Chapter 4: The Second Night’s Bargain

The girl’s head ducked. “Dang! This one’s tough—not scared of my blood trick. Olivia, dig the hole bigger so I can take him out!”

She sounded frustrated, almost impressed. I braced myself, unsure what would happen next.

I heard shoveling, then the ground gave way beneath me and I tumbled down.

The earth crumbled, sending me sliding into the darkness. I landed hard, coughing up dirt.

Thankfully, it wasn’t far. I landed sore but unhurt.

My head spun, but nothing felt broken. I sat up, blinking in the dim light.

Dirt rained down as I blinked, dazed.

I wiped my eyes, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

I was in a narrow tunnel, barely big enough to crouch. Two girls stood at the entrance, watching me warily.

They looked about my age—one tall and lean, the other shorter, with a fierce expression. Both were covered in dirt, flashlights strapped to their heads.

The one on the left had a high ponytail, sharp features, holding a flashlight. The one on the right wore her hair in a messy bun, cheeks puffed out, looking grumpy.

Their clothes were practical—cargo pants, hoodies, boots caked with mud. They looked like they’d been digging for hours.

The left one grinned. “Hey, look at that—he’s alive, not a ghost. Just a kid.”

Her voice was playful, teasing. I scowled, not in the mood for jokes.

The right one snorted. “I saw he was human, so I didn’t hit him. I’m Izzy—like I’d hit a kid.”

She sounded defensive, crossing her arms. I eyed her warily.

She came over, patting my head a little too hard. I winced.

Her hand was cold and rough, the gesture more awkward than comforting.

Who were these weirdos?

I stared. “Who are you?”

My voice was hoarse, but steady. I wanted answers.

Turns out, it all started a month ago.

The girls exchanged glances, then sat down, ready to tell their story. I listened, still on guard.

Isabella had gotten a big job—some guy said his great-grandfather came to him in a dream, begging him to recover a family heirloom from the grave.

The way she told it, her phone had buzzed at 3 a.m.—the kind of call you don’t ignore if you’re in their line of work. The client sounded desperate.

The client, Mr. Yu, said his ancestors had been state governors back in the day. Their family had a special dragon figurine, buried with the old man. The family fortunes had fallen since then.

She rolled her eyes, mimicking his posh accent. Olivia snickered, but nodded along.

Mr. Yu had the same dream three nights running. His great-grandfather said the figurine was a spiritual treasure—only by bringing it back could the family rise again.

I tried not to laugh, but the story sounded like something out of a movie. Still, the girls seemed dead serious.

The Yu family paid big bucks and hired Isabella.

She flashed a grin, holding up her phone to show the Venmo receipts. “Six grand up front. Not bad, huh?”

Digging up your own family grave sounded easy—good money, no law-breaking—so she agreed.

She shrugged, like digging up graves was just another gig.

But when she got to the site, Isabella was stunned. It was a sunken tomb at the bottom of a dried-up lake, no marker, nowhere to start.

She described the place in detail—the mud, the silence, the way the wind howled at night. Olivia chimed in, adding her own observations.

She brought Olivia, who used astrology to find the spot, splitting the fee.

Olivia pulled out a battered star chart, waving it for emphasis. “I’m the brains, she’s the muscle.”

“Dig down four yards, then west—yeah, keep going.”

They bickered about the directions, each insisting they knew best.

“Alright, dig up. Lake tombs are different—the stone’s usually up top. We wind down, then go up from here, straight to the main chamber.”

Olivia explained the process like a teacher, drawing diagrams in the dirt. I tried to follow, but got lost halfway through.

Isabella got mad just thinking about it. “That spiritualist was a fraud. Look—we dug through to the surface. Where’s the Yu family tomb?”

She threw her hands up, exasperated. Olivia just rolled her eyes.

I listened, confused.

My head spun. Were they serious, or just messing with me?

“Isabella—the top student from Ravenwood Academy?”

I’d heard rumors about her—supposedly expelled for fighting, or maybe for something stranger.

“Olivia—the last in the line of star-readers?”

Olivia’s family was famous in certain circles—people whispered about their abilities at the county fair or the church picnic.

Olivia nodded. “Back in the day, the best spiritualists read the stars, second best found water, third best wandered the land. Most folks now are just average. The real star-readers worked for the government. My family were the chief astronomers.”

