Page 5

I woke with a gasp, my body damp with sweat despite the cool morning air drifting through the cracked window.

For several disorienting seconds, I could not distinguish which memories were mine and which belonged to Helena Ross.

Her grandson's college graduation. Her husband's funeral. The first time she saw the ocean. These fractured moments clung to my consciousness like cobwebs, refusing to be brushed away.

I rolled onto my side, trying to ignore the lingering heat low in my belly.

The dreams had been...

intense. Helena's memories of her husband had blended with disturbing images of Morrow. His inhuman grace, his needle teeth stained with blood, his blackened nails trailing across deathly pale skin.

What was happening to me?

Three days ago, I had been homeless and desperate, taking this job out of necessity.

Now I owned a dead woman's locket and had dreamt of a monster with something dangerously close to desire.

My head was a mess.

The clock read 10:37 AM.

I had slept through my alarm, but I did not feel any less tired.

I forced myself out of bed and into the shower, turning the water to its coldest setting. The shock against my overheated skin provided some clarity.

This had to stop.

Whatever strange fascination I had developed with Morrow, I needed to regain control.

I would do my job, keep our arrangement professional, and avoid any other... interactions.

Winters knocked at noon, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew as always.

He carried a stack of paperwork.

"Good afternoon, Ms.

Ruiz," he said, glancing past me into the cottage.

"I trust you're settling in well?"

"Yes, thank you." I stepped aside to let him enter, suddenly conscious of how empty the cottage was of personal touches.

Just my few clothes, my laptop, and Morrow's locket on the kitchen counter.

I slipped it into a drawer when Winters approached to set down the papers.

"Any issues during last night's patrol?" he asked.

I thought of Morrow's teeth sinking into Helena Ross's flesh, of his blood-smeared fingers touching mine, of decades of memories flooding my mind.

"No," I said.

"Everything was quiet."

"Excellent." Winters seemed genuinely relieved.

"I've highlighted the sections of the regulations you should familiarize yourself with.

Standard procedures, really."

I nodded, barely listening as he explained the paperwork.

My thoughts drifted to nightfall, to the moment I could walk the cemetery paths again.

Would Morrow appear? Would he offer to share more memories? Would I have the strength to refuse if he did?

"Ms.

Ruiz?" Winters was looking at me expectantly.

"Sorry," I said quickly.

"I'm still a bit tired.

Night shifts take some getting used to."

"Quite understandable." Winters nodded, but something in his eyes suggested he did not completely believe me.

"Well, I should let you rest before your shift.

Call the office if you need anything."

After he left, I tried to focus on the paperwork, on the mundane reality of cemetery regulations and visitor logs.

But the hours dragged endlessly, each minute ticking by with excruciating slowness.

I found myself checking the window repeatedly, watching the sun's gradual descent toward the horizon.

By the time sunset painted the cemetery in shades of amber and gold, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.

I pulled on my security jacket and grabbed my flashlight, heading out for the evening patrol while the day's last light still lingered.

I started my patrol in the section where freshly dug graves might attract Morrow.

Helena Ross's plot looked pristine.

No sign it had ever been disturbed.

I continued through the newer sections, then toward the older graves where I had first encountered him.

Moonlight spilled across Victorian angels and weathered obelisks, creating elongated shadows that seemed to reach for me as I passed.

Every dark space between monuments might have concealed his gaunt form, every rustle of leaves might have been footsteps.

But two hours into my patrol, I had seen no sign of Morrow.

Disappointment settled cold and heavy in my stomach.

I mentally shook myself. This is what I wanted. Distance. His absence was a good thing.

I completed my standard patrol route and returned to the cottage.

The small space felt confining, the walls too close, the air too still.

I poured a cup of coffee I did not want and stood at the window, staring out at the moonlit graves.

He was out there somewhere.

Feeding, maybe.

Or watching me from the shadows. By midnight, restlessness drove me out into the night again. I made my way to the hidden entrance Morrow had shown me the night before. My hand trembled slightly as I placed it against the stone, pushing as he had done.

For a terrifying moment, I thought it would not open for me.

Then stone grated against stone as the door swung inward, revealing the yawning darkness below.

I hesitated at the threshold, common sense finally breaking through my compulsion.

What was I doing? This was not like me.

I did not take risks.

I knew the sudden obsession was unnatural, but my feet refused to walk away.

I pointed the flashlight of my phone into the darkness and started down the stairs.

The door fell closed behind me and I shivered.

It felt colder than I remembered, the air damper and heavier. Oppressive. Without Morrow's presence, the tunnel seemed to press in on me.

I kept one shaking hand on the wall until I reached the base of the stairs.

I glanced both ways, shining my light down each tunnel.

They looked identical. I took a left and then another before I had to stop. I tried to remember the route we had taken the night before.

Left here? Or straight ahead? I listened for any sounds, but there was nothing my shallow breathing.

I kept walking, passing through a tunnel so narrow I had to turn sideways to pass.

It ended in a chamber the size of the cottage s living space. I paused at the threshold and shone my light around the room.

It was different from the other chambers, the air saturated with Morrow s unique wet earth and copper scent.

Against the far wall stood something like a bed.

A slab of stone had been covered with layers of shredded fabric. Scattered around the strange nest were books, their spines cracked and pages yellowed with age.

I was not supposed to be here.

Morrow would know I had been snooping.

I turned to leave when something on a shelf caught my eye. A modern spiral notebook.

Without thinking, I picked it up, flipping open the front cover.

As I turned the pages, the handwriting deteriorated from neat script to jagged scrawls.

My eyes caught a few sentences as I scanned the journal entries.

Saw something in the oldest section tonight.

Not human.

Administration says it was a vagrant. They're lying.

More graves disturbed.

It's not animals.

The damage is too precise. Too deliberate.

It's watching me.

I feel it every night now.

Waiting. I'm not sure what for.

The final entry sent a chill down my spine:

Confronting it tonight.

Bringing the gun.

If no one else will protect this place, I will.

I closed the notebook, my hands trembling.

I did not need to read a name to know the owner.

Frank Tillman. The man Morrow had killed and consumed. My predecessor.

I needed to leave.

Now.

I turned, my flashlight beam sweeping across the chamber. My heart stopped when a pale form loomed out of the darkness.

Morrow stood in the entrance, his gaunt form filling the narrow passage.

His gaze was fixed on me, eyes shining like a nocturnal animal.

Dark fluid stained his mouth and hands, evidence of a recent feeding. His lipless mouth was set in a hard line, no trace of his usual unsettling smile.

I stood frozen, Frank Tillman's notebook still clutched in my hand.

Morrow's gaze moved from my face to the journal and back again.

When he finally spoke, his grinding voice was soft, dangerous.

"What are you doing here, Carmen Ruiz?"