23 Mar Under Ken

Part I

The first to see him were the teenagers.

Midnight had come and gone, and the four of them—Darren, Luis, Angie, and Maddie—were still out, loitering around the back of the gas station, hyped up on stolen sips of cheap beer. Darren had been the one to suggest sneaking out. Luis had been the one to bring the beer. Angie and Maddie had just wanted to be anywhere but home.

It had started as a dare.

“Come on,” Darren had grinned, half-drunk and full of himself. “We go down to the cemetery, we take a few pictures. Maybe a video. Then we get out. That’s it. Nobody’ll even know.”

Maddie wasn’t convinced. “You mean besides the cops?”

“Cops don’t patrol near the cemetery,” Luis scoffed. “Not since Ken died.”

That was what finally made them go—the mention of Ken Kline, the reclusive old man who had spent most of his life holed up in a rotting shack on the edge of town. Rumors had always followed him. The residents of Briarton said he muttered to himself in strange languages, that he was part of some cult, that he would sit outside in the middle of the night and talk to someone who wasn’t there.

Two weeks ago, he had died. A heart attack, they said. But now, people were saying something else. Something insane.

“He’s still walking around.”

Luis had laughed when he said it, but the words had stuck with them. Ken had been buried in St. Matthias Cemetery, just like everyone else. But every morning, the gravekeeper found his grave disturbed—as if someone had climbed out.

It wasn’t like they believed it, but they had to see for themselves.

So now, here they were, standing at the gates to the empty cemetery, the air colder than it should have been for late summer, their collective beer buzz fading into something sharper. Angie clutched her phone, knuckles white. as she stared at the rows of old headstones, standing in solemn silence. Luis muttered something about how stupid it all was.

Darren shushed them.

And then, a noise—soft and muffled—broke the silence. The wet shuffle of something moving through the dirt.

And then they saw movement near the farthest row—the dark shape of something rising from the earth.

Maddie made a strangled noise, and Angie clapped a hand over her mouth.

Darren took a step forward—whether to prove himself or to see better, none of them knew. But the moment his foot crunched on loose gravel, the thing turned toward them.

The beam of Luis’s flashlight caught it just enough to reveal a sunken, sagging face. Its skin, drawn tight over its bones, was tinged a sickly, grayish white.

Ken Kline.

He moved with a slowness that should have been clumsy, but wasn’t. His mouth moved, whispering something low and garbled, the words slipping through his teeth in a voice not his own.

The teenagers ran.

Darren, Luis, and Angie made it out first, vaulting the cemetery gate and stumbling into the road. Maddie was still behind them.

“Come on!” Darren hissed.

They turned just in time to see Ken’s corpse take a step toward her.

Maddie didn’t scream. She scrambled backward, clawing at the fence, and pulled herself over just as Luis yanked her the rest of the way. The four of them ran without looking back.

They never spoke of it again.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Pastor David Locklear arrived at St. Matthias Cemetery just after dawn.

Ken’s grave had been disturbed once more.

The air was crisp, the sky tinged with soft pink and lavender as the sun began to rise over the hills. The town of Briarton was still waking up, but here, in the cemetery, it was deathly still. A few birds flitted between the trees, their chirping the only sound that broke the silence.

David walked with steady purpose down the worn dirt path, past rows of old gravestones and the plots of those he had performed ceremonies for over the years. He had been the pastor of Knox Memorial Church for nearly a decade and had seen grief in all its forms, speaking the rites over young and old alike. But he had never seen anything like this.

Ken Kline’s grave lay at the farthest end of the cemetery, beyond the larger, more well-kept plots, where the dead of the town’s wealthier families rested. Ken had been buried in the section reserved for those without family, means, or visitors. A lonely grave for a lonely man.

And yet—his resting place had not been left alone.

David stopped at the edge of the grave.

The dirt had been disturbed again. It wasn’t the loose, crumbling earth of an old burial site settling. The soil looked as though it had been moved aside, not by a careless hand, but by someone—or something—climbing out.

The gravekeeper, Jack Henshaw, was already there, kneeling in the dirt, cursing under his breath. His weathered hands worked a spade into the soil, trying to smooth out the mess.