She said it with pride, chin lifted. Isabella smirked, but didn’t argue.

I snorted. “Come on, you two—seriously?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. They glared, unamused.

I figured they’d read too many urban legend blogs and were role-playing as ghost hunters.

It wouldn’t be the first time local kids tried to scare each other in the woods. But these two seemed different—confident, almost bored.

I shook my head. “You should go home. This isn’t a playground—there are real dangers down here.”

I tried to sound tough. They laughed anyway.

I didn’t say more. My dad always said, people in our business can’t explain to outsiders. Even I thought he was a fraud for years. No point arguing with two weirdos.

I remembered his words—"Some things you have to see for yourself." Maybe these girls were about to learn that lesson the hard way.

I looked up—the grave I’d been lying in had collapsed. Yellow paper everywhere—did my grave test still count?

The ritual seemed ruined, but I hoped the spirits would understand. I started gathering the scraps, trying to piece them together.

Probably. I was deeper now—closer to whatever was waiting below.

The thought made me shiver, but I pressed on. I had a job to finish.

So I laid out the yellow paper, lay down, hands folded, staring at the sky.

The girls watched, whispering. I ignored them, focusing on my breathing.

The girls whispered nearby.

Their voices were hushed, but I caught snippets—"crazy," "brave," "idiot."

“What’s this kid doing?”

Isabella sounded genuinely curious, not mocking.

Olivia: “All that yellow paper—maybe a ritual. Looks familiar.”

She squinted at the paper, tracing the symbols with her finger.

Isabella shrugged. “Probably lost a relative. Something’s weird here—let’s not get involved.”

She sounded nervous for the first time. I almost felt sorry for her.

“Did you find the tomb? Hurry up—we fly back Monday, and you’ve got class this afternoon, right?”

Olivia checked her phone, sighing. “Don’t remind me. I still have to write that essay.”

“What’s the rush? I can have Jenny cover for me. Mind your own schoolwork.”

Isabella rolled her eyes, pulling out a granola bar. She offered me one, but I shook my head.

Olivia pulled out a compass, scanning the ground. “This time I’m sure—dig down two yards, then west.”

She spun the compass, muttering under her breath. Isabella watched, unimpressed.

She nudged me. “Kid, move aside.”

Her tone was firm, but not unkind. I bristled anyway.

I glared. “Don’t touch me. And don’t call me kid—you’re not that much older.”

I crossed my arms, refusing to budge. Olivia shrugged, unbothered.

I closed my eyes, pressed my body to the ground.

The earth was cold. I focused on my breathing, slow and steady. I needed to finish this.

A chill crept up through the paper, like icy water after a spring rain.

I shivered, but didn’t move. The sensation was strange, almost electric.

It was strange—my limbs started to heat up, the earth beneath me seemed to tremble, as if it wanted to tell me something.

The warmth spread, soothing my muscles. I felt lighter, almost weightless.

Dad’s notes came back to me. If there’s something below, two things can happen. First, it doesn’t want to talk and attacks you with bad energy. That’s what happened to my dad—he got hit with death energy. Second, it wants to communicate. Then there’s hope.

I repeated the words in my head, clinging to them like a lifeline.

I pressed closer to the ground.

The world narrowed to the feel of earth, the sound of my heartbeat. I waited, tense but hopeful.

Suddenly, I felt like I was floating.

The sensation was dizzying. I opened my eyes, confused.

I opened my eyes—the girls were lifting me, one by the head, one by the legs.

The spell broke. I gasped, angry and scared.

The connection snapped.

It hit me like waking up too fast—jarring, disorienting. I struggled to sit up.

I snapped, “Let go of me!”

My voice echoed in the tunnel. Olivia froze, surprised.

Olivia froze, still holding my legs. Isabella, hearing me, let go. I dropped, landing hard.

Pain shot through my hip. I glared at them, furious.

Olivia jumped, then let go too.

She stepped back, hands up. “Sorry, sorry!”

I held my head, furious. “You did that on purpose?”

My voice shook, anger and fear mixing. Isabella shrugged, unfazed.

Isabella blinked. “Didn’t you tell me to let go?”

She sounded genuinely confused. I clenched my fists.

I glared at Olivia. “And you, why didn’t you?”

