Chapter 1

Chapter One

MOONLIT GRIEF

The iron gates of Ravencrest Cemetery groan in protest as I push them open, a sound as familiar to me now as my own heartbeat. Five years of visiting my parents' graves and these gates still cry out each time I enter, almost as if they’re warning me to stay away. Perhaps I should have heeded their metallic cry long ago. But then, the gates have been here since 1847 – they've seen enough tragedy to last a hundred lifetimes.

Autumn fog rolls in across the grounds, thin tendrils wrapping around weathered headstones like ghostly fingers seeking something to sink their nails into. I pull my black wool coat tighter, although in the back of my mind I know the chill I’m feeling comes from more than just the October air. Five years to the day and the pain still feels as fresh as it did back then. They say time heals all wounds, but it’s nothing more than a lie we tell ourselves to make it through the darkest moments.

It’s bullshit.

The late evening sun casts long shadows through Ravencrest's twisted oaks, their ancient branches reaching toward the sky like gnarled fingers. These trees have stood sentinel over the dead for over a century, their roots drinking deep from soil made rich by generations of decay. I've always found a strange comfort in their presence – they're the closest thing to immortality I've ever known.

My boots crunch softly on the gravel path as I navigate the twisting route to their graves. I could walk it blindfolded by now – third path on the left, past the angel with the broken wing, right at the Victorian mausoleum with my favorite quote from Milton carved above its door: "Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light." The setting sun stretches shadows across the grounds, transforming familiar monuments into looming specters. In the dying light, the stone angels' faces seem to shift from peaceful repose to expressions of eternal sorrow.

A cool breeze stirs the fallen leaves at my feet, sending them dancing across worn granite markers and overgrown plots. Ravencrest is one of those old, sprawling cemeteries that's more garden than graveyard, where nature has been allowed to reclaim much of the ground between the stones. Ivy crawls up ornate crosses, and wild roses bloom between the graves, their late-season blossoms adding splashes of crimson to the monochrome landscape.

You don't have to do this every year, Elena, I tell myself, the same internal argument I have every anniversary. They're not here. Not really. These stones, this plot of earth – it's all just symbolism, a focal point for grief.

But I know I'm lying to myself. There's something about this place, something that draws me back year after year. Maybe it's because the cemetery is the only place where I don't have to pretend. Out in the world, I'm Elena Monroe, a moderately successful author of dark romantic fantasy, putting on a brave face and moving forward with my life. Here, among the dead, I can be the broken little girl who lost everything in a single terrible moment.

The memories wash over me as I walk, as vivid now as they were five years ago. Mom and Dad were driving home from their anniversary dinner – twenty-five years married, and still as in love as they were when they were teenagers. I'd pushed off joining them, claiming a looming book deadline, but really just wanting to give them their special night alone. The guilt of that decision still gnaws at me, and part of me wonders if it always will. If I'd been there, would things have been different? Would I have noticed the truck driver nodding off at the wheel before he crossed the centerline? Would my presence have changed the timing by even a few seconds?

The police said death was instantaneous, as if that should be some comfort. The impact was so severe that they had to identify my parents through dental records. Sometimes I wonder if that's why I can never quite picture their faces anymore – my last memory of them has been replaced by the mangled wreckage I saw on the news before I knew it was them. Before my phone rang with a call that would shatter my world into pieces that I'm still trying to gather.

The Monroe family plot lies in one of the oldest sections, marked by an elaborate wrought iron gate even more ornate than the cemetery's main entrance. Great-great-grandfather William Monroe, the wealthy shipping merchant, had purchased it back when Ravencrest was first created. The family plot is like a small garden in and of itself, surrounded by a circular hedge of carefully maintained yew. Even now, the groundskeeper tends to it regularly – one of the few benefits of old money is perpetual care.

The gate creaks open at my touch, and I wonder absently if I should bring oil next time to silence its mournful protest. Twin headstones of polished granite rise before me, connected by an arch carved with intertwining roses. The inscription catches the last rays of sunlight: Thomas & Maria Monroe - Together in Life, United in Death.

I chose the design myself, during that blur of days after the accident when I had to somehow be a functional adult and make a thousand impossible decisions. The roses were for Mom – she'd kept a garden that was the envy of the neighborhood. The arch connecting the stones was for Dad, who always said that where one went, the other would follow. "The great love story," he'd call it, usually while dancing Mom around the kitchen to old vinyl records. They proved it in death as they had in life, taken together by the same terrible accident that left their only daughter alone in the world.

