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I turned off the main highway onto the narrow access road, my wipers struggling against the heavy rain.

The headlights of my battered Honda illuminated the wrought iron gates of Oakwood Cemetery looming ahead, their ornate scrollwork forming twisted shadows against the darkening sky.

A bolt of lightning briefly lit the landscape, revealing rows of weathered headstones and the silhouettes of Victorian monuments stretching into the distance.

I checked the time.

6:47 PM.

Thirteen minutes early. Perfect.

The gates stood partially open, as promised in the email.

I eased my car through the entrance, tires crunching on wet gravel.

I followed the narrow cemetery road past ancient oak trees whose gnarled branches reached toward me like skeletal fingers.

Three weeks of living out of my car had left me desperate enough to accept this position.

Night security guard at a historic cemetery was not exactly my career goal, but the job included housing.

A small groundskeeper's cottage on the property. After losing my apartment and burning through my meager savings, I could not afford to be picky.

As I rounded a bend in the path, my headlights swept across a squat stone building with a slate roof.

A lone figure stood on the porch, shoulders hunched against the rain.

I parked and grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat before dashing through the downpour.

"Ms.

Ruiz?" The elderly man squinted at me through wire-rimmed glasses.

"Edwin Winters. We spoke on the phone."

"Yes, that's me.

Thank you again for the opportunity, Mr. Winters."

He nodded curtly, his eyes darting to the darkening sky.

"Let's get inside.

Night comes quickly this time of year."

The cottage interior smelled of dust and wood polish.

A small living room with a worn sofa opened to a kitchenette with dated appliances.

A narrow hallway presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom. The furnishings were sparse but clean. Infinitely better than my car's backseat.

"Your duties are straightforward," Winters said, hanging his dripping raincoat on a hook by the door.

"Two complete patrols of the grounds each night.

One after closing and another before dawn. Document any disturbances or signs of vandalism."

He placed a heavy ring of keys on the kitchen counter with a dull thud.

"These open every gate and mausoleum on the property.

Don't lose them."

"I won't," I assured him, noting his perpetual glances toward the window.

His urgency to leave before nightfall was becoming obvious.

"The previous watchman left without notice three weeks ago," Winters continued.

"Everything should be in order, but inform me of any issues tomorrow morning.

I arrive at eight."

He handed me a heavy-duty flashlight, a taser, and a dark blue jacket with "SECURITY" emblazoned across the back.

"The breaker box is in the hallway if you lose power.

Cell reception is spotty at best. Landline works for emergencies."

Winters moved toward the door, then paused.

"Stay in the cottage between night patrols," he said, voice dropping.

"The older graves... they settle. Strange noises. Nothing to concern yourself with, but best observed from inside."

"Is there anything else I should know?" I asked.

"Keep to the paths.

Some of the ground is unstable, especially after rain." He checked his watch again.

"I really must be going now."

And with that, Winters hurried out the door, leaving me alone in the silence of the cottage.

I unpacked my meager belongings.

Two changes of clothes, a few toiletries, a dog-eared paperback, and my old laptop.

The bedroom was small but clean, with a double bed and a window that overlooked a section of the cemetery. Ancient headstones stood like crooked teeth against the darkening horizon.

As I organized my things, I noticed odd details about the cottage.

Strange symbols had been carved into the wood above the door frames.

I reached up to run my fingers along one, wondering if the previous security guard had been superstitious or simply bored.

The rain continued to fall as night settled fully over the cemetery.

At 7 PM, I zipped up the security jacket and prepared for my first patrol.

The taser on my belt and the heft of the flashlight were reassuring as I stepped outside.

The rain had slowed to a gentle patter, and the clouds occasionally parted to reveal glimpses of the waxing moon.

I followed the main path, my flashlight beam sweeping across weathered tombstones.

Victorian angels with eroded faces stared blindly from atop family plots. Marble mausoleums stood like miniature houses of the dead, their ornate doors secured with rusted padlocks.

I passed a freshly dug grave, the earth still mounded and covered with a tarp to protect it from the rain.

According to the temporary marker, the burial had taken place that morning.

Lawrence Emmett, aged eighty-seven.