I wanted answers, not excuses.

Olivia shrugged. “You say let go and I let go? Why should I listen to you?”

Her tone was flat, almost bored. I wanted to scream.

I clenched my fists. “Get out of here—don’t think I won’t hit girls!”

I meant it. I was done playing nice.

They exchanged glances.

A silent conversation passed between them. Olivia nodded, Isabella cracked her knuckles.

Olivia: “I’ll dig, you handle him.”

She grabbed her shovel, moving to the far end of the tunnel. Isabella turned to me, smirking.

She swung her shovel, Isabella lunged at me. I fought back, but she was freakishly strong. No matter what I tried, she blocked me, tossing me around like a ragdoll.

I tried every move I knew, but she countered them all. Dirt flew everywhere, stinging my eyes.

I spat out dirt. "Ptoo, ptoo!"

I spit, coughing. Isabella laughed, dodging another swing.

I was exhausted and furious. Why, at a time like this, did I have to deal with two maniacs? My dad needed me.

My arms ached, lungs burning. I wanted to scream at them to leave me alone.

“You dare spit at me!” Isabella kicked me. I crashed into the dirt wall, sliding down, out of breath.

Pain radiated through my back. I curled up, defeated.

I buried my face in my knees and cried.

The tears came fast, unstoppable. I didn’t care who saw.

Isabella was startled. “What are you doing? It’s just a fight—don’t play games!”

Her voice softened, almost apologetic. I ignored her, lost in my own pain.

Thinking of my dad, I cried harder.

His face flashed in my mind—weak, scared, alone. I sobbed, shoulders shaking.

I’d worried all day, scared of what was coming. Maybe I’d end up like my dad, or worse. Maybe I’d survive, but be changed forever.

The fear was overwhelming. I felt small, powerless.

All day, I’d been on edge. Once I started crying, I couldn’t stop.

The dam broke. I let it all out. Didn’t care who heard.

Eventually, the girls left and it grew quiet. A breeze swept through the canyon, the scent of grass and trees calming me.

The silence was soothing. I wiped my face, breathing easier.

I picked up the yellow paper. Time to try again.

Just as I lay down, dirt poured over me. Isabella crawled out of a hole, excited. “It’s through! You sure this is the spot?”

Her voice was breathless, triumphant. I sat up, confused.

She saw me and froze. “How are you in the tomb?”

She looked genuinely startled, as if seeing a ghost herself.

Olivia: “Weird—this is an old tomb. You got friends here?”

She shined her flashlight around, searching for signs of life.

They squeezed out, four eyes wide.

Their faces were pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Impossible! How did I dig back here again?”

Olivia circled the pit, muttering, then squatted in frustration. “It should be here.”

She traced lines in the dirt, frowning. Isabella watched, arms crossed.

Isabella snorted. “Did you buy your compass on eBay? Told you not to go cheap.”

She grinned, but Olivia just glared.

“What do you know!” Olivia tasted the dirt, her face turning serious. “This is actually a top-level hidden dragon spot.”

She licked her finger, pressed it to the ground. Her eyes narrowed.

Isabella: “Hidden dragon?”

Her voice was skeptical, but curious.

Olivia nodded. “A hidden dragon buries its secrets deep, sealed from the world—impossible to find. Remember that haunted crypt in England? Hidden tombs use secret wards. Normally, you can’t find them—only when the moon is darkest. Hidden dragon spots are even rarer—buried deep in cold places, no markers, only blood bait can draw them out.”

She spoke like a teacher, voice low and intense. I shivered, realizing how deep I was in.

“Blood bait means a living person with a special bloodline—born unlucky, lost family, always alone—lying flat on the ground, using their life force to lure out the hidden dragon.”

My chest tightened. The way she said it, it sounded like one of those old American ghost stories—like a kid born under a bad sign, doomed to walk between worlds. I wondered if I fit that description. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t deny it.

She sighed. “Where would you even find someone like that?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

She looked at me, then at Isabella, her eyes darting between us.

I met her gaze, defiant. I wasn’t about to let them see me scared.

“Look again?”

Olivia: “Don’t even think about it. Hidden dragon spots are too dangerous—the money’s not worth it.”

She shook her head, standing up. Isabella frowned, but didn’t argue.

Isabella: “Why not?”

Her voice was quiet, almost pleading.

