Daniel ran like a man possessed, his breath ragged, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. The night stretched endlessly around him, the trees warping into twisted shadows. His mind screamed at him to stop, to make sense of what was happening—but his body refused.
Then—
His foot caught on something. A gnarled root? A broken headstone? He didn't know. He crashed to the ground, hands scraping against the rough dirt.
Behind him, the figure loomed closer.
His vision blurred with sweat. His chest burned. His mind fractured between fear and disbelief.
Then everything went black.
—
Daniel's eyes shot open.
His body jerked upright, drenched in cold sweat. His room. His bed. The dim glow of the bedside lamp. His breath came in shallow gasps, his pulse still hammering.
A dream.
It had to be.
His hands trembled as he wiped his face, but then—he froze.
Blood.
A deep crimson stain coated his fingers, smeared across his wrist. His pulse pounded as he lowered his gaze. A fresh puncture wound on his arm. A removed IV. His hospital gown was slightly torn, and his knees throbbed with pain.
His ankle burned.
Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled back the blanket.
Bruises.
Dark, fresh bruises lined his knees and ankles—the exact places he remembered hitting the ground when he fell at the cemetery.
His stomach dropped.
That wasn't just a nightmare.
Daniel swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He clenched his hands, feeling the sting of his nails digging into his palm.
The tall figure. The outstretched hands. The fall. The way he screamed.
It happened.
A chill slithered down his spine. He forced himself to move, to get out of bed, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Then, his phone vibrated.
Daniel whipped his head toward it. His gut twisted.
No Caller ID.
Again.
Here's a smooth transition to the next chapter:
---
Daniel hesitated before answering. His fingers hovered over the screen, his breath uneven.
He pressed the call button.
A crackle of static. Then—
"Stop digging."
The voice was low, distorted, almost inhuman.
His pulse thundered. "Who is this?"
Silence. Then a sharp click. The line went dead.
Daniel sat frozen, the phone slipping from his grip. His mind raced. No. No, this can't be happening.
And then—his eyes caught something on his nightstand.
A coin.
Old, worn. Familiar.
His breath hitched. He hadn't seen this kind of coin in years—Emily used to keep a collection of them. But how was it here?
Swallowing hard, he picked it up. His fingers ran over the cool metal. Then he turned it over—
Words were etched into the surface.
"Stop digging."
His stomach clenched.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was a warning.
Someone was watching. Someone knew.
He had to find out what was going on.
-----
The next morning, Daniel's obsession took hold. He needed answers. He started with the phone call—tracing it back to its source.
He went to the phone company, demanding information. But when the clerk pulled up the records, her expression turned wary.
"Sir, that number was disconnected a year ago."
Daniel's blood ran cold.
"That's not possible," he said. "I just got a call from it."
She shook her head. "There's no record of any outgoing or incoming calls. It's like the number doesn't exist."
A chill slithered through him.
Determined, he tried another method—using a burner phone and a police contact to trace the call.
But the results made his stomach lurch.
The call had no origin. No source.
It was as if it had come from nowhere.
And that terrified him.
---
Daniel's mind raced, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that could make sense of this nightmare. The coin, the voice, the disconnected number—it was impossible.
But then, his eyes landed on something else.
His bookshelf.
More specifically, the third book from the left on the second shelf—a book neither he nor anyone else had touched in years.
Except Emily.
It was their little secret, a superstition, a private joke between them. If something ever happens to me, you'll find your answer here, she had once said with a smirk.
His chest tightened.
With shaky hands, he pulled the book free. Dust scattered into the air.
Tucked between the pages—right where Emily had always said it would be—was a small, folded note.
Daniel's breath caught as he unfolded it, his pulse hammering in his ears.
The message inside was scrawled in familiar handwriting.
"You weren't supposed to find this. Stop digging."
His vision blurred. His fingers trembled.
Emily had written this.
But when? And why?