My husband left my father’s funeral to travel with his mistress. But at 3 a.m. I received a message from my father: “my daughter it’s me, dad. Come to the cemetery immediately and very quietly.”

My father’s phone was standing upright against his gravestone, its screen glowing softly in the dark.

My breath caught as I approached. The soil around the grave was disturbed, marked with footprints that were not mine and not old enough to belong to the burial crew. Someone had been there recently, deliberately.

Before I could fully process what that meant, I heard a faint metallic sound behind me, like a tool shifting or a foot striking something solid. My entire body froze.

I was not alone.

I turned slowly and saw a figure near the edge of the trees, average in height, wearing a hooded jacket. Their hands were hidden in their pockets, their face swallowed by shadow, but I could feel their attention fixed on me.

“Who are you?” I called out, forcing my voice to stay steady.

The figure did not answer. Instead, they stepped back cautiously.

“I am calling the police,” I said.

That made them stop.

After a long pause, a voice emerged from the darkness, trembling and unmistakably familiar.

“Meredith, please wait.”