Olivia: “You’re right.”

She sighed, defeated. They both looked tired, worn out by the night.

They squatted next to me, shining a flashlight in my face.

The light was blinding. I squinted, turning away.

Isabella pointed at my forehead. “See that? Bet your mom died young. Kid, where’s your mom?”

Her words stung. I clenched my jaw, refusing to answer.

I shoved her away. “Who talks like that? Leave me alone!”

My voice was raw, but steady. I wouldn’t let them see me cry again.

But she was right. My mom died when I was born. My dad raised me alone—just like his dad had raised him. Women in our family never seemed to last.

The truth hurt, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud.

Isabella slapped my head. “Watch your mouth, or I’ll smack you again!”

Her tone was half-joking, but the slap stung. I glared at her, but said nothing.

I clamped my mouth shut. No matter how they pressed, I said nothing.

I stared at the ground, determined to keep my secrets.

Dawn crept in. Olivia pulled Isabella aside, whispering. Isabella nodded, shooting me a glare.

Their voices were too low to hear. I watched, wary.

“If you don’t want to talk, fine. But keep quiet about tonight, got it?”

Isabella’s voice was firm, almost threatening. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

I snorted. “Why should I listen to you?”

I tried to sound tough, but my voice was barely above a whisper.

Olivia waved. “Whatever, let’s go.”

She grabbed her backpack, heading for the exit. Isabella followed, glancing back one last time.

They blocked the holes and climbed out.

Tunnel went dark. Silent. I was alone again.

Sunlight broke through, lighting the pit. A hand reached down.

The light was warm, almost blinding. I shielded my eyes, reaching up.

Pastor Monroe smiled. “Tough kid. You alright?”

His face was kind, eyes crinkling at the corners. I nodded, grateful for the help.

The rule was simple: Get up after sunrise. Gather the yellow paper. Soak it in rooster blood, dry it, use it again that night.

The process was messy, but I followed every step. The paper stained red, fluttering in the breeze.

I packed up and climbed out. Pastor Monroe led me to a table set with hot coffee, bagels, donuts, a big bowl of chicken noodle soup, and a plate of breakfast sandwiches—a feast.

The smell made my stomach growl. I grabbed a donut, barely tasting it as I ate.

Mr. Whitaker stood nearby, smoking. My dad was in a lounge chair, eyes closed.

The sight of him made me pause. He looked better—color returning to his cheeks.

I rushed over. “Dad, you okay?”

I knelt beside him, searching his face for signs of pain.

He opened his eyes, managed a weak smile. “Not dead yet. Mr. Whitaker gave me some old ginseng, said it’d put hair on my chest.”

His voice was stronger, steadier. Relief flooded through me.

Mr. Whitaker snorted. “I said I’d wait for you to finish the job. I’m not letting your dad die just yet.”

He sounded gruff, but there was a hint of respect in his eyes.

“Eli, listen to me—did you memorize the steps?”

His gaze was sharp, demanding. I nodded, determined not to let him down.

I nodded, but he gestured for me to listen.

He leaned in, voice low. I hung on every word.

He explained: Being a grave test sleeper’s all about fate. Three days—first day, introduce yourself to whatever’s down there. If it doesn’t like you, you get hit with bad energy—like he did. If you stay, you’ll die, so he ran from Mr. Whitaker.

His eyes were haunted as he spoke. I realized how close he’d come to death.

But nothing happened to me the first night—so I was meant for this job.

He squeezed my hand, pride and sadness mingling in his eyes.

Three nights: first, connect with the grave. Second, blood guides the spirit—use a rusty nail to scratch your brow, smear blood on the paper, and lie on it. Third, the worlds meet—you’ll dream of someone, and they’ll ask for something. Fulfill their wish, and the job’s done. The grave is safe.

He recited the steps like a prayer. Voice steady. I repeated them in my head, determined not to forget.

Hearing me recite it all, my dad nodded.

His smile was weak, but genuine. I felt a surge of hope.

“Not bad—you did the first step. Whatever’s down there isn’t hostile.”

He squeezed my shoulder, pride in his eyes.

He looked sad. “You’re better at this than I ever was. I wanted to protect you, but maybe I can’t. Who knows if it’s a blessing or a curse.”

His words hung in the air. Heavy with regret.

