The flashlight’s sudden failure plunged the graveyard into a dense, almost suffocating darkness. Clara’s breath quickened, her fingers instinctively reaching for the small pistol tucked into her coat pocket. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed in the still air: “Elias?”


    No response.


    Her pulse thudded in her ears as she scanned the thick fog with the faint glow of her phone. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves. She called out again, louder this time, “Elias! Where are you?”


    Still nothing.


    Her heart sank. It was as if he had vanished into the mist. A sudden chill ran down her spine, and the weight of isolation pressed down on her. I’m alone, she realized. And something was wrong—very wrong.


    She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. She needed to get out, and fast. Fumbling with her phone, she swiped to open her messaging app, her fingers trembling as she typed:


    “Being followed. Elias is gone. Graveyard unsafe. This story is bigger than we thought. Will update. If you don’t hear from me, send help.”


    She hit send and tucked the phone into her pocket, her free hand gripping the pistol tightly. Clara didn’t want to use it—had never even fired it outside of a shooting range—but the weight of the weapon gave her a strange sense of control in a situation that felt anything but.


    The rustling grew louder, closer, as if the night itself was alive and pressing in around her. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, the fog distorting every sound. Her journalist’s instinct told her to look, to investigate—but survival instincts screamed otherwise. She turned toward where she thought the gate was and began walking quickly, careful not to trip on the uneven ground.


    Gravestones loomed on either side, their inscriptions worn and faded, some leaning precariously as if reaching for her. The fog swirled around her, thick and unrelenting, muffling every step she took. She kept her gun at her side, her finger hovering just above the trigger. Her phone’s dim flashlight cut through the mist in a narrow, trembling beam.


    A sudden metallic creak pierced the silence, and she froze. The gate. It had moved. She hadn’t reached it yet, which meant someone—or something—had. Clara’s grip on the gun tightened. Her mind raced. No direct contact. No sounds of pursuit. Are they waiting for me to panic?If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Forcing herself to move, Clara veered slightly off the main path, hoping to skirt around whoever might be near the gate. She spotted a break in the iron fence to her left, its bars bent outward. It was small, but she thought she could squeeze through.


    Her boots crunched against the brittle leaves as she crouched and slipped through the gap, the jagged metal snagging her coat. She froze for a moment, listening. The creak of the gate came again, louder this time. Her stomach twisted. She held her breath, waiting, but no footsteps followed.


    They’re not chasing me. They’re herding me.


    She pushed herself through the gap, tearing her coat in the process but not stopping to inspect the damage. The fog thinned slightly as she emerged onto the overgrown path that led to the main road. The air felt lighter, less oppressive, but she still couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.


    She moved quickly but cautiously, her footsteps muffled by the soft earth beneath her. Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of what had happened. Why had Elias disappeared? Had he run? Or had something—or someone—gotten to him? And who were they, the ones who seemed to be pulling the strings?


    By the time Clara reached the road, her legs ached, and her lungs burned. She paused, glancing over her shoulder. The graveyard was swallowed by fog, its outlines barely visible in the dim light of the streetlamps. The air here was quieter, the tension less suffocating, but the unease remained.


    Clara didn’t stop moving until she reached her cottage. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the key, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. The street was empty, the fog rolling lazily under the weak glow of the lamps, but her nerves were too frayed to trust the stillness.


    Once inside, she locked the door and bolted it, her chest heaving as she leaned against it. The quiet of the cottage was a stark contrast to the chaos she had just fled, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t entirely safe here either.


    She pulled out her phone to check the message she had sent to her editor. It had gone through. At least someone knows,she thought, though the thought didn’t bring much comfort. Her phone buzzed with an incoming reply:


    “Stay put. Sending backup if I don’t hear from you again. Call me when you can.”


    Clara sighed and set the phone on the table beside her pistol. Her coat was torn, her hands were scraped, and her nerves were frayed, but she was alive. And for now, that would have to be enough.


    As she sat at the small table, her eyes fell on the journal Elias had given her, its charred edges a stark reminder of the fire that had sparked this entire investigation. She opened it, flipping to the last entry:


    "I’m not safe. I know they’re watching me. If anything happens, it wasn’t an accident. The truth is buried deeper than anyone realizes. But I can’t stop now. I have to know."


    Clara closed the journal and leaned back in her chair, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket. She understood exactly how Lila Blackthorn must have felt. And like Lila, she knew she couldn’t stop now—not when she was this close.


    Her eyes drifted toward the curtains, drawn tightly over the windows. The shadows outside were still and quiet, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was out there. Watching. Waiting.


    Clara picked up the gun and placed it within reach on the table. If they came for her again, she’d be ready.