Chapter 1: Five Graves, One Forgotten

I've got five bodies buried in my backyard.

Four of them—I put there myself.

But the fifth one…

No matter how hard I try, I just can’t remember.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I jolted upright, heart pounding, as if I'd just woken from a nightmare. My heart was hammering so loud I half-expected it to wake the whole house—not that there was anyone left to wake.

Cold sweat soaked through my faded flannel pajamas. The fabric clung to my skin, sticky and cold, like the ghost of a fever I'd forgotten long ago. I wiped my brow, but the sweat wouldn't let go. Maybe the night wouldn't either.

Outside, the sky was just starting to lighten. A rooster crowed somewhere out past the hills, sharp enough to cut through the quiet. I heard a dog bark, too. I could almost smell the dew on the grass, the scent of earth and old leaves drifting in through the cracked window.

I sat up. My hands shook so bad I almost couldn't sit up. The room was still dark, shadows pooling in the corners, and for a second I wondered if I’d really woken up at all. My breath came short and fast, fogging the air before me.

No, this isn’t a dream.

There really are five bodies buried in my small backyard.

My name’s Gerald Foster. I’m sixty-three this year, and before I retired, I was the only English teacher at Silver Hollow High School. Silver Hollow’s a tiny town tucked away in the Appalachian foothills. Folks around here say the town’s so small you could throw a stone from the diner and hit the church steps—and they’re not wrong.

Ten years ago, after my wife passed from cancer, I started living alone in this old two-story house my folks left me. The house creaks at night, and sometimes the wind rattles the shutters so hard I swear it’s someone knocking. I never got used to the quiet, not really.

Around here, folks just call me Mr. Foster. They all think I’m a decent man. I nod and smile at the grocery store, wave at the kids riding their bikes past my front porch. I’m the guy who gives out king-sized candy bars on Halloween, who fixes a neighbor’s mailbox when it gets knocked over in a storm.

Who’d ever imagine that the Mr. Foster they respect has blood on his hands?

In the dim morning light, I pulled on my faded blue jacket and pushed open the creaky back door. The hinges whined in protest. The morning was cold, and the sound seemed to echo. My slippers scuffed over the porch boards as I stepped out, the chill biting at my ankles.

The backyard isn’t much—just a patch of ground behind the house, a few struggling tomato plants, and a battered old maple tree. The maple's branches twist out like old bones. The fence leans where the ground's given way—I've been meaning to fix it, but never do. The grass is patchy, more weeds than anything. It’s the kind of yard nobody looks at twice.

My gaze landed on the slightly disturbed patch of earth in the northeast corner. I rubbed my hands together, as if trying to scrub away invisible bloodstains. My fingers felt stiff and cold, nails rimmed with dirt from last night’s restless pacing.

There were clear signs the dirt had been moved. The soil was darker, looser—a patchwork scar on the otherwise neglected lawn. Even the birds seemed to avoid that corner, hopping wide circles around it as they pecked for worms.

Who did it? Was it me? I can’t remember. My mind just kept skipping, stuck on the same question. No answer, just static. The uncertainty gnawed at me, sharp as a rat’s teeth.

Ever since that nasty bout of flu last winter, my memory’s been shot—like old film reels, chopped up and taped back together wrong. Some days I forget if I’ve eaten breakfast. Other days I lose whole hours, waking up with dirt under my fingernails and no idea how it got there.

I slowly walked closer to the spot, squatted down, and pressed my fingers into the loose soil. The ground gave way easily, soft and yielding beneath my touch. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and something else—something metallic, almost sweet, that made my stomach turn.

The earth was cold and damp, with an undercurrent of decay. I shivered, goosebumps prickling up my arms. It felt like the ground itself was breathing, exhaling secrets with every chilly gust.

At the tip of my nose, I caught a faint, almost imagined smell of blood. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks. Still, I pulled my hand back, rubbing it on my pants like I could scrub the memory off, too.

The first body is Tom Garrison, that belligerent loan shark. Tom was the kind of man folks crossed the street to avoid—loud, mean, and always looking for a fight. He never missed a chance to remind me about my debts, even after my wife passed.

That day, he barged into my house, threatening to take my family home for himself. He reeked of whiskey and cheap cologne, his boots tracking mud across my kitchen floor. The words he spat were like poison, each one burning hotter than the last.

I just wanted him to leave, so I shoved him hard. I didn’t mean to hurt him—God, I just wanted a little peace. But his foot slipped, and he went down hard.

Who would’ve thought his head would hit the iron corner of the doorframe? The crack was sickening, sharp as a gunshot. For a moment, time froze.

Blood gushed out like a busted faucet, splattering the floor. The red spread so fast, so bright, it looked almost unreal against the faded linoleum.

The second was that drifter—claimed he’d seen me out back at night and tried to blackmail me. He wore a battered army jacket and had a way of looking at you that made your skin crawl. He was just passing through, but trouble always finds its way to my door.

The third was my neighbor, Roy Walker, who stumbled onto my secret and threatened to call the sheriff. Roy was a good man, mostly, but curiosity got the better of him. He should’ve kept walking.

The fourth was that homeless guy who broke in after midnight; he held a knife to my throat, and I was just fighting for my life. I still feel the ghost of that blade against my skin some nights, waking up gasping for air.

But who is the fifth? I kept telling myself it couldn’t be true. But it was. I tried desperately to remember, temples pounding. My mind spun, searching for a face, a name, anything to hold onto.

But I couldn’t recall ever killing again, or who it could’ve been. The memory was a blank space, a black hole swallowing every thought I tried to throw at it.

“Mr. Foster!”

