Chapter 5: Midnight at the Family Grave

Nine yards north of the family grave, there was an old oak—easy to find even without a headstone.

Dad and my uncle carried the coffin; my uncle lay inside. I carried a basket of candles, a Bible, and a few offerings, trailing at the back. For a second, I felt like a ghost myself.

The ground crunched under our boots. In winter, the ground was hard as stone.

There was a choking smell of woodsmoke in the air.

Our breaths came out in clouds. We hadn’t gone far, but when I looked back, the village lights had disappeared, with only a few stray dogs barking in the distance.

I pulled my jacket tighter, still feeling cold to the bone, my nose nearly running.

It took a lot of effort to dig the grave and bury my uncle.

The shovel bounced off frozen dirt, and our hands went numb. No wind, but the candles still wouldn’t light. Weird.

The wicks sputtered and died, no matter how we shielded them. Our family of six or seven stood in the pitch-black field, hardly daring to breathe. The silence was heavy.

“Forget it, forget it, what’s the point of lighting candles? What if the neighbors see us!”

My aunt was worried about my cousin at home alone, so as soon as the offerings were set out, she urged us to head back.

We hurried through the darkness, boots slipping in the mud. Compared to my uncle, Dad actually shed a few tears. He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

He used to resent Grandpa for favoring my uncle. Of the three brothers, Dad was the youngest, but Grandpa married him off first. Now everyone’s gone—what’s left to hold on to? I wondered if he’d ever find peace.

I watched him wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking in the cold. By the time we got home and into bed, it was already past midnight.

Just my luck—the electric blanket was broken, my feet went numb, and I barely slept.

The house creaked with every gust of wind. When I woke up from a dream and checked my phone, it was just past two in the morning.

I rested for a bit, then immediately got dressed and snuck out to the field. My heart was racing.

Because I had just received Grandpa’s third dream:

“Go check the family grave! Hurry!!” His voice was urgent, almost desperate. My skin prickled with nerves. I ran so fast and hard that I even tripped on my way to the field.

My jeans ripped at the knee, mud splattering my hands. At this point, there wasn’t even any light; the moon was hidden behind clouds, and I couldn’t even see my own shadow. I swallowed, feeling the darkness press in.

I slowed down and took out my phone.

But I’d forgotten to charge it before bed, and now it was already dead.

The battery icon blinked out, leaving me in total darkness. Great. Luckily, I could just make out the big oak ahead; as long as I headed in the right direction, I’d be fine.

To build up my courage, I hummed a song to myself.

Don’t call me chicken—anyone would be spooked out here, not knowing how many folks were buried underground. My heart thudded in my ears.

Every step felt like walking on someone’s memory. After singing “Jingle Bells” for the tenth time, I finally realized something was off. I stopped in my tracks.

That big oak was clearly less than fifty yards away—so why couldn’t I reach it? What the hell?

The hairs on my arms stood up. I held my breath, swallowing hard. My palms started to sweat.

Was this what they called a “witching hour trap”? I shivered at the thought.

I don’t usually read those kinds of stories, but I’ve watched some ghost-hunting YouTube channels, so I remembered a few tricks. My mind raced through every tip I’d ever seen.

First, I peed on the ridge between the fields—didn’t work, and it seemed to take away the last bit of warmth I had left. I cursed under my breath.

The cold bit into me, sharper than before. I zipped up, heart pounding, and looked around, half-expecting something to reach out from the shadows. But the field stayed silent, waiting for whatever came next.