“This is the fifth damn time,” Jack muttered. He spat into the dirt, looking up at David with tired, bloodshot eyes. “I bury the bastard, and every morning, it looks like he’s been trying to escape.”

David crouched beside him, brushing his fingers against the dirt. It was damp from the morning dew, but underneath, it was packed too tight for a fresh grave. If it had truly been exhumed each night, how had the dirt been replaced so perfectly every morning?

“Any idea who could be doing this?” David asked.

Jack let out a sharp bark of laughter. “You mean besides Ken himself?” He shook his head. “Kids, maybe, or drunks, messing around. Hell, could be grave robbers for all I know. Though I’m not sure what ‘ol Ken had that was worth stealing.”

David frowned. Grave robbers didn’t dig people up just to put them back.

Jack must have seen the doubt on his face, because he sighed and leaned on his spade. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Pastor. Every night, this grave is fine. Every morning, it looks like this. I never see anyone come in, and I never see anyone leave. But people keep talkin’, whisperin’ that Ken’s still making the rounds after dark.”

David’s stomach tightened. He had heard the rumors, too.

“You don’t really believe any of that, do you?” he asked.

Jack fixed him with a flat stare. “I believe I’m tired of shoveling dirt back into this damn hole!”

David stood, dusting the soil from his hands. “Thank you, Jack,” he said, casting one last look at the grave before turning away.

That afternoon, he spent two hours in the church archives, looking for any mention of Ken Kline—his family, his past, anything that might explain the strange events surrounding his burial. But Ken had left no real records, no next of kin, and no documented history except for a handful of property disputes and several unpaid utility bills.

By nightfall, David had made up his mind.

If Ken was truly rising from his grave each night, he needed to see it for himself.

Part II

That evening, David sat alone in his truck, parked just outside the cemetery gates.

The night was still and quiet—no wind, no crickets. Even the trees along the fence line stood motionless, their branches resembling blackened veins against the sky. The moon hung low, nearly full, casting shadows over the rows of graves beyond the fence.

He checked his watch. 11:58 PM. Two minutes to midnight.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. A prankster, maybe, or perhaps some half-drunk kids with nothing better to do than stir up old ghost stories. He had even considered the possibility of wild animals disturbing the soil. But deep down, he knew none of those explanations made sense. Jack had filled in the grave again that morning. David had seen it himself. By morning, it would be disturbed again.

If the stories were true—if Ken Kline really did climb from his grave each night—then David had to see it with his own eyes.

A low, distant noise made him sit up straighter. It had come from the cemetery.

He reached for his flashlight, gripping it tightly as he eased the truck door open. The cool night air wrapped around him, biting at the exposed skin of his hands and neck. He left the truck idling, the faint hum of the engine the only sound in the night, and stepped through the gates.

The cemetery stretched before him in rows of weathered stones, some names long worn away. The older graves, those from the 1800s, leaned slightly, tilted with age and erosion. Further back, where the land dipped slightly toward the tree line, the newer graves sat in more uniform lines.

Ken’s grave was at the farthest edge, beyond the reach of the dim streetlights.

David kept his steps light as he moved past the gravestones and old family plots.

Then he saw the dirt shift.

He gripped the flashlight tighter.

The ground over Ken’s grave began to bulge upward.

At first, it was subtle, like something settling beneath the earth. Then the dirt split, crumbling at the edges, and a sickly, gray-skinned hand broke through, its mottled flesh stretched over stiff joints. A moment later, another hand followed.

David stood paralyzed, unable to tear his eyes away, as Ken Kline pulled himself up from the grave. His movements were stiff but purposeful. His hollow-eyed face emerged next, lips moving in a silent whisper. His neck twisted with a sickening crack, dirt spilling from his lips as he mouthed an indecipherable prayer.

David stepped back, his mind screaming at him to run, but his feet stayed rooted in place.

Meanwhile, Ken pulled himself free, dragging his legs from the grave, until he stood fully upright in the moonlight. And then he turned, swiveling his head in David’s direction—but his eyes, clouded and unfocused, did not see him.

Ken turned away from David and began to walk, not toward town or his former residence, but something else.

