Page 1 of Wednesday

Chapter One

Iturned 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.

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