The voice from the grave

still and the whispering winds were still, but the quiet seemed to upset even the most tough residen

rter now employed at the little Millfield Gazette, just l

thing she believed she knew about life, death,

rom the big city in search of a more quiet lif

r close to the edge, with its quiet streets and sluggish life. She was still wrong, however. Millfiel

a young lady who had gone missing five years ago but was later

achel became intrigued by the case. Millfield had been haunted for years by the tale of Emma Turner. Being a reporter, Rachel could not avoid delv

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

ing 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

g place for those who had passed, but tonight it felt d

ies. 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 l

nd silence the truth forever? As Rachel dialled Sheriff Matthews' number, he

h, she muttered, "Damn it," once more. Trying more. Still worthless. Be promenada

to 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. Th

ng 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.

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 imagi

. Something difficult. She gasped and dug deeper, her hands m

ed the box over in her hands and held her breath. It was heavier than she knew; it felt

nd 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 comment

nowhere. Rachel spun around, but the form coming from the shadows was not one she knew. With intent, a large draping man

ward instead, drawing a sharp, shining blade from deep within his coat. And then h

pers more tightly as the man leapt forward, his knife raised high. Everythin