December 30, Monday

THE RUMBLE of an approaching charter bus drew me to the window. Edra Waco's ghost tour was early today - probably trying to beat the winter sunset. Without really thinking about it, I pulled on my coat and headed down to the graveyard.

I arrived just as Edra was launching into her performance, her white hair gleaming in the weak sunlight, her flowing scarves dancing in the winter wind.

"The Black New Moon approaches," she intoned to her huddled group of tourists. "The darkest of nights, when even the moon herself hides her face. The perfect time for secrets to be revealed... or buried forever."

I suppressed a smile, remembering how terrified I'd once been of her theatrical warnings.

"The Whisper Graveyard holds many such secrets," she continued, gesturing dramatically. "Even now, strange things happen here. Graves mysteriously open. Bodies disappear. And sometimes..." She paused for effect. "Sometimes they're found again in most unexpected places."

My smile faded. She was talking about Rose.

"Just last month, a young woman was nearly buried alive right here," Edra's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Some say it was revenge for disturbing ancient magic. Others say—"

"Others say it was two troubled teenagers who watched too many horror movies," I called out, stepping forward. The tourists' heads swiveled toward me.

Edra's eyes narrowed slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Ah, the very woman herself! Ladies and gentlemen, meet the current caretaker of Whisper House."

The tourists murmured excitedly, several phones pointing in my direction.

"Perhaps you'd like to share your experiences?" Edra suggested sweetly.

"I think you've shared enough of other people's experiences," I replied, matching her tone. "Speaking of which, how's Jason?"

She stiffened. "I don't know what you—"

"Your son? The college student who vandalized the cemetery with his fraternity brothers? Detective Terry mentioned his name came up in the investigation."

The tourists' phones swiveled back to Edra, whose face had gone slightly pale.

"That's... that's not relevant to our tour," she stammered.

"No? Seems pretty relevant to your true-crime podcast with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. You did disclose your son's involvement to them, right?"

Her eyes widened. "How did you—"

"Small town," I smiled. "Word gets around. Just like word will get around if you keep exploiting this cemetery for profit. The new caretaker is pretty protective of it."

"New caretaker?" She glanced around nervously.

"You're looking at her. I've renewed my lease on Whisper House. Indefinitely."

The tourists were now openly staring at Edra, several making notes on their phones. She cleared her throat.

"Well, folks, perhaps we should move on to our next stop..." She began herding them toward the bus. "The haunted hardware store awaits!"

As her group shuffled away, she turned back to me. "You didn't have to do that."

"No? People's pain isn't a tourist attraction, Edra. Their secrets aren't content for your podcast."

"Says the romance novelist."

"My stories are fiction. What you're doing..." I gestured to the graveyard. "These are real lives. Real losses. They deserve better."

She studied me for a long moment. "You really are staying, aren't you?"

"Someone has to protect this place."

She nodded slowly, then turned to go. At the gate, she paused. "You know, you might make a good tour guide yourself. You certainly understand the magic of this place."

"I understand it's not for sale," I replied. "Goodbye, Edra."

I watched her bus pull away, taking its ghost stories and sensationalism with it. Around me, the graveyard lay peaceful in the winter afternoon.

And I'd do my best to keep it that way.

Some stories, after all, deserved to rest in peace.