The cemetery was larger than it had appeared from the entrance.

Sections ranged from modern plots with simple markers to elaborate Victorian memorials, and beyond those, the oldest section where weathered headstones tilted at precarious angles.

Some dates stretched back to the early 1800s, the inscriptions nearly worn away by centuries of wind and rain.

As I walked through the oldest section, a noise froze me in my tracks.

A squelch, like footsteps in mud.

I swung my flashlight toward the noise, but the beam revealed nothing but silent graves.

The sensation of being watched prickled the back of my neck.

I turned in a slow circle, scanning the darkness between monuments.

Nothing moved except branches swaying in the breeze.

"Hello?" I called, my voice sounding small in the vastness of the cemetery.

Only the light patter of rain answered.

Shaking off my paranoia, I completed my patrol and returned to the cottage.

By 9 PM, I had showered and changed into an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants.

It felt like I had just closed my eyes when a sound jolted me awake.

I glanced at the clock.

4 AM.

I started to brush it off when I heard it again. That same odd squelching sound from before. Heart pounding, I crept to the window and peeked out.

In the cloudy moonlight, I could make out the shape of Lawrence Emmett's fresh grave.

The tarp had been pulled aside, and the mounded soil was misshapen as if something had burrowed into it.

I eased back from the window.

I should call Winters.

Or the police. But what would I say? That I heard a noise? That dirt looked disturbed? They would think I was paranoid or incompetent on my very first night.

I hurried down the hall to the front door.

Just a quick look to see if it was anything.

I pulled on my boots and jacket. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the clouds had thinned enough to allow moonlight to illuminate the cemetery in silvery light.

A light fog hung just above the wet grass, lazily drifting between the headstones.

I walked down the main path until I was parallel with the mound of fresh dirt.

The noises had stopped, and part of me wanted to go back to the cottage. Forget I heard anything.

But I needed this job.

I nervously shifted in place before stepping off the path into the grass.

I approached the fresh grave cautiously, my flashlight beam moving over the dirt. A large hole gaped in the center of the mound.

"Shit," I muttered.

Was it animals? Growing up in the city, I rarely saw anything bigger than a squirrel.

No squirrel could make that big of a hole, though.

Grave robbers? Was that still a thing?

That is when I noticed the trail of mud.

Drag marks led away from the grave, heading toward the oldest section of the cemetery.

I hesitantly followed, each step filling me with increasing dread.

The trail led to a crumbling mausoleum.

The stone structure, once grand, now sat cracked and weathered at the cemetery's furthest corner.

Its heavy door stood slightly ajar, absolute darkness inside.

I hesitated, every instinct screaming.

But something drew me closer.

I leaned forward to press my ear to the gap and caught a hint of noise. Too faint to make out, but it made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. I slowly unbuckled the strap for my taser.

I raised my flashlight and gently pushed the door wider.

The beam cut through the darkness, revealing the mausoleum's interior.

And a figure hunched at its center.

At first, my brain could not process what I was seeing.

The proportions were wrong, unnatural.

A gaunt, elongated form crouched over something on the floor, its back to the door. The skin visible through tattered clothing was a mottled gray-green, stretched tight over a protruding spine. Wet, ripping sounds filled the small space.

The beam of my flashlight trembled as I saw two suited legs on the floor under the crouched figure.

One was missing a shoe, revealing a mud-smeared foot.

Horror washed over me. Was that Mr. Emmett?

The sounds suddenly stopped.

Slowly, the creature s head began to turn.

Not just the head. The entire upper body twisted at an angle no human spine could achieve. I stood paralyzed as the face came into view.

Where a nose should have been was only a hollow cavity.

The jaw hung unnaturally wide, revealing multiple rows of needle-like teeth stained dark with gore.

And the eyes. Black, reflective pools that caught my flashlight beam and threw it back like an animal's.

Those eyes locked with mine, and at that moment, I knew I was seeing what no one was meant to see.

Something inhuman and wrong.

I could feel a scream building in my chest, choking me as I tried to understand what my eyes were seeing.

The creature s bloodied mouth stretched into what might have been a smile.

"You shouldn't be here," it said, its voice like stones grinding together.