David swallowed hard, steadied himself, and began to follow, at a distance.

He needed to know where Ken was going.

Ken moved strangely—not like a man in control of his own body, but not like the vacant, shuffling corpses of horror films, either. Every step was deliberate, as if guided by some unseen force. He did not stumble or hesitate. His head stayed slightly bowed, his lips still moving, whispering words David couldn’t hear.

David adjusted his grip on the flashlight. He kept the beam low, allowing his eyes to adjust to the moonlight instead. If Ken noticed him, he gave no sign.

The cemetery stretched around them in hushed stillness. Briarton was just beyond the hills, but felt impossibly far away. To David, there existed only the dirt, the graves, and the dead—and Ken walking among them.

Ken moved past the gravestones, his bare feet sinking into the soft earth, clearly headed to a new destination.

David’s fingers twitched. He thought Ken might be wandering, looping in some undead routine, but then Ken changed direction—and headed toward another grave.

David slowed his steps. He didn’t recognize the name on the headstone. It was a woman’s grave, also recently disturbed.

Ken stopped at the foot of the plot, raised his arms, and began chanting.

David stiffened. He couldn’t understand the words, but they were wrong. Uneven. They scraped against his mind, slipping through his ears like something too vast, too ancient, to be understood.

Then the ground shifted. David’s stomach clenched. Something was pushing its way up.

David stepped back, watching as yet another hand emerged—a woman’s—followed by her other arm. Then, finally, her head erupted from the site, still half-buried, her hair thick with dirt. Her mouth gaped open as if mid-scream, yet no sound escaped.

David clamped a hand over his own mouth, stifling a gasp.

The woman clawed her way free and rose from her grave. Her movements were not as stiff as Ken’s. She was newer. Fresher. But her eyes were just as clouded and empty. David felt sick.

She took her time turning to Ken. He met her gaze, lowered his arms, and stopped chanting. Together, the two corpses stood in the moonlight in silence. Then, without a word, they turned—and began to walk, back to Ken’s grave.

David watched them go, rooted where he stood, fighting back the urge to vomit. Then his body kicked into action. He had to know. He had to see.

As Ken and the woman stepped back into his open grave, David forced himself forward. He crept to the edge of the disturbed soil, expecting to see a casket or a pit of loose dirt.

Instead, he saw a staircase.

The grave wasn’t just a hole. The narrow passage was far too old, impossibly so, lined with stone, and it descended deep into the earth—far, far too deep.

David took a couple of unsteady steps forward and tilted his flashlight down, shining it into the black, where the steps twisted out of sight.

Down below, something moved, and the sound of wailing—of hundreds of screams, woven together in a hellish cacophony—reverberated against the walls.

David’s throat clenched, and he shuddered involuntarily. His knees locked, and he stumbled back, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep quiet.

He turned and ran.

* * * * * *

David barely remembered the drive back.

His hands shook as they gripped the wheel, his foot pressed harder on the gas than it should have been. The streets of Briarton were quiet and empty, but he wasn’t looking at them. His mind was still in the graveyard. Still at the edge of the pit.

In his mind, he could still hear the wailing. It hadn’t been one voice—it had been many.

He pulled into the church parking lot and shut off the engine, but made no move to exit the vehicle. The image of Ken climbing out of his grave was burned into his mind. The way the woman had risen so easily, so naturally. The way they had both descended.

He had gone down only a few steps, but he had felt it. Something was down there. Something far worse than two walking corpses.

A knock on his window nearly made him jump out of his skin. David gasped, instinctively jerking away before realizing that it was Elliot.

Elliot Mercer, the drummer for the church band, stood outside the truck, peering in. He was dressed in a hoodie and ripped jeans, his long hair pulled back into a messy bun. His usual easy grin was absent.

“Take it easy, man,” Elliot muttered as David rolled the window down. “You look like hell.”

David swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Elliot snorted. “You texted me, remember?”

David blinked. Had he?

He fumbled for his phone, scanning his last messages. He had, in fact, texted Elliot less than twenty minutes ago. Meet me at the church. He barely remembered sending it.

