The voice from the grave

For a city that had experienced scandal and secrets, the evening was especially still. The trees were still and the whispering winds were still, but the quiet seemed to upset even the most tough residents of Millfield. The world seemed to be holding its breath, expecting something nobody could forecast.

The evening was for Rachel Ward, a former well-known reporter now employed at the little Millfield Gazette, just like the numerous others she had passed in her tiny room.

But tonight something was about to alter everything she believed she knew about life, death, and the truth. This would present a challenge.

After a scandal of her own, Rachel had moved from the big city in search of a more quiet life. She had been in Millfield for almost a year.

Millfield seemed like the ideal spot to reset as her career had failed and her marriage had driven her close to the edge, with its quiet streets and sluggish life. She was still wrong, however. Millfield wasn't still. It was haunted-old tragedies, secrets, and ghosts that had not been really resolved.

Among those secrets was the unexplained murder of Emma Turner, a young lady who had gone missing five years ago but was later found buried in a shallow grave only a mile beyond the village.

Though she had been declared a murder victim, no one had been taken into custody. None had ever come near the truth. Not long after she arrived, Rachel became intrigued by the case. Millfield had been haunted for years by the tale of Emma Turner. Being a reporter, Rachel could not avoid delving further in search of the reality that no one seemed willing to face. Still, the more she looked the more the case started to elude her hands.

Still, something had recently changed with the case. An anonymous letter postmarked Millfield arrived in Rachel's mailbox with no return address. Rachel wasn't sure, but inside the envelope was one sheet of paper stained with something that looked like blood. Its message was straight, ward but corpse; I could tell you did kill Emma Turner; then they will be revealed. It was signed; "The Voice from the Grave." Trying to make sense of it, Rachel had gone over the letter many times. Naturally, she had reached out to the cops, but they had ignored her call as a hit. Clear when he addressed her was the sheriff of the city, Greg Matthews. "Dreams are rubbish, Rachel. This city has progressed beyond that.

Emma Turner has passed away in the past. Let it remain there. Rachel couldn't, though. She felt that this letter, this message, was a pointer to something more as she knew something wasn't right. That's how she found herself outside the old graveyard on the town's border, the wind gnawing at her skin as she stared at the towering monuments. The air felt thick, electric with a presence she was unable to justify. Off in the background stands the little chapel of St. Mary's looming spire swept long shadows across the darkening sky.

The cemetery had long been a serene spot, a last resting place for those who had passed, but tonight it felt different. Rachel wasn't by herself. She could sense it.

She shivered as she moved leisurely toward the entrance of the cemetery, where an enormous oak tree loomed. Its twisted roots reached deeply into the ground; the tree had been there for centuries. But Rachel's heart started to run faster as she moved closer. Something she hadn't expected was a freshly dug grave at the base of the oak. As if it had only been filled, she stopped to look at the mound of upset earth, the sides of the graveyard yet loose and disturbed. The strong aroma of moist earth paralyzed her, and her stomach flipped at the idea of what might lie below.

Had another victim arrived here, or had someone come to erase the evidence and silence the truth forever? As Rachel dialled Sheriff Matthews' number, her trembling hands lit up her screen from her pocket, and she reached inside.

The line went dead after the phone rang once, twice, three times. Under her breath, she muttered, "Damn it," once more. Trying more. Still worthless. Be promenadamente As if the responses were closer than she suspected. And then the voice came.

Her ear brushed a soft whisper, like the wind among the leaves. Rachel stopped and her breathing hitched. At the start, the whisper was barely audible, but then it developed into being unmistakable. "Rachel, tell Henry all about it," she notes, but she is interrupted by the senior woman. Rachel..." She spun around, her chest pounding in her heart. The cemetery was empty, the shadows of the trees like dark fingers stretching out. She could not see anyone the voice belonged to. It was rising from the grave. They just dug one.

*"Rachel"*... you are aware of the reality. Everything here is here. Her pulse grew fast as she staggered forward to the tomb, her feet sinking into the soft ground. Her eyes flared as she looked around, half-expecting someone to dart at her from the shadows, but nobody was found. She was Searching the area. Only the trees and the wind know. And the sound. "It's all right here, Rachel... between the tomb... in the dirt.

The ground itself was speaking. The earth seemed like living and murmuring her name. Her hand shook as she bent down, her hands scraping the grave's edge. Still warm and recently disturbed, the dirt felt like it had been dug only minutes earlier. Rachel considered for a moment if she had imagined the voice as a low rumble of thunder resounded far off. Maybe the stress was causing her too many late nights and too many unanswered questions.

Her fingers, however, brushed something cold under the ground. Something difficult. She gasped and dug deeper, her hands moving frantically until she pulled out a small, weathered box.

Though the box was dusty and damaged, the lock was still in good condition. Rachael turned the box over in her hands and held her breath. It was heavier than she knew; it felt as if it held something of great value. Something buried and neglected for far too long.

The voice came once more, but this time, it was louder, more forceful. Open it... Rachel... You must open it. Rachel undid the box unconsciously. Bound by a slim string, there lay a stack of yellowed papers inside. Gently, she unfolded the papers, pulled them out and held them as though they were fragile. Though the ink had faded and the papers were old, they clearly reminded me of something. Rachel fainted when she saw the text on the front page: *Emma Turner*. Her notes were these. the notes in her diary. Her final comments. But then, a loud crack reverberated through the air just as Rachel got started on the first few lines. She stopped and gazed upward, her pulse roaring. The earth under her feet shook, and she heard clear footsteps approaching from behind. Someone was approaching.

The voice hissed, "No! No one should know," a frigid whisper that felt like a scream in the evening, filling her ears from nowhere. Rachel spun around, but the form coming from the shadows was not one she knew. With intent, a large draping man walked in front of her. Though a hood hid his face, something about Nicholas made Rachel's blood run frigid. "Who are you?"

Rachel yelled, her voice trembling but strong. The guy did not reply. He turned inward instead, drawing a sharp, shining blade from deep within his coat. And then he said. "Rachel, you should not have come here. You are currently part of the story.

Rachel's heart pounded in her chest, her hands shaking as she gripped the papers more tightly as the man leapt forward, his knife raised high. Everything she believed she understood about the truth was in turmoil at that instant.