The lantern’s glow barely touched the edges of the crypt, its flickering light swallowed by the waiting dark. Beneath her feet, the stone felt soft, as if the years had worn it thin—had soaked it in the weight of the dead. She took another step. Something shifted. A breath that wasn’t hers. A whisper, dry as autumn leaves. Her pulse hammered against her ribs as she turned, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something older… something rotten. Then came the sound—fingernails, brittle and splintered, scraping against stone. The silence shattered. The coffin lid slid an inch. Then another. And from the crack of darkness inside, something grinned.