Pastor Monroe smiled, handing me a bagel. “Blessing or curse, can’t dodge it. If you finish the next two nights, the bad energy will leave and your dad will recover. It’s all up to you.”

His voice was gentle, encouraging. I nodded, determined to see it through.

I nodded, biting into the bagel. Only then did I realize how hungry I was.

The food was warm, comforting. I ate quickly, feeling strength return to my body.

I wolfed down breakfast. Thought to myself—Mr. Whitaker was something else. Yesterday he was fierce, today, seeing I survived, he was all respect. From arrogance to gratitude, just like that.

He even offered me a cup of coffee, nodding in approval. The change was startling.

But last night was a mess—the girls kept interrupting. I wasn’t sure I’d succeeded.

Doubt gnawed at me. I glanced at my dad, unsure what to say.

I put down my coffee. “Actually, last night—”

My voice trembled. Everyone turned to look.

Everyone looked at me. My dad sat up, nervous. “What about last night?”

His eyes were wide, fear and hope mingling. I hesitated, not wanting to worry him.

If I said I might have failed, would Mr. Whitaker still help my dad? He was in such bad shape—why worry him?

I weighed my words carefully, choosing hope over fear.

I changed my words: “Last night, I felt my limbs warm up—like something was reaching out to me.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. My dad relaxed, relief flooding his face.

My dad nodded. “That’s it, Eli. You did well.” His words warmed me.

“But—I heard two women talking all night. Pastor Monroe, did you have anyone patrolling? Could people have come by? What if someone interrupted?”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice shook. Monroe frowned, thinking.

Pastor Monroe shook his head. Mr. Whitaker had folks patrolling all night—no one came close. Even if they did, with that bad energy, regular people would leave fast. Even he and Mr. Whitaker couldn’t stand being near the grave for long.

His words made me shiver. I wondered if the girls were real, or something else entirely.

So how did the girls get in? Were they really ghost hunters?

The question lingered, unanswered. I decided to keep it to myself—for now.

I felt uneasy, and hinted to Mr. Whitaker to increase patrols. He agreed, promising extra reward if I succeeded.

He clapped me on the back, voice gruff but encouraging. I nodded, grateful.

I rested. Ate. Slept all day. By evening, I felt better.

The warmth of the sun, the comfort of food, and the hope in my dad’s eyes gave me strength.

I wanted to ask my dad about blood bait, but he was too tired. Pastor Monroe said to let him rest.

I sat by his side, watching him sleep. His breathing was slow, steady. I promised myself I’d finish the job—for both of us.

When the new moon rose, I crouched in the pit again.

The night was darker than before, the air thick with anticipation. I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves.

The yellow paper was dry. Its scent was oddly comforting.

I smoothed it out, feeling the texture beneath my fingers. It felt like armor, thin but strong.

I held a rusty coffin nail—bought at an antique shop. Pastor Monroe said it was dug from an old grave. It was crusty, stained with something brown.

The nail was cold, heavy in my hand. I hesitated, heart pounding.

I hesitated. If I cut myself, would I get tetanus? I’d ask Mr. Whitaker for a shot tomorrow. Ha. Maybe I’d get a bonus for risk pay, too.

The thought made me laugh, a shaky, nervous sound. I wondered if grave test sleepers got hazard pay.

I gritted my teeth and scratched my forehead. It hurt—a lot. The wound burned, like fire.

Blood welled up, hot and sticky. I smeared it on the paper, just like Dad taught me.

I groaned, fingers digging into the dirt, body shaking. But I held on. The book said, if you endure, the pain will vanish, replaced by a cold numbness.

The pain faded, replaced by a strange calm. I lay back, eyes closed, waiting.

Eli Sanders, if you can stick this out, Dad will be okay. The pay will double—the extra five grand, Dad said I could spend however I wanted. I could buy an iPhone, a tablet, sneakers, even a scooter.

Main Street. New scooter, phone in my pocket, sneakers squeaking. It made me smile.

My mind raced with all the things I’d wanted, fighting the pain.

I counted the things I’d buy, the places I’d go. Anything to distract myself from the fear.

Just when I couldn’t stand it anymore, two familiar voices whispered in my ear.

Their words were soft, barely audible. I strained to listen. Heart pounding. The night wasn’t over yet.