The night had already soaked halfway into the land by the time Wes pulled off the main road.
Tires crunched over dry gravel as his truck rumbled down an unmarked path, headlights flickering over brittle brush and forgotten fence posts. The radiator was running hot again, humming low and angry like it always did on nights colder than it had any right to be. He rolled the window down anyway. Let the air in. Dry. Cold. Quiet. Just how he liked it.
The phone buzzed in the cupholder— a short vibration, then another. Wes glanced down. Her name was already on the screen.
He picked it up one-handed, thumbed it on, and brought it to his ear. His voice came soft, automatic.
“Hey, bean.”
There was a pause, like she was shifting the phone in her hands, trying to get comfy with it.
Then her voice came through— small, soft, sleepy.
“Hi, Daddy.”
That was all it took. The sound of her voice cut straight through the noise in his head. No static in the world could drown it out. He let out a slow breath and rested deeper into the seat, one hand still loose on the wheel.
“You still up this late?” he asked. His voice dropped naturally, softened in a way most people never heard.
“A bit,” she said. “Mama said I could stay up. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Mm,” he murmured. “Glad she did. Been thinkin’ about you all day.”
The truck jostled as it dipped over a low bump. He adjusted the steering wheel without looking, used to the back roads. A picture clipped to the visor above bounced with the motion— Lacey, mid-laugh, front teeth missing, curls flying wild around her cheeks and eyes brighter than any damn sunrise. A glittery headband crooked sideways on her head like a crown.
Wes gave a faint smile— the kind that didn’t touch the rest of his face.
“What’d you get up to today?”
There was a brief rustle on the other end. Her voice got a little brighter when she answered.
“Some coloring,” she said. “I made a dinosaur. A pink one. With sparkles.”
He snorted.
“A sparkly pink dinosaur, huh? Bet that thing could eat a whole town if it wanted.”
“Nooo,” she said, stretching the word out with a giggle. “It was a nice dinosaur.”
“Well damn,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s even scarier.”
“Daddy,” she whined— not real annoyance, just the sound she made when he played too much.
“Alright, alright. No cussin’. My bad.” He rubbed the corner of one eye. “I’m just proud of you, is all.”
That silenced them both for a beat. Not awkward— just soft. Her breathing on one end. The rumble of tires beneath him. The weight of everything he never said sitting quiet in his chest.
“You still at work?” she asked after a while. Her voice had dropped again. Quieter now. Hesitant.
His gaze flicked to the glovebox. Not shut all the way. Inside: the crumpled topographic map, a metal detector battery, an old crowbar worn smooth with use. He reached out and nudged the thing closed.
“Yeah,” he lied, voice light. “Still workin’. Security shift’s runnin’ late.”
She didn’t reply right away. He heard her yawn instead— the little kind, the one she used to try and hide when she didn’t want to say goodbye yet.
“I wish you didn’t work so much.”
“Me too, bean,” he said. His throat was dry. “Me too.”
The voice that came next wasn’t hers.
“Wes.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the road stretching out in front of him, all dust and starlight.
“She needs to sleep,” she said. “We’ll talk some other time.”
He opened his mouth, jaw tight. Shut it again.
The line went dead.
Wes let the phone drop into the seat beside him. The polaroid swung gently in the corner of his vision— Lacey frozen mid-laugh, curls bouncing, eyes full of trouble. Light from the dash glinted against her little silver earring, the one he’d bought her for her sixth birthday at a gas station vending machine.
He reached up and tapped the photo once with his knuckle. Not hard. Just a habit. Then he shifted back in his seat, set both hands on the wheel, and drove.
It was near midnight by the time he reached the site.
He parked a ways out and killed the lights. The old cemetery stretched ahead, its crooked fences barely holding back the wild. A low ridge cut the horizon in half. Stones jutted from the dirt at odd angles, names half-swallowed by time.
Wes stepped out into the cold, shovel clinking as he swung it from the back seat. His boots sank into dry soil. The wind carried dust, the smell of creosote, and something older — still, damp earth buried deep below the surface.
He moved quietly. Out of habit. Out of training.
The grave he was looking for was tucked near the far edge, where the hill sloped slightly and the weeds grew taller. He’d scoped it last week. Some widow, according to Hargrove. Said she was buried with a cross from her husband, solid gold, handed down through some militia. Wes didn’t believe half of it, but gold was gold, and desperation didn’t ask questions.
He dropped the duffel, rolled up his sleeves, and started to dig.
The work was slow tonight. The dirt was drier than expected, cracked in some places, sticky in others. The shovel bit into the ground with a dull chunk, over and over again. Wes grunted with the effort. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, even in the chill.
Time blurred. Dig. Pause. Adjust grip. Dig again.
His muscles burned. His neck ached. By the time the metal scraped wood, his hands were shaking just a little.
“Alright,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Let’s see if you’re worth the rumor.”
He cracked the coffin open, jaw clenched against the scent that rose up. The body inside was almost nothing, bones and faded cloth, and a necklace strung with dull glass beads. No gold. No cross. No luck.
He stood there for a long moment, head bowed, breathing through his nose.
Then he sealed the coffin back up.
Burial was slower. He didn’t rush it, didn’t want to leave any signs behind. Hargrove didn’t pay for sloppy work. But his movements were heavy now. Each shovel full of dirt landed harder than the last.
When it was done, he wiped his palms on his jeans, shoulders sagging. The wind had picked up. The trees whispered just a little.
That was when he heard it.
Crunch.
Not wind. Not an animal.
Footsteps.
He spun around, one hand already reaching behind him for the pistol tucked into his waistband. Drew it fast. Safety off.
“Who’s there?” he barked, sweeping the shadows with the muzzle of his gun, breath fogging in the cold. His boots scraped against the loose dirt as he adjusted his stance, half-crouched, senses on edge. Nothing answered but the wind. No shout, no flashlight beam, no scatter of feet. Just the cemetery stretching silent and wide around him, headstones jutting from the earth like crooked teeth.
Wes gritted his teeth and kept his gun steady, though his hands had begun to tremble— not enough to lower the barrel, but enough to make him curse under his breath. Maybe it was a security guard. That would’ve made sense. He’d seen signs for private patrols, and the place wasn’t as abandoned as he’d thought. But if that were the case, someone would've spoken up by now. Flashlight. Warning shot. Something.
Instead, there was just silence. And footsteps that didn’t sound like boots at all.
“You better tell me who the hell you are,” he growled, voice low, stomach twisting with something that wasn’t quite fear— not yet— but close. “And why the hell you’re in my grave.”
No answer.
The wind died. The hair on his arms stood up beneath his jacket.
He swallowed, adjusted his grip on the pistol, and added, almost against his better judgment, “And— and if this is some kinda Halloween prank, I swear to God, I’m gonna shoot you anyway.”
