The man she buried is back and knocking...the pounding in Sara's head was relentless, like a warning drumbeat crescendoing in the silence of her dimly lit living room. She pressed her palms against her temples, willing the pain to dissipate, to grant her a moment of clarity. But it only grew stronger, intensifying with each fleeting thought about the night that had forever altered the course of her life.

"NO, not tonight..." she whispered to herself, trembling.


Taking a slow, calculated breath, Sara ventured toward the door, an uneasy feeling knotting her stomach. She approached the peephole—an unremarkable, circular window into the world that now felt more like a spyglass into a waking nightmare. Peering through, her heart plummeted.


There, on the other side, stood a man, his face shrouded in shadow, yet unmistakably recognizable—Drake.

“No,” she murmured, backing away as the room spun. How was it possible? She had buried him under the old oak tree behind her house, mixed with the rain-soaked earth and laced with memories of innocence lost.

She shook her head, fighting against the clamoring fear crescendoing in her mind. Memories cascaded through her thoughts, a chaotic flood of the good and the sinister.


She sat on the table, her heart pounding in her chest, listening to the persistent knocking on her door. “Open the door,”

a low voice called out, filled with an eerie calm that sent shivers down her spine.

Slowly, Sara hit her head on the wooden surface, closing her eyes tightly as if blocking it all out. “Go away, Drake!” she shouted, her voice muffled against the grain of the table.

Burying her head deeper, she mumbled, “No, no, it can't be.”


The knocking persisted, each rap growing more insistent, more demanding, echoing through the empty apartment like a heartbeat.