Elliot leaned on the truck door. “What’s going on, Dave? You sounded—off.”

David hesitated. Then, before he could stop himself, he said, “Ken Kline is alive.”

Elliot stared at him. Then he laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

David shook his head. “I saw him. I saw him climb out of his grave. I—” He paused, trying to force his thoughts into words. “It’s not just him. There’s… someone else. Something else, beneath the cemetery.”

Elliot’s expression shifted. ”Wait,” he said, “you’re serious?”

David nodded. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Elliot rubbed his face. “Okay,” he said finally, “tell me everything.”

* * * * * *

Thirty minutes later, they sat in David’s office, the overhead light buzzing faintly. David recounted everything—the stories, the grave disturbances, Ken’s resurrection, the woman, and the staircase. He left nothing out.

Elliot listened, arms crossed, his fingers tapping against his bicep. When David finished, silence stretched between them.

Then Elliot let out a long sigh. “I should tell you you’re full of it,” he said.

“But you won’t,” David said.

Elliot grunted. “Because this town’s weird as hell, and I’ve seen enough to know it. But, man, do you hear yourself? You just told me you followed a dead guy to a grave that leads underground and heard—what? Screaming?”

“Wailing.”

“Wailing,” Elliot repeated, rubbing his temples. “And now what? You wanna go back? Because I know that look. That’s your ‘I’m about to do something incredibly dumb’ look.”

“I need to know what’s down there,” David said.

Elliot stared at him like he had grown a second head. “You already know. It’s something that drags the dead back underground. What more do you need?”

David shook his head. “It’s more than that. Ken’s not just wandering. He’s bringing them back. The woman—who was she? Why her? And that staircase—someone built it. Someone carved it. It’s been there.”

Elliot didn’t answer.

David pressed on. “I’m going back. But I don’t want to go alone.”

Elliot’s tapped his fingers faster, and he groaned. “I can’t let you go down there alone,” he muttered. “Not because I think you’ll find anything, but because I think you’ll get stuck or break a leg. And then I’ll have to explain to the congregation why our pastor is dead in a hole and I didn’t do anything to prevent it.”

David almost smiled. “So you’ll come?”

Elliot gave him a long, suffering look, then shoved his chair back. “Fine. But I swear, if I see one dead guy start talking, I’m getting the heck out of there.”

Part III

The cemetery was colder than before. David hadn’t expected that. The night air had been mild when they left the church, but as he and Elliot climbed the hill toward Ken’s grave, a distinct chill settled in the air. It wasn’t wind. The trees weren’t moving.

“Jesus,” Elliot muttered, rubbing his arms. “Did the temperature just drop, or is my body trying to warn me to get out of here?”

David didn’t answer. He felt it, too.

They reached the edge of the disturbed grave, where the earth remained piled up as it had been.

Elliot whistled low under his breath. “I was kinda hoping this would look normal when we got here,” he admitted.

David aimed his flashlight down into the black void. The stairs were still there.

Elliot leaned over the edge, his expression hard to read. “I hate to say it, but I think this means you weren’t hallucinating.”

David didn’t need confirmation. He knew what he had seen. But that didn’t mean he wanted to go down there again.

Elliot adjusted the strap of his duffel bag. He had come prepared, bringing along ropes, an extra flashlight, and a crowbar. David had simply brought his Bible.

Elliot noticed and grinned. “You planning on hitting zombies with that?”

David ignored him and stepped forward. The moment his foot touched the first stone step, the wailing began again.

Both men froze.

It was distant, but no less awful—hundreds of voices crying out, stitched together in a din that made David’s stomach lurch.

Elliot said softly, “Yeah. No. This is bad. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that when you hear the voices of the damned, you go in the opposite direction.”

David swallowed hard, ignored him, and kept moving. He stepped onto the second step, and then the third. The wailing didn’t stop.

Elliot followed, muttering under his breath, “You are going to owe me a beer for this.”

The stairs twisted down in a slow, spiraling descent. The walls around them were a mix of packed dirt and hewn stone, lined with symbols.

David ran a hand over them as he passed.

“Recognize any of this?” Elliot asked.

