1

D igging up a grave in a foggy, freezing cemetery at one in the morning was not how Miles wanted to spend his Thursday night.

Well, technically, it was Friday morning now, but technicalities had a way of falling between the cracks when he'd been awake for almost twenty-four hours straight. There was something completely mind-numbing about the repetitive motions of gravedigging—the crunch of his blade in the ground, the swoosh of the shovel, and the quiet thud of dirt that followed.

He'd already been here for several hours. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and the newly formed blisters on his hands refused to be ignored. He shivered, having shrugged off his jacket and tossed it out of the steadily deepening hole, but hating the way the night air chilled his damp skin.

He hoped his mom would be awake and have food ready when he managed to stagger home. It was too late for dinner, too early for breakfast, but she'd promised him a several-hours-past-midnight snack when he'd offered to finish this job for his dad tonight.

The thought of fluffy pancakes and a mug of hot Earl Grey had him digging with renewed determination. At least the ground was still soft, the weather not quite chilly enough that it had frozen yet.

Bushes rustled nearby. Miles froze, shovel hovering in mid-air. After years of dealing with hauntings, he would love to say he had nerves of steel, but he'd long since learned one of the few consistent rules of the universe: cemeteries at night were creepy.

Everything about them was flawlessly designed to give you the heebie-jeebies. Gravestones and obelisks looming in the darkness? Creepy. Faint light from the crappy camping lantern Miles's dad had gotten at a yard sale? Creepy. Being mostly submerged in a hole with only his head poking out to check if anyone was sneaking up on him? Super creepy.

He listened carefully, trying to peer through the gloom, but all he could make out were vague shadows and the few headstones within range of his lantern. No one would be working here this late—the caretaker left at six and the morning shift wasn't due for hours.

It was probably a bird or a rabbit. Definitely not a zombie hauling itself from a nearby coffin to shamble over and eat his brains.

Miles firmly reminded himself that zombies didn't exist. Ghosts, sure. Zombies, however, had never been proven. He knew that for a fact—he'd done a very thorough amount of research. A big part of the family business involved spending late nights all alone in cemeteries.

He made himself get back to digging. If anything came at him, it was going to get a shovel to the face.

Not many people realized caskets weren't buried six feet down—at least, not more recent ones. It was usually closer to four, and while a couple feet less might not seem like much, it made a big difference when you were digging by yourself in the middle of the night. It also meant if a hypothetical zombie came lurching towards Miles, he could climb out of the hole fairly easily and run for his life.

At times like this, he really had to appreciate the little things.

His shovel thudded against something solid.

"Finally," he muttered, reaching over to grab the lantern perched precariously on the lip of the open grave. As it swung, it sent shadows dancing across the dirt walls, swirling in a hellish kaleidoscope.

Miles dropped to his knees, digging with his bare hands to reveal the once-polished lid of the casket. He scraped and brushed debris away until the seam was visible, then grabbed his crowbar.

This was always the worst part: the stench that poured out when he first cracked a casket open.

Shuddering, Miles swallowed. Mrs. Mendoza had been buried for long enough now that she didn't smell rotten, but an unmistakably sour, musty scent coated his mouth and tongue. Sure enough, when he managed to leverage the lid fully back, what was left of her body was leathery and withered, her lank hair spread across the silk pillow. Yellowed bone peeked out where her skin had stretched too tight and split, her hands clasped over the breast of the faded blue jacket she'd been buried in.

"Forgive me," he told her quietly, "I'm just returning something that belongs to you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy golden locket, polished metal glinting in the weak light. It hummed against his skin, sparking with electricity from the vicious aura it gave off. Miles ground his teeth against the flood of rage and pain that washed over him. Poor Mrs. Mendoza.

In the casket, she sat up.

Miles's brain screamed at him—a panicked jumble along the lines of holy shit, zombie, zombie, I knew it —before it caught up with what he was seeing.

Mrs. Mendoza wasn't undead. Her spirit had decided to make an appearance. It was harder than usual to see the blurry edges of her form in the dim light, but if he focused through it, he could make out her corpse still lying prone and lifeless in her casket. Similar to peering through a film of condensation over a window.

"Ah, sorry." He wasn't sure if she could hear him, or how coherent she was, but saying nothing seemed impolite. "This is a little awkward, I'm here to—"

Mrs. Mendoza lunged forward and grabbed him by the throat. Instead of passing through him—which usually gave Miles the sensation of icy water dripping down his spine, raising goosebumps across every inch of his skin—an unmistakable pressure squeezed around his neck.

A black hole gaped as her mouth opened, letting out a low groan that sent hairs standing up all over Miles's body as it echoed through the open grave. Overhead, trees shuddered in the wind.

Sometimes, getting the job done was as easy as a quick ritual to release a spirit or cleanse a possessed object. Sometimes, it required midnight gravedigging in a cemetery. And sometimes, Miles was unlucky enough that an angry spirit showed up to make things difficult when all he wanted was to go home, eat a mountain of pancakes, and go to sleep.

And Mrs. Mendoza was angry . She'd moved past the whole rattling dishes and slamming doors phase and straight into physical manifestation, a skill that required a lot of energy or a real rage high. And she'd decided that with great power, it was her great responsibility to strangle the life out of Miles.

"Come on… give me a break," he ground out, sucking in ragged breaths around her relentless, ghostly grip. It wasn't unbearably tight—despite being pissed off, she wasn't quite that strong—but it was making things uncomfortable.

He reached down to grab the wrist of her corpse, gagging as the dried flesh gave way under his grip. No matter how many times he did it, he was never going to be okay with wrestling dusty old corpses—and those were the good jobs, where the bodies weren't in the early stages of decomposition.

