As the last mound of dirt covered the freshly dug graves, the night grew still. The shovel slipped from Chuck’s bloodied hands, landing with a dull thud. Grandma stood at the edge of the porch, her face ghostly in the moonlight, her eyes fixed on the empty spot where Evie’s window glowed faintly in the distance.


“She’ll be back,” Grandma whispered, almost to herself. “She always comes back to Grandma's house.”


But out beyond the trees, under the hum of crickets and the whisper of wind through the pines, a car engine turned over—soft, steady, and getting farther away.


Grandma smiled.

“She won’t get far. She'll be back.”