The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

76
That night, after the neighbors had gone home and the rest
of her family had retreated to their beds, Irene sat up in the
front room and listened to her mother weep. The room felt
too warm, and Irene stepped out onto the porch. A steady
wind rolled down from the mountains, picking up strands
of her hair.
She drifted into the yard and circled around the house. In
the dim moonlight, she saw the cemetery at the edge of the
property.
Irene told herself she was only going to use the privy, but
once she was finished and standing in the darkness again,
the cemetery latched onto her with an irresistible pull. She
darted toward it, and before she could stop herself, Irene fell
to her hands and knees on the fresh mound of dirt.
“I’m sorry, Norman,” she sobbed, her fingers scrabbling at
the earth.
The wind strengthened, and Irene shivered in her nightgown.
She sprawled out on the grave, her arms thrown wide.
Worms and insects crawled through the dirt, seeking out
the folds of her clothing.
Irene pressed her ear to the earth and listened. At first she
heard nothing but the wind sighing through the trees. But
just as she began to doze, a new sound filled the night. Her
eyes flew open, and she cupped a filthy hand to her mouth.
Though it was muffled under several feet of dirt, the sound
was unmistakable, one that Irene would never forget—two
small lungs drawing in a rasping, watery breath.