The last light of day filtered through the skeletal trees as I parked our station wagon at the edge of Gethsemane Cemetery. My daughters, Emma and Lily, pressed their faces against the windows, their breath forming small clouds on the glass. It had become our Sunday ritual since Claire passed—these visits to where she rested beneath the unyielding earth.
“Daddy, can I bring Mommy the picture I drew?” six-year-old Lily asked, clutching a crayon drawing of our family—four stick figures, though we were only three now.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Mom would love that.”
Emma, at nine, remained silent, her eyes carrying a gravity no child should bear. She understood more than her sister, perhaps more than I wanted her to.
The cemetery stretched before us like a small city of stone and silence. I loved my daughters with a ferocity that sometimes frightened me—especially now, when I was all they had. Their resilience amazed me daily. While I drowned in grief at night, they somehow found ways to keep swimming through their days.
We followed the familiar path, past the Thornfield mausoleum with its weathered angels, beyond the cluster of nineteenth-century graves with their tilted markers. The girls had memorized the route, finding strange comfort in the routine.
“Mr. Finch is here again,” Emma observed, nodding toward an elderly man placing daisies on a modest grave. We’d seen him every Sunday for months, though we’d never spoken.
“Some people visit for a very long time,” I explained, squeezing her hand.
It was mid-October, and the cemetery had taken on its autumn personality—leaves crackling beneath our feet, the smell of loamy earth and approaching frost. I’d grown to know this place intimately, noting its changes with the seasons, the way certain headstones caught the light at specific times of day.
At Claire’s grave, Lily immediately knelt and began arranging her drawing, securing it with a small stone she’d selected for this purpose. Emma stood beside me, slipping her hand into mine.
“Do you think she knows we’re here?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
“I believe she does,” I answered, though certainty was a luxury I no longer possessed.
As dusk deepened around us, I noticed something unusual—a small door, set into the hillside beyond the newer section of graves. In the fifteen months we’d been visiting, I’d never observed it before.
“What’s that, Daddy?” Lily asked, following my gaze.
“Probably just a maintenance shed,” I replied, though something about its weathered wooden surface made me uneasy.
That night, after tucking the girls into bed, I found myself unable to shake the image of that door from my mind. I poured a glass of whiskey—my nightly companion since Claire’s death—and sat at the kitchen table with my laptop, searching for information about Gethsemane Cemetery’s history.
The cemetery dated back to 1843, established when the town was still a frontier outpost. What caught my attention, however, was a brief mention of tunnels—a network supposedly built beneath the cemetery during Prohibition, later sealed off after several unexplained disappearances in 1951.
Sleep came fitfully, dreams of Claire intermingling with visions of dark passageways beneath the earth. I woke to Emma standing beside my bed, her face pale in the moonlight.
“Daddy, someone’s calling for Mommy,” she whispered.
My heart lurched. “You were dreaming, sweetheart.”
She shook her head with a certainty that chilled me. “No. I heard it coming through the heating vent. A voice saying ‘Claire, Claire, we’re waiting.'”
I checked the house, of course—every room, every closet, the basement with its ancient furnace. Nothing was amiss, yet I couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over me. Emma eventually fell back asleep beside me, but I remained awake until dawn painted the horizon.
The next Sunday, the girls and I returned to the cemetery. The day was unseasonably warm for late October, the sky a piercing blue that seemed to mock the solemnity of the place. Lily skipped ahead, her grief more elastic than ours, while Emma walked beside me, unusually quiet even for her.
“Are you still thinking about that voice?” I asked her.
She nodded. “It wasn’t a dream, Dad.”
“I believe you heard something,” I said carefully. “But sometimes our minds play tricks when we’re missing someone.”
Her expression told me she wasn’t convinced.
At Claire’s grave, something was different. A small, unfamiliar object rested against her headstone—a carved wooden box, roughly the size of my palm. I picked it up cautiously.
“What is it?” Lily asked, crowding close.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Someone must have left it at the wrong grave.”
But even as I said it, I noticed something carved into the bottom of the box—Claire’s initials, CSM. Claire Susan Montgomery.
Emma’s eyes widened. “Open it, Dad.”
I hesitated, then carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of paper and what appeared to be a very old key made of tarnished brass. My hands trembled as I unfolded the note. The handwriting was spidery, faded:
*She walks between worlds now. The door awaits those who would follow. Choose wisely.*
“What does it mean?” Emma asked, reading over my shoulder.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly, folding the paper and pocketing both it and the key. “Just someone’s idea of a joke.”
But my eyes drifted to that door in the hillside, now visible in the distance. A joke, or something else entirely?
Lily tugged at my sleeve. “Daddy, look at the birdie!”