Sometimes I wonder if they knew, in those final moments, that they were keeping their promise to each other. Did they have time to reach for one another's hands? Did they feel any pain, or was it truly as instantaneous as the police claimed? These are the thoughts that haunt me, that wake me in the middle of the night while tears stream down my face.

My fingers trace the letters of their names, feeling the sharp edges of the carved granite. Mom would hate how somber I've become, how I've let grief wrap around me like a familiar shawl. She was always telling me to "find the light, Elena, even in the darkest places." And Dad, with his booming laugh and terrible dad jokes, would probably make some pun about me being too "grave. "

"I miss you both so much," I whisper, placing a bouquet of white roses between their graves. The flowers seem to glow in the gathering darkness, like pale ghosts of all the things left unsaid. "I'm trying to make you proud, but sometimes it's so hard being alone. The new book is doing well – you'd love the irony, Dad. Your practical daughter who was going to be a lawyer is making a living writing fantasy stories instead."

A sad smile tugs at my lips as I imagine their reactions. Mom would be proudly displaying my novels on her coffee table, probably with little bookmarks noting her favorite passages. Dad would be telling everyone at his law firm that his daughter was the next big author, completely missing the embarrassed looks from his colleagues.

"The house is still standing," I continue my update, a ritual I perform every visit. "I finally had the kitchen renovated like you always wanted, Mom. And Dad, I'm keeping up with the maintenance schedule you wrote out for me – oil changes every 3,000 miles, check the furnace filter monthly, clean the gutters in spring and fall."

Alone. The word echoes in my mind, taking on new weight as I suddenly become aware of how thick the fog has grown. The cemetery's peaceful melancholy shifts into something more oppressive, like a held breath before a scream. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I have the distinct, primal sensation of being watched .

I turn quickly, scanning the deepening shadows between the surrounding stones. Nothing moves except the mist, yet I can't shake the feeling of hidden eyes upon me. The yew hedge that normally provides such a sense of privacy now feels like it might be concealing something sinister in its dark depths. You're being ridiculous, my rational mind insists. It's just the atmosphere getting to you. Too many late nights writing dark shit.

But something deeper, more primitive, screams that I'm not alone. It's the same instinct our ancestors must have felt when they sensed a predator's gaze from the darkness beyond their fires. My heart begins to race, its rhythm rapid and erratic. The fog seems unusually thick now, curling around the bases of the monuments in ways that defy natural movement. It's almost as if it's... reaching.

A twig snaps somewhere behind me, and my pulse leaps into my throat. I spin around, but the heavy fog has reduced visibility to just a few feet. The surrounding monuments loom like dark sentinels in the haze, their familiar shapes transformed into menacing silhouettes. The stone angels that watched over my parents' graves with such benevolence in daylight now seem to wear expressions of horror, as if witnessing something terrible approaching.

Get a grip , I scold myself. You're a grown woman, not a little bitch afraid of some fog. But even as I try to convince myself, I notice how unnaturally quiet the cemetery has become. No birds call from the twisted oaks. No distant traffic sounds penetrate the grounds. Even the wind has died, leaving nothing but a dense, waiting silence.

"Hello?" I call out, hating how small and vulnerable my voice sounds in the vast stillness. "Is someone there?"

No answer comes, but the feeling of being observed only intensifies. The fog gathers around me, as if deliberately trying to disorient me. This isn't natural , a panicked voice whispers in my mind. Fog doesn't behave like this . I take one last look at my parents' graves, then turn to leave. I've stayed too long – darkness is falling quickly now, and I need to find my way back to the main gate.

As I hurry along the path, I glimpse a tall figure standing motionless between two distant mausoleums. My steps falter, and my breath catches in my throat. The figure seems impossibly tall and still, like another statue except for the unmistakable feeling of power it radiates. But when I look again, there's nothing there but shadows and swirling mist. Your imagination is running wild , I tell myself, but my feet quicken their pace anyway, boot heels clicking rapidly on the stone path.

This isn’t real.

The sound echoes off the monuments, coming back to me distorted, as if multiple sets of footsteps are following me through the dark. I resist the urge to run – running would be admitting there's something to run from. Instead, I force myself to maintain a brisk but dignified pace, even as every nerve in my body is screaming at me, begging me to flee.

Just a few more minutes , I promise myself. Just get to the main path, then the gate, then your car. But even as I form this rational plan, a deeper truth settles over me like the unnatural fog: something has changed in my sanctuary of sorrow. Something dark is here and it has taken notice of me.

And somehow, I know with terrifying certainty that something big is about to happen.