Chapter 6: The Unlikely Job

“Mr. Lang, how much longer until we get there?” The mother in the back seat, maybe noticing I’d been silent too long, asked cautiously.

Her voice was gentle, but carried a worn edge—like someone who’d been holding it together for too long. The daughter flinched at the question, eyes flicking between me and the window.

“Not far, about half an hour,” I said, glancing at the GPS. Our destination today was Pinehill County, Silver Creek Bridge, Oak Ridge Cemetery. Though called a cemetery, it was really just a patch of forgotten graves.

Pinehill County—one of those flyover places folks speed through on their way somewhere better. The air out there always seemed to carry the scent of pine needles and distant bonfires.

I’d taken the mother and daughter by Amtrak to Pinehill County. We tried to get a cab, but as soon as the drivers heard the address, none would even unlock their doors. With no other choice, we rented a car ourselves.

The rental smelled of lemon cleaner and stale coffee. Lisa—her hands trembling—clutched her purse like a lifeline, while Megan just stared out at the blurred treetops. There was a tension in the car that made every mile feel longer.

I glanced at the passenger seat, where I’d placed the tools I bought: shovel, gasoline, axe, crowbar... and that peach-wood whip I’d dug out from under the closet.

They clanked together every time I hit a pothole, an odd little arsenal for a job I never thought I’d take. The whip, coiled like a snake, seemed to thrum with unease. It looked out of place among the tools—more suited for a ghost story than a graveyard shift.