A raven had landed on Claire’s headstone, its obsidian eyes fixed on us with unsettling intelligence. As we watched, it cawed once—a harsh, deliberate sound—then took flight, circling three times before heading directly toward the hillside door.
“Can we see where it goes?” Lily asked innocently.
“No,” I said firmly. “It’s getting late. We should head home.”
That night, after the girls were asleep, I examined the key more carefully. Its design was peculiar—the bow shaped like two entwined figures, the bit complex with unusual notches. The metal felt unnaturally cold against my skin.
I returned to my research, digging deeper into Gethsemane’s history. What I found disturbed me. Before becoming a cemetery, the land had belonged to a religious sect called the Brethren of the Veil, who believed in direct communion with the dead. According to local legends, they had constructed an elaborate underground temple where they conducted rituals to “thin the boundary between worlds.”
Most unsettling was an account from 1951—the same year as the disappearances. A groundskeeper reported finding a young woman wandering the cemetery at dawn, disoriented and covered in dirt. She claimed to have been visiting her recently deceased husband when she heard his voice calling from beneath his grave. Following the sound, she discovered a door and a passage leading underground. She described rooms filled with “those who wait between,” before she was discovered and hospitalized for apparent delusions.
The woman’s name was Elizabeth Montgomery—Claire’s great-grandmother.
Sleep eluded me. Around three in the morning, I heard a sound from Emma’s room—not crying, but singing. A soft, barely audible melody. I found her sitting upright in bed, eyes open but unfocused.
“Emma?” I touched her shoulder gently.
She blinked, confusion crossing her face. “Dad? Why are you in my room?”
“You were singing, sweetheart.”
“No I wasn’t,” she protested. “I was dreaming about Mom. She was trying to tell me something.”
“What was she saying?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Emma’s brow furrowed. “That’s the strange part. She said, ‘Tell your father the door only opens on the third Sunday.'” She looked up at me, eyes searching. “What does that mean?”
My blood ran cold. Today had been the third Sunday of October.
The following morning, I called in sick to work and kept the girls home from school. I told myself it was for a mental health day—that we all needed time together after the strange events at the cemetery. But truthfully, fear kept me from letting them out of my sight.
While they watched cartoons in the living room, I examined the key again, turning it over in my hands. A decision was forming in my mind—one born of desperation and grief, perhaps, but inexorable nonetheless.
“Girls,” I said, entering the living room. “How would you feel about visiting Mommy again today?”
Emma gave me a searching look. “It’s not Sunday.”
“I know, but I thought we could bring her some fresh flowers.”
Lily clapped her hands. “Can we get the pretty purple ones she liked?”
“Of course,” I said, forcing a smile.
The cemetery was nearly deserted on a Tuesday afternoon. We placed fresh lavender at Claire’s grave, the girls chattering to their mother about school and friends. I found myself distracted, my eyes repeatedly drawn to the hillside door.
“Dad,” Emma said suddenly, tugging my sleeve. “Mr. Finch is watching us.”
The elderly man stood some distance away, his usual daisies clutched in one hand. But instead of visiting his usual grave, he was indeed watching us, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
“Wait here with Lily,” I told Emma. “I’ll be right back.”
As I approached him, Mr. Finch made no move to leave. Up close, I could see his face was deeply lined, his eyes a watery blue that seemed to hold both kindness and warning.
“You found the key,” he said without preamble.
I stopped, startled. “You left it?”
He shook his head. “Not I. The cemetery provides what is needed, when it’s needed.” His gaze drifted to my daughters. “Those children need their father more than you need answers.”
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Someone who made the wrong choice, long ago.” He looked back at me, his expression softening. “The door will open again on the third Sunday of November. But remember—passages run both ways. Some who enter never return. Others return… changed.”
Before I could question him further, he turned and walked away, his slight figure soon lost among the headstones.
That night, I dreamed of Claire. We stood in our kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows as it had on countless mornings before her illness.
“You always were stubborn,” she said, smiling that smile that had first captured my heart fifteen years ago.
“I miss you,” I told her, my dream-self reaching for her hand. “The girls miss you.”
“I know.” Her expression grew serious. “But Daniel, you mustn’t open the door. Promise me.”
I woke before I could answer, the echo of her voice lingering in the darkness of our bedroom.
The weeks that followed were marked by escalating strangeness. Lily began conversing with an invisible friend she called “The Lady,” who apparently told her stories about “the waiting place.” Emma’s sleepwalking increased—twice I found her in the basement, standing before the old coal chute, her fingers tracing patterns on its rusted door.