A sudden shout from behind startled me so badly I nearly toppled over. My heart leapt into my throat, and I spun around, dirt still clinging to my hands.

I turned around in a panic and saw the town councilman, Harold Briggs, standing at my back door, his face drawn tight with worry. Harold was usually all smiles and firm handshakes, but this morning he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You’re up early?” he asked, stepping closer, eyes flicking over the ground behind me. His gaze lingered a little too long on the disturbed earth, and I forced myself not to flinch.

“What brings you by so early, Harold?”

Harold sighed. “The Cooper family’s little granddaughter didn’t come home last night. We searched all night—no sign of her. The whole town’s out looking. This is the third one!” His voice cracked on the last word, and he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

The third? I racked my brain, trying to remember if anything strange had happened in town. I ran through the faces at church, the missing posters at the post office. Had I missed something?

“First it was the Jenkins boy, then that salesman from out of town, and now little Emily Cooper…” Harold’s voice was grave. He shook his head, jaw clenched tight. “Folks are scared, Gerald. The county police are coming today. They’ll be checking every house.”

The police? My stomach dropped.

I shuddered, my heart pounding against my ribs. The world seemed to tilt, the sky pressing down on me like a heavy quilt.

What will they find? Will they dig up my backyard? God, what if they dig up my backyard?

The bodies are buried too shallow. If anyone looks close, they’ll see something’s wrong. My breath caught in my chest, and for a moment I thought I might faint.

“Mr. Foster, have you seen anything strange lately?” Harold asked.

“N-no.” My voice shook, throat tight. I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Harold glanced again at the soil behind me. “What’re you planting out here?”

“Radishes,” I blurted. It was all I could think of. The lie tasted sour in my mouth.

“Planting radishes this time of year?” He frowned, clearly suspicious. His eyes narrowed, and I could feel his gaze boring into me, searching for cracks.

Cold sweat trickled down my back. The morning air bit through my thin jacket. I shivered.

“I just wanted something to do. Getting old, you know.” I gave a weak chuckle, hoping to deflect his suspicion. My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

Harold nodded, still suspicious, but didn’t press further. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill.

“By the way, someone said they saw a ghostly figure near your house last night.”

“A ghost?” My voice caught. “That… must be a mistake.” I tried to laugh it off, but the sound died in my throat.

“I hope so.” Harold sighed. “You be careful. Things have been strange lately.” He gave me a long, searching look before finally turning away, his footsteps crunching across the frostbitten grass.

After he left, I slumped onto the back step, shaking all over. My legs were rubber. The world was too quiet. The silence pressed in from all sides.

The police are coming.

The townsfolk saw a ghost—could it be the ghost of that fifth body?

I don’t even know who it is. How did they end up buried in my backyard?

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a blurry shadow darting past the fence. It was quick, almost too quick to be real—a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye.

I jumped up, stumbling to the corner, but there was nothing there—just some trampled earth and a broken red hair tie. The plastic was cracked, the elastic stretched thin. It looked like something a little girl might wear, or maybe a young woman.

I stared at the hair tie, and suddenly—a blurred female face flashed through my mind, along with a heart-wrenching scream. The image was gone as quickly as it came, leaving only a dull ache behind my eyes.

“No…” I whispered, pain stabbing at my temple. My knees buckled, and I clung to the fence for support, breathing hard.

The fifth body—was it a woman?

Just then, the sound of police sirens echoed from afar, growing closer. The sirens wailed, sharp and shrill, sending the birds scattering.

My whole body went rigid. I looked up in panic and saw a dust cloud rising at the end of Main Street—a police cruiser rolling toward town. The blue lights flashed in the distance, a warning I couldn’t ignore.

I have to do something.

I need to figure out who the fifth body is, and I have to erase all traces. My mind raced, desperate for a plan, any plan at all.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The moon hung high. I held a shovel, standing before the mound in the backyard. The air was thick with the scent of wet leaves and old regrets. My breath steamed in the cold night, each exhale a ghost of my own making.

Tonight, I was going to dig up all the bodies and move them somewhere safer. Somewhere no one would ever think to look. My hands shook, but I forced myself to keep moving, the shovel heavy in my grip.

Just as I dug the shovel in, a cold hand suddenly rested on my shoulder. The touch was icy, bone-deep. It stopped me cold. I couldn’t breathe.

I spun around in terror—there was no one behind me. Only the maple’s branches rustled in the night wind, like the whispers of countless restless spirits. The shadows danced across the ground, twisting and writhing in the moonlight.

The night was pitch-black. I stood frozen; the cold hand had felt so real, but it was gone in an instant. My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum.

A gust swept through the maple leaves, making a sound like secret murmurs from the grave. The wind carried with it the scent of rain and something older, something I didn’t dare name.

I gripped the shovel tighter, took a shaky breath, and started digging. The blade cut through the soil with a wet, sucking sound, each shovelful heavier than the last.

The soil was loose, easy to dig. Soon, I was three feet down. My arms ached, sweat running down my back despite the chill.

Suddenly, the shovel struck something hard with a dull thunk. The shock ran up my arms, made my teeth ache.

I knelt, brushing away dirt with trembling hands. A rotten human face appeared before me. The flesh was sunken, the features twisted in a silent scream.

“Ah!” I almost screamed, clapping a hand over my mouth. My breath came in ragged gasps, the taste of bile rising in my throat.

It was Tom Garrison, the first man I killed. Even in death, he looked angry, his jaw clenched tight.

His face was already sunken and deformed, but I recognized the jagged scar over his eyebrow. That scar had always made him look meaner than he really was.

I still see his face at night.

Memories surged like a flood.