章 276: Chapter 276
He stood at the edge of the graveyard, the night settling around him like a shroud. The moon hung low and sickly, its pale light casting long, distorted shadows across the worn headstones. In the quiet of the cemetery, the only sound was the faint rustling of leaves from the trees that bordered the grounds. He had a job to do, a task that required more than just physical labor; it demanded adherence to rules—rules that had been passed down, never questioned, and never broken. Not if he wanted to stay alive.
The rules were simple, but their importance was absolute.
1. Never stray from the path that leads to the grave.
2. Do not speak aloud, not even to yourself.
3. Never face the grave after midnight.
4. If you hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around.
5.When the bell tolls, leave immediately, no matter what you're doing.
Harold had learned the rules years ago, and they had kept him safe. He didn't understand them, not really, but there were things in the cemetery that didn't tolerate disobedience. His predecessors had learned that the hard way. It was common knowledge—nobody who had broken the rules had ever made it out.
With a sigh, he adjusted his coat against the cold, his breath puffing in the crisp night air. The grave in question was an old one, the stone cracked and worn from years of neglect. It was his duty to tend to it tonight. He had to ensure the weeds were pulled, the dirt was packed, and the area around it remained undisturbed. For reasons he didn't quite understand, the grave required attention only at night.
Harold's boots scraped against the path as he made his way forward, keeping to the narrow trail that cut through the gravestones. He had done this hundreds of times before—more than he cared to admit—but tonight felt different. The wind seemed colder, the air thicker. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him. Something that had always been there but now seemed more present.
He knelt down at the grave, carefully pulling the weeds from the edges of the stone. His fingers worked mechanically, but his eyes kept darting back to the far reaches of the cemetery. The trees loomed tall, their branches twisting like bony fingers in the moonlight. The graveyard was silent, but the silence felt oppressive, as though it had a weight behind it. The night was too still.
His hands trembled slightly as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was never easy to do this job alone, but the rules didn't allow for company. He was the only one who could tend to this particular grave, and every night, the process was the same. He didn't understand why, but he had never questioned it. There was no room for doubt in this work—one slip, one mistake, and you were gone. The others had made their mistakes, and now they were gone too.
The clock struck midnight, and Harold stiffened. He didn't look at the grave. He didn't even glance at it. That was the fourth rule. Never face the grave after midnight. Something was bound to happen if you did. Something terrible.
He finished his work as quickly as he could, his hands moving faster, more frantic now. The rules were a constant pressure on his mind, a heavy presence that kept him sharp, kept him on edge. As he worked, he could feel the eyes of the graveyard on him, unseen but always there. The wind picked up, rustling the branches above him, and Harold's unease deepened. It felt as though the night itself was closing in around him.
It was then that he heard the footsteps.
At first, they were faint, barely audible over the wind. He didn't pay them much mind. Maybe someone else was here, someone who had strayed into the cemetery at this hour. But as the steps grew louder, Harold's heart began to race. The rules were clear. Never turn around if you hear footsteps behind you.
His fingers curled around the trowel, his knuckles white as he focused on his task. The steps were getting closer. He could feel the presence of someone—or something—just behind him, close enough that he could almost sense their breath.
The air was heavy now, oppressive. The graveyard, once so familiar, had become something else, something alien. Harold didn't dare look behind him. He couldn't. His mind screamed at him to follow the rules, but his body betrayed him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head just slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of what was behind him.
Nothing.
The footsteps stopped. The air was still again.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he quickly forced his attention back to the grave. He couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. His breathing quickened, but he kept his hands steady as he finished his work, wiping the dirt from his palms. He looked up, eyes darting nervously around the graveyard, but there was nothing. Just the graveyard—empty, silent, and waiting.
The bell tolled.
The sound was distant, muffled by the wind, but Harold knew what it meant. Rule five. Leave immediately, no matter what you're doing.
He didn't hesitate. He stood, his legs stiff from kneeling, and turned to walk down the path. His boots clicked against the stones as he made his way back. Each step felt like an eternity, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. His hands were clammy, his mind racing. The bell had tolled, and yet he hadn't moved fast enough. He hadn't left in time.
That's when he heard it again.
The footsteps.
They were behind him, closer this time. They were heavy, deliberate, almost as if they were mocking him. He could hear the shuffling of feet on the dirt path, the slow, measured rhythm of someone following him. Harold's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't dare turn around again. His legs moved faster, but the sound of the footsteps stayed with him. They were getting closer, growing louder.
He was almost at the gate now. He could see the iron bars through the trees. Just a few more steps, and he'd be free.
But as he reached the gate, his foot caught on something. He stumbled forward, his hands reaching out for the bars to steady himself. His breath came in gasps now, and his chest ached with the strain. He glanced down, and there it was. A hand, pale and thin, reaching up from the dirt. It grasped his ankle with cold fingers.
A scream died in his throat. Harold pulled away with all his strength, his heart hammering against his ribs. The hand didn't let go. It tugged harder, pulling him back toward the graveyard.
"No!" Harold shouted, struggling, his hands gripping the gate as he fought against the pull. The footsteps grew louder, closer. He could feel them behind him, could feel the presence moving toward him.
His foot was pulled from the dirt, and he was yanked backward with a force that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, his body crashing against the cold earth. His arms flailed, his hands grabbing at anything—anything to stop himself from being dragged back into the graveyard.
But it was too late.
He had broken the rules.
The ground trembled beneath him, and the sound of the footsteps filled his ears, drowning out everything else. Harold could feel the coldness wrap around him, creeping into his bones, and the darkness closed in, swallowing him whole.
The bell tolled again, far away in the distance.
And Harold's scream echoed in the night.
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