At work, I struggled to concentrate, my thoughts constantly returning to the cemetery door and what might lie beyond it. I began making notes, connecting Claire’s family history to the legends surrounding Gethsemane. Elizabeth Montgomery hadn’t been the only one in Claire’s lineage with strange experiences there. Claire’s father had reportedly suffered from delusions about “voices from the graves” before his suicide when Claire was just a child.
Had Claire known about this family history? She’d always refused to discuss her father’s death, changing the subject whenever it arose. Now I wondered what secrets she might have carried.
The third Sunday of November approached with inexorable slowness. I hadn’t decided what to do—whether to heed Claire’s warning in my dream or to seek answers behind that mysterious door. The key remained hidden in my desk drawer, though I found myself checking it daily, as if afraid it might disappear.
Three days before the third Sunday, Emma came to me after Lily was in bed.
“Dad, I need to tell you something,” she said, her young face solemn. “Mom doesn’t want you to use the key.”
A chill ran through me. “What do you mean, Emma?”
“She comes to me in my dreams. She says the people behind the door want something from us—something in our blood.” Emma’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She says her family has been paying a price for generations, and she tried to end it by moving away. But now we’ve come back.”
I pulled her into a hug, feeling her small body trembling against mine. “They’re just dreams, sweetheart. Mommy isn’t really speaking to you.”
But even as I said the words, I doubted them.
The night before the third Sunday, I made my decision. I would go alone to the cemetery at dawn, before taking the girls for our regular visit. Whatever waited behind that door, I would face it myself.
I rose before sunrise, leaving a note saying I’d gone for an early morning walk. The November air bit at my face as I drove the now-familiar route to Gethsemane. The cemetery gates stood open, which struck me as unusual at such an early hour.
Mist clung to the ground, swirling around the headstones like spectral fingers. I made my way to Claire’s grave first, standing silently before the marble that bore her name.
“I need to know,” I whispered to her. “I need to understand what’s happening to our daughters.”
The hillside door looked different in the dim morning light—older somehow, the wood darker and more weathered. The key slid into the lock with an unsettling ease, as if the mechanism had been recently oiled. It turned with a soft click.
The door swung inward, revealing a narrow passage that descended into darkness. The air that wafted out was surprisingly warm and carried a scent I couldn’t immediately identify—something like incense mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
I switched on my flashlight and stepped across the threshold. The passage was lined with rough-hewn stone, the floor worn smooth by what must have been countless footsteps over the years. I followed it downward, the silence broken only by the sound of my breathing and the occasional drip of water.
After what seemed like a hundred yards, the passage opened into a circular chamber. My flashlight revealed walls covered in faded symbols and what appeared to be names—hundreds of names, some so old they were barely legible. With a jolt, I recognized one: Elizabeth Montgomery.
Below her name was Claire’s father, James Montgomery. And below his, to my horror, was Claire’s name—not written in the same faded script as the others, but freshly carved into the stone.
“She wasn’t supposed to leave.” The voice behind me sent ice through my veins.
I whirled around. Mr. Finch stood in the entrance to the chamber, but he looked different—younger somehow, his back straighter, his eyes clearer.
“What is this place?” I demanded.
“A waiting room, you might say.” He stepped further into the chamber. “The Brethren understood that death is not an ending but a transition. This place—these tunnels—they exist at the boundary between worlds.”
“And Claire? What does she have to do with this?”
His smile held no warmth. “The Montgomery bloodline has served as caretakers for generations. One from each generation remains here, maintaining the balance. Elizabeth was chosen, then James. Claire was next, but she ran away, married you, tried to escape her responsibility.”
“That’s insane,” I said, backing away from him. “Claire died of cancer.”
“Did she? Or was that simply what the doctors called it when her body began to transform? The blood sickness that comes when one of the chosen resists?” He moved closer. “She knew, in the end. Why do you think she made you promise to bring the girls to her grave? She was calling them home.”
Horror washed over me. “My daughters have nothing to do with this.”
“But they do. The Montgomery bloodline continues through them. One must serve.” His eyes gleamed in the flashlight beam. “Usually we prefer the eldest, but the little one—Lily—she already speaks to those who wait. She would transition more easily.”
Rage surged through me. “Stay away from my children!”
“You misunderstand. I’m offering you a choice Claire never had. Give us one daughter to serve as caretaker, and the other may live a normal life with you.” He spread his hands. “A fair exchange. After all, Claire has been… lonely.”
“Claire is dead,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Is she?” He gestured to another passage leading from the chamber. “See for yourself.”
Against every instinct, I followed where he pointed, moving down a corridor lined with what appeared to be small cells, their entrances covered with hanging veils of some dark material. From behind them came whispers—countless voices murmuring in languages I couldn’t understand.
At the end of the corridor was a larger space, illuminated by candles. And there, sitting on what looked like a stone throne, was a figure that both was and wasn’t my wife. She had Claire’s face, Claire’s hands, but her skin had a translucent quality, and her eyes—God, her eyes were completely black, like pools of ink.