David shook his head. “It’s not Hebrew or Latin. Not anything I know.”

Elliot let out a dry chuckle. “Great. That’s just great.”

The wailing grew louder. The deeper they went, the more wrong it felt, and yet, they kept going.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the stairs leveled out, and they found themselves standing at the mouth of a vast underground tunnel. The dirt walls stretched high above them, arched as if built by something long gone. The tunnel ahead was too dark to see the end, and the wailing was close.

Elliot shifted beside him. “I don’t like this, Dave.”

David’s throat was dry. “Neither do I.”

But they had come this far. David wasn’t about to turn back.

Further ahead, in the darkness, something shuffled. They weren’t alone.

They strained their ears.  It wasn’t the sound of one—it was the sound of many.

David lifted his flashlight.

Elliot grabbed his wrist. “No,” he protested. David hesitated. Elliot’s voice was strained. “We already know what’s down here.”

David turned the light anyway. For a moment—there was nothing but a tunnel of dirt and stone. Then, the shapes began to shift.

There, in the darkness, dozens of figures stood, lying in wait. The moment the light caught their faces, David felt the breath leave his body. They were not corpses, nor were they alive. They were something else entirely.

The wailing stopped, and the sound of approaching footsteps rose. Something was coming.

David’s flashlight flickered.

Elliot grabbed his sleeve. “We need to go. Now!”

David didn’t argue. Together they ran, and neither man looked back.

The tunnel sloped upward, the dirt slick beneath his feet. David could hear Elliot breathing hard beside him, his footsteps pounding against the uneven ground.

Behind them, the footsteps multiplied—a chorus of movement.

David’s flashlight flickered again. The light was dying.

“Move!” Elliot shoved him forward.

The tunnel twisted to the left. They nearly slammed into the wall before scrambling around the bend. The wailing had stopped, but the footsteps had not.

They were being followed—and whatever it was that was chasing them was getting closer.

David tried to focus. He counted the steps in his head, trying to remember how far down they had come. Two hundred feet? Three hundred? The staircase should have been close.

He felt it before he saw it—the air changed, the pressure shifting as they neared the stairs.

“There!” David gasped.

The entrance was just ahead.

And then Elliot cried out.

David’s stomach plummeted.

Elliot had stumbled. His foot snagged on something—something that reached out from the dirt.

David turned just in time to see a hand gripping Elliot’s ankle. Not a rotting hand. A hand that looked almost human—except for the length of the fingers and the way it moved and squeezed.

Elliot kicked wildly. “Get it off me!” he screamed.

David lunged, swinging the flashlight down hard and smashing it against the thing’s wrist. The impact sent a crack through the tunnel. The fingers loosened, and Elliot yanked free.

David grabbed his arm and hauled him up, and they ran.

Up ahead, the staircase loomed.

David’s chest ached, and his legs burned. Behind them, he could hear the movement, faster now, growing more frantic.

They hit the stairs at full speed. Up, up, he thought. Don’t stop.

The wailing began again. The tunnel shook, and David felt the dirt walls shudder.

An inhuman groaning sound rose beneath them. The earth itself was moving.

They burst from the grave. David hit the ground hard, sprawling in the damp grass. Elliot landed beside him, gasping.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then—a hand gripped the edge of the grave, and another.

And then—Ken Kline’s face emerged. His eyes locked onto David’s.

David scrambled backward.

Ken did not follow. He simply stared. Then, without a sound, he climbed back down. The earth closed over him, and the grave sealed itself shut.

Elliot was the first to speak. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

David couldn’t argue. They ran from the cemetery, not looking back. And in the silence that followed, the residents of Briarton slept on, unaware of what had almost followed them back.

* * * * * *

David sat in his office at the church, staring at the grainy, black-and-white footage on his laptop.

The cemetery’s security camera had been a last-minute thought. After his first vigil at Ken Kline’s grave, he had asked Jack Henshaw, the gravekeeper, if there were any working cameras in the area. Jack had grumbled about budget cuts but eventually pointed him toward an old, half-forgotten unit mounted on the north fence line.

David had pulled the footage that morning.

Now, watching it frame by frame, he wished he hadn’t.

