Part-3, Trapped with the Dead

Eka’s chest burned as he ran blindly through the cemetery, the fog closing in around him like a living thing. His footfalls echoed in the stillness, and for a moment, he thought he could hear something—or someone—running behind him. The low moaning of the wind carried the faint sound of footsteps that were not his own.

He glanced back, and that’s when he saw it.

A figure. Pale, indistinct at first, but unmistakably human. Its eyes were hollow, glowing faintly in the mist, and its mouth twisted in a silent scream. It floated toward him, gliding across the ground as if weightless, its face contorted in agony.

Eka turned sharply, tripping over a broken gravestone. He hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his knee. He struggled to get up, but his legs refused to move, as if the earth itself were holding him down. The ghostly figure grew closer, its hands outstretched. The air around him felt suffocating, thick with the stench of rot.

The whispers returned, this time louder, more insistent, as though they were right next to his ear.

“They won’t let you leave,” a voice whispered. It was a woman’s voice, soft but filled with sorrow.

Eka whipped around, and standing before him was another figure. This one was clearer—an old woman, her long hair flowing down her back, her eyes sunken and black. Her dress was tattered, hanging in strips from her skeletal frame, and her mouth twisted into a grotesque smile.

“You’re ours now,” she crooned, her voice like nails scraping against glass.

Eka screamed, forcing himself to his feet and running again. The fog seemed to twist and shift, the gravestones blurring into one another as if the cemetery itself were changing, trapping him in a maze of death. No matter which way he turned, the figures followed, their eyes glowing in the darkness, their whispering voices filling his mind.

He was no longer alone. The dead had woken.