“Daniel,” she said, and it was Claire’s voice, the voice I’d longed to hear for over a year. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Claire?” I stumbled forward. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing I didn’t ultimately accept.” She rose from the throne with an unnatural grace. “My family has served the Brethren for generations. I thought I could escape it, but the blood calls us back. Always.”
“This isn’t real,” I said, backing away. “You’re not Claire.”
Sadness crossed her familiar features. “Parts of me are still the woman you loved. Enough to know you need to take our daughters and leave this place. Never return to Gethsemane.”
“But the girls—they’ve been hearing voices, having dreams—”
“The blood calls to them already,” she said, her voice tinged with sorrow. “Get them away from here. As far as possible.”
Mr. Finch appeared beside her. “You know the price of such defiance, Claire. If your line abandons its duty, the veil thins. Those who wait will find other ways to cross.”
“Then find another family,” she snapped, sudden ferocity in her voice. “My daughters will not serve.”
His face hardened. “Then you leave us no choice.”
Before I could react, he lunged forward with surprising speed, his hand closing around my throat. Despite his elderly appearance, his strength was immense, inhuman. Darkness edged my vision as I struggled against his grip.
“Stop!” Claire’s voice rang out. “Release him or I’ll tear down the veil myself!”
The pressure on my throat eased slightly. Through spotty vision, I saw Claire—or the thing that had been Claire—standing with her hands pressed against the wall of the chamber. Beneath her palms, the stone seemed to ripple like water.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Finch hissed. “You know what lies beyond.”
“Try me,” she said, and something in her voice must have convinced him, for he released me entirely.
I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.
“Take him back,” Claire commanded. “Let him leave with our daughters and never return.”
Finch’s face contorted with rage. “The Brethren will not accept this.”
“The Brethren have no choice,” Claire replied. “I’ve learned much in my time here. More than any caretaker before me.” Her black eyes fixed on him. “Now go.”
To my amazement, Finch obeyed, retreating down the corridor. Claire knelt beside me, her cold hand brushing my cheek.
“You must leave now,” she whispered. “Take Emma and Lily far from here. Change your names if necessary.”
“Come with us,” I pleaded.
Sadness crossed her face. “I can’t. What I am now cannot exist in your world. But I can give you time to escape.” She pressed something into my hand—a small cloth pouch. “Protective herbs. Keep this with the girls at all times.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” I said, my voice breaking.
“You don’t need to understand. You only need to run.” She helped me to my feet. “Go now, while I can still hold them back.”
The journey back through the tunnels passed in a blur. Finch led me silently, his earlier menace replaced by a simmering resentment. At the door, he turned to me.
“This isn’t over,” he said quietly. “The blood calls. Always.”
I stumbled out into the daylight, the door closing behind me with a terrible finality. The cemetery looked the same as always—peaceful, ordinary in the morning light. But I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
I drove home in a daze, the cloth pouch clutched in my hand. The girls were still asleep when I arrived, their innocent faces untroubled. How could I uproot them, take them from the only home they’d known since their mother’s death? Yet how could I not, knowing what waited beneath Gethsemane?
As I stood watching them sleep, Lily’s eyes suddenly opened.
“Daddy,” she said drowsily, “Mommy says we need to go on a trip.”
Emma stirred beside her. “I had the same dream,” she murmured. “Mom said we have to leave today.”
Decision made, I began packing immediately. By noon, our minivan was loaded with essential belongings. I told the girls we were taking a spontaneous vacation—an adventure. They accepted this with the resilience of children, excited by the disruption to routine.
As we pulled away from our home, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Mr. Finch stood on the sidewalk across the street, watching us depart.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked.
“Somewhere new,” I told her. “Somewhere far away.”
I drove west, putting miles between us and Gethsemane Cemetery, between my daughters and whatever dark legacy waited in their blood. Claire had bought us time—at what cost, I couldn’t bear to contemplate.
That night, in a motel room hundreds of miles from home, I placed Claire’s protective pouch between the girls’ pillows as they slept. Outside, a raven landed on the windowsill, its obsidian eyes peering into the room. I closed the curtains firmly, shutting out its watchful gaze.
We would run. We would hide. And somehow, I would find a way to break the blood-tie that bound my daughters to that unholy place. I had to—for them, for Claire, and for whatever remained of the family we once were.
But in my dreams that night, I returned to the underground chamber. Claire waited there, her black eyes sorrowful.
“They will never stop searching,” she whispered. “The blood calls. Always.”
And from somewhere deeper in the tunnels came the sound of childish laughter—Lily’s voice, calling my name.