He adjusted the playback speed, slowing it down, watching the moment that Ken emerged.

It was worse on video.

The low resolution somehow made it more unnatural. The way Ken’s hand punched through the soil, the way his body rose from the grave in jerking, impossible movements, as though he were a puppet being yanked upward by invisible strings.

David skipped ahead in the footage, watching himself appear on-screen, following Ken into the dark. Then Elliot.

Then, at 4:12 AM, the feed cut out.

The last frame was of the grave—sealed shut.

David leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. There was no evidence of what had chased them. No sign of the figures in the tunnel.

As far as the camera was concerned, Ken had simply climbed back into his grave, and nothing had happened.

The door to his office swung open. Elliot stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression grim.

“Tell me you’re not still thinking about going back,” Elliot barked. David hesitated, prompting Elliot to shut the door behind him. “C’mon, Dave! You’re obsessed!”

David sighed, tilting the laptop screen toward him. “Look at this.”

Elliot reluctantly stepped forward. He watched the footage in silence.

Then, after a long pause, he said, “So… what? The camera glitched?”

David shook his head. “No. Something didn’t want to be seen.”

Elliot frowned. “What do you think’s down there?”

David hesitated. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t entirely true. Something had been waiting, something ancient and hungry.

Elliot ran a hand through his hair. “So what’s the plan?”

David had been thinking about that all night. “We seal the grave,” he replied.

Elliot blinked. “With what?”

“Cement. Brick. Anything that’ll hold.”

Elliot let out a dry laugh. “And you think that’s gonna stop… whatever’s down there?”

David’s jaw tightened. “It has to.”

For a moment, Elliot just stared at him. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

* * * * * *

Four hours later, they stood at Ken’s grave. They had brought concrete mix, a trowel, and heavy stones.

Jack Henshaw had grudgingly agreed to let them do it, though he hadn’t asked any questions.

David stepped to the edge of the grave, gripping the bag of cement.

Elliot hovered beside him, arms crossed. “You think it’s watching us?”

David didn’t answer.

They worked in silence. They filled the grave, poured the cement, and set the stones. By the time they finished sealing the burial site, the afternoon sun hung high.

For the first time since this had started, David felt relieved.

Elliot dusted his hands off. “So… that’s it?”

David nodded. “That’s it.”

They packed up their tools and left the cemetery.

That night, David slept without nightmares. That night, the town was quiet—and, for the first time in two weeks, Ken’s grave remained undisturbed.

Part IV

David woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He squinted at the screen. Jack Henshaw.

His stomach tightened. No, he thought.

He answered.

Jack’s voice came through, gravel-rough and shaking. “You need to get down here.”

David sat up too fast, his head spinning. “What happened?”

“It’s the grave.”

David was already reaching for his keys.

The cemetery was quiet when he arrived.

Elliot was already there, standing near the far edge of the graveyard. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his face tight.

Jack stood near Ken’s grave, looking pale and drawn.

David didn’t want to look, but he had to.

The cement was cracked. The stones had shifted. The grave was disturbed. Again.

Elliot let out a slow, bitter laugh. “So much for our plan.”

David swallowed hard. He took a shaky step forward, crouching beside the grave. The cement had broken from the inside. It wasn’t cracked from above or tampered with.

Something had pushed through—and crawled out.

David pressed a hand to the dirt. It was cold and damp, and beneath the surface—he could still feel it. The faintest shift. A whisper of movement. The thing beneath was still there, waiting.

Jack cleared his throat. “I don’t think it wants to stay buried, boys.”

David grimaced.

Elliot shook his head. “So what now?”

David looked down at the grave, at the ruined cement and the earth that refused to stay still.  He had no answer.

It wasn’t just Ken, he realized. It never had been. Something beneath Briarton had been waiting for a long, long time.

And it was awake.

* * * * * *

David woke the next morning to the sound of his phone ringing again. He peered at the screen. His heart sank when he realized that, once again, it was Jack Henshaw.

He answered, and Jack’s voice came through, low and gravelly. “It’s not just Ken’s grave anymore.”

David sat upright. “What?”

