Chapter Five: The Grave That Lied
983 Words
The red light blinked once.
Then again.
Hidden beneath the torn hem of Isabella's burial dress, the tiny tracking device silently transmitted her location into the darkness.
Miles away, inside a room filled with glowing computer monitors, a pair of gloved hands rested on a keyboard.
A map flickered across the largest screen.
One red dot blinked steadily.
A cold voice broke the silence.
"She's moving north."
Another figure stepped closer.
"And Cross?"
"He's still with her."
The second figure smiled.
"Good."
"Let them lead us to the truth."
---
Isabella stumbled over a tree root, barely catching herself before she fell into the icy river.
Damian caught her arm.
"Careful."
"I'm trying," she said between ragged breaths.
They had been running for nearly an hour.
The forest seemed endless.
Every shadow looked like another hunter.
Every snapping branch sounded like footsteps behind them.
Finally, Damian stopped beside an enormous fallen oak.
"We'll rest here for a minute."
Isabella leaned against the rough bark, trying to slow her breathing.
Her hands were still trembling.
Not from the cold.
From everything that had happened.
She looked at Damian.
"Tell me the truth."
He met her eyes.
"What truth?"
"Everything."
"You know more than you're telling me."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he sat on a moss-covered rock and stared into the darkness.
"I first heard your name three months ago."
"The night you disappeared."
"You were investigating a charity foundation owned by the Kingsley family."
Isabella frowned.
"My husband's family?"
Damian nodded.
"You believed the foundation was laundering money."
"I was a journalist?"
"You were one of the best investigative journalists in the country."
The words hit her harder than she expected.
A journalist.
Someone who searched for the truth.
It felt... right.
Fragments flickered through her mind.
A camera.
Stacks of documents.
Late nights in front of a laptop.
Someone warning her to stop asking questions.
Then—
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
She grabbed her head.
Damian knelt beside her.
"Easy."
"My memories..."
"They're trying to come back."
"What happened to me?"
He looked away.
"I don't know."
Before Isabella could ask another question, something caught her attention.
On the opposite side of the river...
A flashlight.
Then another.
"They found us," she whispered.
Damian stood immediately.
"No."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Those aren't flashlights."
A moment later, several lanterns emerged from the trees.
An elderly man stepped into view, followed by three younger men carrying fishing nets.
Villagers.
Not hunters.
The old man stopped when he saw Isabella.
His weathered face turned pale.
"Holy Mother..."
One of the younger men crossed himself.
"It can't be."
The old man slowly walked closer.
His eyes never left Isabella.
"You..."
"I attended your funeral."
The words sent a shiver through her.
"You know me?"
"I watched them lower your coffin into the ground."
His voice trembled.
"We all did."
Damian stepped between them.
"We're just passing through."
The old man ignored him.
Instead, he looked directly at Isabella.
"Child..."
"What happened to your grave?"
She swallowed.
"I climbed out."
The men exchanged frightened glances.
One whispered nervously,
"She's a ghost."
"I'm not a ghost," Isabella said firmly.
"I'm alive."
The old man studied her face for a long moment before slowly shaking his head.
"If you're alive..."
"Then whose body did we bury?"
Silence settled over the forest.
No one had an answer.
---
The villagers led them to a small fishing cabin beside the river.
A fire crackled in the stone fireplace.
The warmth was almost enough to erase the chill clinging to Isabella's bones.
An elderly woman handed her dry clothes and a steaming mug of tea.
"You need strength."
"Thank you."
As Isabella warmed her hands around the cup, the old man returned carrying an old newspaper.
He laid it gently on the table.
"I kept this."
The front page showed a photograph.
Her photograph.
The headline read:
INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST ISABELLA HART KILLED IN TRAGIC CAR ACCIDENT
Her hands shook.
"I was in a car accident?"
The old man nodded.
"That's what the police said."
Damian picked up the newspaper.
His eyes narrowed.
"They never released the accident report."
"What?"
"They closed the investigation in less than twenty-four hours."
The old man sighed.
"Everyone believed it was strange."
"But no one dared question powerful people."
Isabella stared at the smiling woman in the newspaper.
She didn't recognize herself.
Yet somehow...
She mourned the life she had lost.
Suddenly...
A folded piece of paper slipped from inside the newspaper.
Damian picked it up.
His expression changed instantly.
"What is it?" Isabella asked.
He handed it to her.
The note contained only one sentence.
If she remembers the bridge, she'll remember the killer.
Isabella's heartbeat quickened.
"The bridge?"
The words echoed inside her mind.
A bridge.
Rain.
Headlights.
Someone screaming her name.
A black car speeding toward her.
Then—
A violent headache forced her to her knees.
Images flashed through her mind.
A steering wheel.
Shattered glass.
A woman's terrified face.
A man standing in the rain.
His face hidden.
Then darkness.
When the vision ended, Isabella realized she was crying.
Damian crouched beside her.
"What did you see?"
She struggled to breathe.
"A bridge."
"And..."
She closed her eyes.
"There was someone else in the car."
Damian frowned.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"But..."
She looked up at him, fear filling her eyes.
"I don't think I was the one driving."
The room fell silent.
Outside...
A car engine stopped.
Headlights swept across the cabin windows.
The villagers froze.
Damian quietly reached for his gun.
The old man whispered,
"No one should know we're here."
Then came a knock at the door.
Three slow knocks.
Exactly the same as before.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
A calm voice drifted through the wooden door.
"Open up."
"We're looking for a woman who escaped her own funeral."
Isabella's blood ran cold.
Someone had found them again.
- Writer
