of every single muscle fiber in my whole body, and all of them hurt. So much.

I pause for a moment, dropping the shovel to give the blisters popping up on my palms a bit of relief. I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. Now that the sun is down, the temperature has plunged below freezing, judging by the frost on the ground. But I stopped feeling the cold after the first half hour—I took my coat off almost an hour ago.

The deeper I go, the easier it gets to dig. The first layer of dirt was almost impossible to break through, but then again, I had a partner to help me back then. Now it’s just me.

Well, me and the body. But it won’t be of much help.

I squint down into the blackness of the hole. It looks like an abyss, but it’s actually not much deeper than two feet. How deep do I have to go? They always say six feet under, but I assume that’s for official graves. Not for unmarked ones in the middle of the woods. But given nobody can discover what is buried here, deeper might be better.

I wonder how deep a body needs to be buried before the animals can’t smell it.

I shiver as a gust of wind cools the layer of sweat on my bare skin. With every passing minute, the temperature continues to drop. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll dig a little bit deeper, just to be safe.

I pick up the shovel once again, and the sore spots in my body all fight to be the center of attention. Right now, my palms are the clear winner—they hurt more than anything. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of leather gloves. But all I’ve got is a pair of big puffy ones that made it hard to grip the shovel. So I’ve got to make do with my bare hands, blisters and all.

When the hole was shallow, I was able to dig without climbing in. But now the only way I can continue is to be inside the grave. Standing inside a grave feels like bad luck. We all end up in one of these holes eventually, but you also don’t have to tempt fate. Sadly, it’s unavoidable right now.

As I dig the blade of the shovel into the dry, hard soil once again, my ears perk up. It’s quiet here in the woods, except for the wind, but I’m certain I heard something.

Crack!

There it is again… It almost sounds like a branch snapping in half, although I can’t tell if it was coming from behind me or in front of me. I straighten up and squint into the darkness. Is somebody here?

If there is, I am in deep, deep trouble.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice a hoarse whisper.

No answer.

I grip the shovel in my right hand, listening as hard as I can. I hold my breath, quieting the sound of air entering and leaving my lungs.

Crack!

It’s another branch, snapping in two. I’m sure of it this time. And not only that, but the sound is closer than last time.

And now I hear leaves crunching.

My stomach clenches. There’s no way I can talk my way out of this one. There’s no way I can pretend it’s all one big misunderstanding. If somebody spots me, it’s over. I’m done. Handcuffs snapped on my wrists, a police car with sirens wailing, life in prison without chance of parole—all that jazz.

But then in the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of a squirrel darting out into the clearing. As it scurries past me, another twig snaps under the weight of its small body. As the squirrel disappears into a clearing, the woods descend back into deadly silence.

It wasn’t a person after all. It was just a wild animal. The sounds of footsteps were just scampering little paws.

I let out a breath. The immediate danger is gone, but this is not over. Far from it. And I don’t have time to take a break. I have to keep digging.

After all, I have to bury this body before the sun comes up.