Chapter 11: Blood and Dirt

The shovel didn’t just hit a rock; it hit something that groaned with the unmistakable resonance of hollow metal. Sarah froze, her palms screaming where the friction of the hickory handle had scorched through her gardening gloves. The sound vibrated up through her boots, a low, metallic *thrum* that seemed to pulse against the very soles of her feet. Above her, the Georgia sky was the color of a fresh bruise—deep purples and sickly yellows bleeding into the treeline of Cypress Bend.

She didn't look up. She couldn't. If she looked up, she’d see the silhouette of the old Thorne manor watching her from the crest of the hill, its windows like sightless eyes. Instead, she kicked the spade back into the red clay, the soil clinging to the blade like wet scabs.

"Just a pipe," she whispered, the words puffing out in a frantic, humid breath. "It’s just a rusted-out drainage pipe."

But she knew the utility maps of this property. She’d memorized them before she even signed the lease, back when she still believed a fresh start was something you could buy with a security deposit and a clean credit score. There were no pipes in the North Acre. Nothing grew here but the twisted, silvery trunks of the water oaks, their roots coiling like sleeping snakes just beneath the surface.

She dug again. This time, the spade scraped across the obstruction, peeling back a layer of earth to reveal a flash of dull, oxidized bronze. 

Sarah dropped to her knees. The damp heat of the evening pressed against her neck, a heavy hand forcing her down into the muck. She began to claw at the dirt with her fingers, the fabric of her gloves snagging on jagged edges. She ripped them off, tossing them aside, and let her bare nails find the cold, hard reality beneath the silt.

It wasn't a pipe. It was the corner of a chest, or a box—something heavy and ancient. And it was bolted shut with a padlock that had long since surrendered to a thick, cancerous layer of lime and rust.

Her breath came in ragged, shallow hitches. A mile away, the locusts began their nightly rhythmic screaming, a wall of sound that vibrated in her teeth. She felt a trickle of sweat run down the valley of her spine, but her skin felt like ice.

*Leave it.* The voice in her head was sharp, a leftover echo of her mother’s pragmatism. *Cover it back up, Sarah. Walk back to the house, pour a glass of wine, and pretend you never wanted a rose garden.*

She reached for the spade again. But she didn't use it to cover the hole. She positioned the tip of the blade against the seam of the lid and threw her entire weight onto the handle.

The wood groaned. The metal shrieked. Then, with a sickening *crack* that sounded like a breaking femur, the lock snapped.

Sarah tumbled backward, her hip hitting a protruding root. She scrambled up, her chest heaving, the scent of the disturbed earth suddenly changing. It didn't smell like rain and mulch anymore. It smelled sharp. Metallic. Like a penny held under a tongue.

She approached the hole again. The lid was slightly ajar now, propped up by the pressure of the spade she’d wedged in. With trembling hands, Sarah reached out and flipped it wide.

It wasn't filled with gold. It wasn't filled with letters.

It was layered in heavy, oil-slicked canvas, wrapped tight like a shroud. Sarah peeled back the first layer of the fabric, her fingers slipping on the greasy surface. Beneath the canvas lay a collection of heavy, cold shapes. She lifted one out. It was a wrench—industrial, nearly the length of her forearm, stained with something dark that hadn't quite faded into the metal. Beneath it was a hammer, its head pitted and scarred. And beneath that, a heavy, jagged piece of rebar, wrapped in a hand-stained rag.

She didn't need to be a forensic tech to know what she was looking at. These weren't tools. They were the discarded remains of a mechanical slaughter.

"Sarah?"

The voice cracked through the air like a gunshot. 

Sarah bolted upright, her heart slamming against her ribs. Standing at the edge of the clearing, his figure obscured by the long shadows of the oaks, was Miller. He was leaning against a tree, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, watching her with a stillness that made the air feel thin.

"It's late to be planting, don't you think?" he asked. His voice was smooth—too smooth, like river stones. 

Sarah stepped in front of the hole, her legs shaking so violently she was sure he could see the grass trembling around her boots. She wiped her muddy hands on her jeans, but the red clay only smeared, looking like dried gore against the denim.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. Her voice sounded thin, like a frayed wire. "The humidity. I thought if I worked, I’d wear myself out."

Miller started walking toward her. He didn't rush. He moved with a slow, predatory leisure, his boots crunching over the dried leaves. Every step felt like a countdown. 

"You're digging deep for roses," he said, nodding toward the spade. He stopped ten feet away. The light was almost gone now, the world turning into a grayscale map of gray and black, but she could see the glint of his eyes. Miller always looked like he was cataloging your secrets while you spoke.

"The soil is hard here," Sarah said. "Lots of clay."

"And rocks," Miller added. He took another step. "Hit anything interesting?"

Sarah’s hand went instinctively to her pocket, her fingers brushing the cold, damp edges of the rag she’d tucked away—the one she’d pulled from the box. "Just old roots. It's a mess back here. I should have listened to the realtor. This land is dead."

Miller stopped. He was close enough now that she could smell him—tobacco, cedar, and something sharper, like gasoline. He looked down at the hole, his head tilting just a fraction of an inch. From his vantage point, he could see the edge of the bronze chest. He could see that it was open.

The silence grew, stretching until it was a physical weight. Sarah felt a bead of sweat crawl into her eye, stinging, but she didn't blink. She couldn't take her eyes off his hands.

"You should get inside, Sarah," Miller said quietly. He didn't look at her; he was staring at the contents of the grave. "There's a storm coming up from the coast. A real one. The kind that washes things away."

"I'll finish up here first," she said, her voice firmer now, fueled by a sudden, jagged spike of adrenaline. "I hate leaving a project half-done."

Miller finally looked up. The expression on his face wasn't anger. It wasn't even a threat. It was a profound, weary sadness that chilled her more than a snarl ever could. 

"Some things aren't projects," he said. "Some things are just the way the world is. You try to fix them, you just end up getting your hands dirty. And dirt doesn't always come off."

He turned on his heel then, disappearing back into the treeline without another word. He didn't head toward his own cabin; he headed toward the main road, his silhouette swallowed by the kudzu and the dark.

Sarah waited until the sound of his footsteps died away completely. She waited until the locusts resumed their screaming. Then, she collapsed.

She sat in the dirt, her breath coming in great, gasping sobs. She looked down at her hands—the blood-red clay was under her nails, etched into the lines of her palms. She looked at the tools in the box. 

She thought about the disappearances in Cypress Bend. The "drifters" the sheriff always talked about. The people who supposedly boarded buses and never looked back. 

She reached back into the chest, her hand moving almost on its own. She pushed aside the heavy wrench, digging deeper into the bottom of the rusted box. Her fingers brushed something soft. Not metal. Not canvas.

She pulled it out. 

It was a small, leather-bound wallet. It was water-damaged, the edges curled and stiff, but when she pried it open, the plastic sleeve inside had protected the contents. 

The ID stared back at her. The face was young, smiling, with a shock of blonde hair and eyes that looked like they expected the best from the world. 

It was the boy from the grocery store posters. The one who had gone missing three years ago. The one the town said had run off to Atlanta to be a musician.

Sarah didn't hear the footsteps this time. 

The first indication that she wasn't alone was the cold, hard circular pressure of a gun barrel pressing into the base of her skull.

"I told you," a voice whispered—not Miller’s this time, but someone much closer to home, someone she’d trusted with her spare key. "I told you the soil was no good for roses."

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, the blonde boy’s idiotic, hopeful smile the last thing she saw as the shadow of the house finally reached the edge of the pit.