Chapter 6
Dawn broke over Maple Street in a wash of pale gold and slate grey. Maya stood on the back patio with a heavy iron shovel in her hands, her muscles already aching from hours of physical preparation. Barnaby trotted around the edge of the lawn, sniffing intently at the perimeter of the stone patio where the grass met the concrete pavers. The air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of morning dew and wet earth.
She had spent the remainder of the night researching local property laws and historical excavation permits. While technically she could be opening a legal Pandora's box by unearthing human remains on private property, the alternative—living under the same roof as a trapped soul—was entirely unacceptable. She needed closure, and so did Elena.
With a deep breath, Maya jammed the blade of the shovel into the narrow dirt crack between the concrete foundation wall and the first row of patio stones. The metal scraped against stone with a harsh, grating sound. She threw her weight onto the handle, leveraging the heavy paver upward until it popped free with a dull thud.
The soil beneath was unnaturally dark and compacted, unlike the loose garden loam surrounding it. Maya worked systematically, tossing aside the heavy stone slabs one by one until a circular patch of earth roughly six feet long was exposed to the morning light.
As she worked, the temperature around the excavation site dropped noticeably. The birds stopped singing in the maples overhead, and a heavy, suffocating silence settled over the yard. Maya paused, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her forearm. Standing ten feet away, half-concealed by the morning mist rolling off the lawn, was Elena. The ghost watched her with an intensity that made Maya’s skin prickle, her hands clasped tightly in front of her white gown.
"I'm getting you out," Maya said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
She began to dig with the shovel, tossing shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto the surrounding grass. The work was grueling, blisters forming instantly across her palms, but she refused to stop. After excavating nearly three feet of dense clay and gravel, the blade of the shovel struck something with a dull, resonant clink.
Maya dropped to her knees, discarding the shovel in favor of a small hand trowel and her bare hands. She scraped away the remaining wet earth, revealing the unmistakable curve of aged timber—the remains of an old shipping crate used as a makeshift burial container back in 1967.
May you like
Barnaby walked over, resting his chin on the edge of the excavation pit, letting out a low, sympathetic whine. Maya reached down, her fingers brushing against the decayed wood. The barrier between the past and the present had finally been breached.
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