Chapter 3: The Test Begins

When the moon is overhead, stick special incense at the four corners. When the smoke rises straight up, it’s time to start.

I watched the smoke, holding my breath. It rose in thin, perfect columns—no wind, no sound but my heartbeat.

I laid seven layers of yellow paper at the bottom, kicked off my shoes, and lay down.

The paper crinkled beneath me, the ground unforgiving. I shivered, pulling the robe tighter.

It was freezing.

The cold was worse than I expected—sharp, biting, like needles in my skin. I clenched my jaw, teeth rattling.

Late February. Spring chill sharp as knives. The ground was soaked.

I could feel the dampness soaking through, numbing my legs. My breath came out in white puffs.

My teeth chattered as I stared up at a small rectangle of night sky. My nose stung.

The stars above seemed too bright, almost mocking. I blinked back tears, determined not to cry.

I used to envy my dad. His job seemed easy—just lie in a grave for three days, make more than most folks do in a month.

I pictured the suits, the cash, the way folks at the hardware store nodded when he walked in. I’d never imagined this side—the pain, the fear.

He always told me to study, but I thought it was pointless. Why bother, when you could make this kind of money?

I’d argued with him so many times, never understanding why he pushed me so hard. Now, I wished I’d listened.

He joked about passing on the trade, but I always refused. I said it was all fake—a scam. I’d never do it.

I remembered the look on his face—half hurt, half amused. I wondered if he’d known this day would come.

Now I realized, he wasn’t lying. And the job wasn’t easy.

The truth hit me like a punch. I felt small, scared, and suddenly very alone.

My dad must’ve suffered a lot. Now he was barely alive, covered in purple bruises—who knew if he’d make it.

I pictured him on the couch, struggling to breathe. My throat tightened. I wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

My heart ached, and I started to sob quietly.

The tears came fast, hot and silent. I curled up, trying to make myself invisible.

After a couple of cries, I quickly covered my mouth. Pastor Monroe was still up there—did he think I was scared?

I wiped my face, forcing myself to breathe slow. I couldn’t let anyone see me fall apart.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t embarrass my dad.

I bit my lip, willing the tears to stop. Dad always said: Sanders men don’t cry.

I pressed my lips together, breathing deep to calm myself.

The night was silent, except for my shaky breaths. I counted backwards from ten, just like Dad taught me when I was little.

But the crying didn’t stop—it got louder.

The sound echoed, sharp and strange. For a second, I thought it was me, but it didn’t match my voice.

“Wuu wuu—wuu wuu—”

The sound was sharp, like a little girl’s.

It sent chills down my spine. I held my breath, listening.

I wasn’t crying—so whose voice was it?

I sat up, heart pounding. The grave felt smaller, the air colder.

I held my breath and listened.

The wind had died down, but the crying continued, soft and insistent.

“Wuu wuu—hu—hu—”

The sobbing stopped, turning into heavy breathing. It was close—like it was coming from right under me.

The sound was muffled. But I felt it—something shifting in the dirt.

My heart hammered, goosebumps rising all over.

I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself it was just nerves. But the fear was real, raw.

Honestly, my first instinct was to run.

Every muscle in my body screamed at me to get up, to claw my way out of the grave. But I stayed put, frozen.

But my dad’s words echoed: “The secret to grave-sleeping is to stay still. Press your back flat to the ground—let whatever’s down there sense you. Especially the first two days—don’t move. Try lying in bed for six hours straight. Think it’s easy?”

I remembered the way he’d say it, with a half-smile, as if daring me to try.

My eyes stung again.

I wiped my face, clinging to his words. I had to be strong—for him, for me.

Right—I had to save Dad. I had to draw out whatever was below, or he wouldn’t survive.

I pictured his face, pale and scared. I clenched my fists, steeling myself.

I forced myself to stay, teeth clenched, back pressed to the earth.

The ground felt alive, humming like a beehive about to burst. I dug my heels in, refusing to move.

I told myself—it’s nothing, just my mind playing tricks.

I repeated it like a mantra, squeezing my eyes shut. The fear didn’t go away, but I held on.

Finally, I wasn’t so scared.

I exhaled, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. The night seemed a little less dark.

The yellow paper beneath me suddenly bulged, like something pushing up from below.

I gasped, the sensation sharp and unexpected. My heart skipped a beat.

It grew, hard and round, pressing right against my tailbone.

The pressure built, uncomfortable, almost painful. I gritted my teeth, determined not to flinch.

I nearly cried, but braced myself, refusing to budge.

I dug my fingernails into the paper, willing myself to stay still. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

But it was too strong.

The force beneath me was relentless, like a rising tide. I held my breath, waiting.

With a pop, the paper tore. I was lifted, then dropped hard.

I hit the ground with a thud, pain shooting up my spine. The shock snapped me out of my trance.

A head poked up from the dirt. Slow. Deliberate.

It moved slowly, hair hanging in clumps, face pale and unreadable. My breath caught in my throat.

It was too dark to see if it was a man or woman. Just long hair, bangs stuck to a pale face.

The eyes glittered, wide and unblinking. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.

I sat there, staring.

My mind raced, searching for an explanation. Nothing made sense.

Suddenly, the head puffed its cheeks like a frog.

It was weird—like something out of a cartoon.

“Hah—ptoo!”

A mouthful of bloody spit hit me in the face.

The warmth and coppery taste made me gag. I wiped it away, shuddering.

I shuddered, screaming: “Ghost!”

The word tore out of me, raw and terrified. My voice echoed off the canyon walls.

The pit was barely wide enough for one person. No way to run. Panicking, I balled my fist and punched the head.

I swung hard. Adrenaline surged. My fist hit with a sickening thud.

Thud—a solid hit.

The head rocked back, but didn’t disappear. I scrambled to my feet, ready to fight.

The voice that followed was high and clear—a girl’s. “Ah—”

The sound was more annoyed than hurt. I blinked, confused.

Another voice came from below. “Izzy, what’s wrong? What did you see?”

The second voice was softer, older. I peered into the darkness, trying to see.