“There’s more of ‘em,” Jack said, his voice trembling. “Rowe plot. Devereaux family lot. Old Whitley tomb. Graves all over the cemetery. They’re all open—every last one. I already called the sheriff. But I figured… you needed to know.”

David was already pulling on his pants before the call ended. By the time he arrived at St. Matthias, Elliot was already there, standing at the gates, pale and wide-eyed.

“It’s bad, Dave,” Elliot muttered, waving him forward. “It’s so bad. I think we may need to go with Plan B. Did you bring everything?”

David nodded. “I have the supplies. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I’m scared, Dave,” Elliot said.

“Me, too, Elliot. Me, too.”

They crossed the grass in silence. The cemetery was in ruins. Graves weren’t simply dug up; they were torn apart. Headstones were shattered. Vault lids had been split clean in half. Some holes had collapsed inward, while others looked as though something enormous had pushed its way out.

In every instance, there were no bodies, only holes.

“It’s like something came up,” Elliot said, his voice low, “and then moved on.”

David’s mouth was dry. “How many graves were opened?”

Jack stood nearby, clutching a thermos with trembling hands. “Twenty-four, at least. That we’ve found so far.”

Elliot swallowed. “You think they all… got out?”

David didn’t respond.

Just then, a deputy came running up the hill, panting and pale.

“Same thing over at Calvary Hill,” he said. “And the mausoleums by the Lutheran chapel. Reports from the east side, too. It’s not just here. It’s everywhere. Every graveyard’s been hit. All last night.”

David stared out at the ruined burial plots. The wind stirred the grass around the broken stones.

And then—he heard it. Chanting. Deep and inhuman, rising from somewhere deep beneath the earth.

They all heard it.

Jack’s thermos slipped from his fingers. And then the ground beneath Ken’s grave buckled. A soft, groaning sound rolled up through the dirt, followed by a vibration David could feel in the soles of his feet.

And something rose—not Ken Kline or his mysterious partner—but something enormous and hideous. It had no face or eyes. Its skin was grotesque and stretched, like it had once worn flesh, but no longer needed to. And yet it moved effortlessly, as though gravity didn’t apply to it the same way.

Ken and the woman emerged on either side of it, walking with quiet precision. Their skin was intact. Their eyes were clear.

They were no longer undead, but imbued with a supernatural vigor of unknown origins.

David turned to Elliot. “We have to collapse the main corridor. Now.”

“Plan B?” Elliot asked, his face twisting in shock.

David nodded.

He had come prepared. Elliot ran to the truck and grabbed the canvas bag from the back. Inside were the demolition charges—the last resort they had sworn not to use unless there was no other option.

Together, they placed the charges around the mouth of Ken’s grave—but when David looked inside, he realized it was already too late.

The stairs didn’t spiral down anymore. A few steps down, they crumbled, and descended not into a tunnel or corridor, but into an endless black expanse, an abyss stretching into eternity.

Far, far below, seemingly miles away, David spotted a faint light, pulsing in the dark. Breathing.

David and Elliot cast a glance at one another, and then back at the useless detonator. The expressions on their faces said it all.

Elliot sank to his knees and buried his hands in his face.

David prayed.

Then the power went out. Not just at the cemetery—but everywhere. The streetlights downtown flickered, then died. The church lights, visible from the hill, went dark.

David’s phone vibrated once and went black. Elliot checked his—same.

Above them all, a strange hue bled across the sky—red at first, then grayish-green, like the world was bruising.

In the distance, at the edge of town, more graves cracked open.

In the far woods behind the chapel, earth shifted.

David stood at the summit of the hill and watched as more and more plots gave way—Calvary Hill, Whisper Pines, Lutheran Memorial.

Something beneath the town had indeed woken up, and they were no longer rising one by one.

They were coming all at once. And they weren’t climbing to escape—they were paving the way.

As David stood by, watching helplessly, Bible in hand, wave after wave of bodies poured from the growing number of open graves, clambering from the yawning chasms, wailing in unison.

In the distance, beyond the borders of the town he had called home for the past eight years, the same haunting cries began to rise.

The gate was open. It would not be closed.

Of the end, Briarton was just the beginning.