Page 6 of Wednesday

Just when I had found housing, just when I might be able to start rebuilding my life.

"When will they decide?" I asked.

"There's a council vote next month. But there's a public forum this Friday where citizens can voice concerns." Winters leaned forward. "The historical society could use support from the cemetery staff. Having you there would be... helpful."

I nodded. "Of course."

Winters studied me for a long moment. "You're certain nothing unusual occurred during your patrol? Nothing you want to report?"

His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp behind his glasses. Was he fishing for information about Morrow? Did he know?

"Just quiet," I said. "Nothing unusual at all."

Relief softened his features. "Very good. That will be all, Ms. Ruiz. I'll see you tomorrow."

Outside the administrative building, I paused in the sunlight, weighing my options. I had hours before my next patrol. I could return to the cottage, try to rest, and pretend that my world had not been upended.

Instead, I found myself walking deeper into the cemetery. I told myself it was so I could retrieve my flashlight, but a dark curiosity pulled me toward the older sections.

In daylight, the grounds revealed details I had missed in the darkness. The cemetery was organized in rough chronological sections, the markers growing older and more weathered as I moved toward the back. Victorian angels gave way to simple stone obelisks, which in turn yielded to ancient markers with barely legible inscriptions.

The mausoleum where I had encountered Morrow stood at the cemetery's furthest corner. In daylight, it appeared smaller, less imposing. The stone was crumbling, moss growing in the crevices. The door hung slightly ajar, just as I had left it in my panicked escape.

I hesitated, then steeled myself and approached. The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it wider. Sunlight spilled across the threshold, illuminating the interior.

Empty. No sign of my flashlight and no sign of Lawrence Emmett's remains either. The stone floor was swept clean. Only dark stains on the floor remained as evidence of what had happened.

A chill ran down my spine despite the warm day. Morrow had cleaned up after himself, erasing the evidence. How many others had he eaten in this small stone room over the centuries?

Something on the far wall caught my eye. A section of stone that did not quite match the rest. I stepped closer, running my fingers along the seam. I pressed against it, and the section swung open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

“What the…?”

I should have turned back. Should have walked away and pretended I had not found this entrance to whatever lay below. Instead, I pulled out my phone and switched on its flashlight.

The stairs were worn in the center, evidence of countless passages over many years. They spiraled downward, the air growing cooler with each step. The smell of earth and copper enveloped me.

At the bottom, a low-ceilinged tunnel stretched into darkness. My phone's light barely reached a few yards ahead. I followed it cautiously, one hand trailing along the rough wall.

The tunnel opened into a larger chamber that must have been directly beneath the mausoleum, but twice the size. My breath caught as my light swept across the space.

It was something between a lair and a museum. Objects from different eras filled rough-hewn shelves along the walls. A tarnished Civil War belt buckle, a beaded purse, a gaudy gold ring, a digital watch still blinking 12:00. Centuries of collected items, arranged with careful precision.

In one corner stood a massive wooden chest, its surface scarred and weathered. I approached it slowly, curious despite my fear. The lid creaked as I lifted it.

I frowned. Clothes? A dated security guard uniform and groundskeeper's coveralls. Office work clothes. All neatly folded, all bearing dark stains I did not want to examine too closely.

I stumbled back from the chest, looking around with new eyes. This was not a random collection. They were trophies from Morrow's victims. The previous cemetery workers who had "chosen confrontation" rather than accommodation.

The toe of my boot sent something skidding across the stone floor. It glinted in the light from my phone as I bent to pick it up. A name tag. Frank Tillman, Security. The man I replaced.

I let the pin fall from my hand. What was I doing here? If Morrow found me…

I hurried back up the stairs and through the mausoleum, pulling the door shut behind me. Out in the sunshine, I gulped fresh air, my heart pounding. What on earth had possessed me to go down there?

I rubbed my face and glanced around. The sun was already heading toward the horizon. In a few hours, it would be night. And Morrow would emerge. I was like a nightmare.

I returned to the cottage, my mind spinning. I had two problems. The cemetery relocation threatened both Morrow's hunting grounds and my livelihood. I doubted I would be lucky enough to find a job with housing again. That was a major problem.

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