He should be used to it at this point. But reminding himself that this was just how his life was didn't make him any less bitter when he was knee-deep in a casket, inhaling musty dead person air and trying not to get strangled by the ghost of a sixty-year-old woman with a murderous passion for gaudy jewelry.

The locket was still in his other hand, a living heart pulsing in response to Mrs. Mendoza's presence.

"Thief ," she rasped, her voice a frigid wind that whipped around the hole. " Give it back ."

"Yeah, I'm trying." The protection charms around Miles's neck grew warm as they worked to repel Mrs. Mendoza's aura. A maelstrom of negative emotions whirled around her, threatening to overtake him.

Miles pulled her corpse up by one skeletal wrist, far enough to slip the chain of the locket over her head.

A sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement blew around him. With a groan that Miles wanted to think sounded relieved, Mrs. Mendoza's spirit fell back towards her corpse and vanished.

Coughing and shielding his face from the rising cloud of dust, Miles carefully adjusted the locket so it lay in the middle of her chest, nestled in the folds of her blue jacket. The evil aura that had saturated the cramped space slowly dissipated, fading away into the night air.

"Rest easy now," he murmured, closing the casket gently. "Be at peace."

He prodded at his tender throat, wincing. Oh, come on, he had school today. How was he supposed to explain suspicious neck bruises? And scarves always made him look like he was trying out for drama club or writing angsty poetry during his lunch.

Once he'd hauled himself, his lantern, and the shovel out of the hole, he took a swig of water from his bottle—a pointless attempt to wash the stale taste from his mouth—and started filling the grave back in.

There was a stillness here now; a sense of peace settled over the cemetery. The night sky seemed clearer, the pinprick stars a little brighter. Mrs. Mendoza's pain was gone. It was a pain that had soaked into the surrounding headstones and browned the grass, a pain Miles had felt as a physical weight on his ribs since he'd shown up tonight.

But all was calm now. Things were back to how they should be.

Miles was exhausted by the time he patted the last mound of soil in place—an apology for the caretakers who would show up in the morning, a sorry I desecrated this grave and ruined your nice grass, but at least I cleaned up after myself thing.

He grabbed the bundle of flowers he'd picked from his mom's garden earlier in the night—pale pointed asphodel to help Mrs. Mendoza find her way to the afterlife, and lacy coriander blooms to remove any lingering negative aura. They were a little wilted, but they'd do. He placed them gently at the foot of the gravestone, letting the lantern illuminate María Mendoza's name for a final time.

His car, Blanche, was parked outside the closed cemetery gate. Her door squeaked, worn leather seats creaking beneath him as he climbed in and released a heavy sigh. This job hadn't been especially difficult, but being around such malevolent energy took a toll on him. He needed sleep, a nice cup of his mom's tea, and a major shower.

He checked the clock on the dashboard. Two in the morning. And he still had a stop to make.

***

David and Antonia Mendoza were waiting up for Miles as he parked outside their two-story townhouse. Their living room light was on, illuminating the gauzy curtains and part of the street with a warm, golden glow. Miles only made it halfway out of his car before the front door swung open.

They met him at the top of the stairs, eyes wide and apprehensive, arms around each other to brace for the possibility of bad news.

Miles was happy to disappoint. "It's done," he told them quietly. He looked a mess, dirt-covered and sweat-smeared, so he threw in a tired attempt at a smile. "You shouldn't have any more issues now—she's at rest."

After the night he'd had, his mental shield was suffering, flimsy at best. Their relief washed over him in a wave, a balm against his exhaustion, but tinged with an undercurrent of grief.

Antonia, a young woman with thick brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck, sniffled and wiped at her nose with a crumpled tissue. "Thank you." She passed him a bulging envelope. "Is there anything else we need to do?"

"Visit her grave every now and then, that should be enough. Her spirit is at rest, but it never hurts to show respect, and that she hasn't been forgotten."

She nodded, then peeked up at her brother, David. "We need to earn her forgiveness. We have a lot to make up for."

They'd come to Miles's family seeking help a few days earlier. Their mother, María Mendoza, had passed away a year ago. In that year, the family had been plagued by misfortune and accidents. Light bulbs exploding, furniture falling over, a freak fire in the upstairs bedroom… They could feel their mother hadn't moved on, and for some reason, she was targeting them. The family home was tainted, her children afraid for their lives. They were ready to pack up and leave.

Miles's dad didn't have time to take on another job, but he'd accepted it anyway. It hadn't taken him long to zero in on the heavy golden locket Antonia kept in her jewelry box, its malicious aura drawing him in like a beacon. It had been her mother's, Antonia explained, but they'd decided not to bury it with her so it could be passed down as a family heirloom. Their intentions were pure—they'd assumed it was a nice way to honor their mother.

That was all it had taken. María Mendoza had been a kind and loving mother, firm but big-hearted, the unfortunate victim of a hit-and-run. When her children took the locket, something important and valuable to her, all those lingering emotions from her sudden, wrongful death latched onto the piece of jewelry.

This was the tragedy of most possessed objects and restless spirits. In life, the person would never have imagined harming their loved ones. Yet the cold grip of death changed them. It warped them into a shade of hatred and pain and anger, and those amplified emotions kept them from finding peace.

David reached out and shook Miles's hand, politely ignoring the dirt caked on his hands and under his nails. "Thank you again. Mamá deserves to rest, and it means a lot to us to know she's finally moved on."

"You're very welcome. I'd say I hope to hear from you again, but…" Miles trailed off.

David huffed out a weak laugh. "With any luck, you won't." He gave Miles one last nod, then put his arm around his sister and they went back into the house together.

Despite being tired down to his very bones and sore in more places than he could count, Miles ducked his head, grinning. The Mendoza family's gratitude had been so sincere that even if he weren't an empath, he would have no doubts.

Some days, the job felt more worth it than others.