I didn't stop running until I burst through my front door, chest heaving, lungs burning, legs trembling so badly I could barely stand. I slammed the lock shut, threw the deadbolt, and pressed my back against the wood as if that thin barrier could keep out something that walked through shadows and spoke to the dead.
It was hours before my breathing slowed. But the silence in the house wasn't comforting anymore—it was heavy, expectant. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like footsteps. Every shift of the wind outside carried whispers I couldn't quite make out. And beneath my sleeve, the mark throbbed—faster, hotter, darker than before. The lines had spread further now, winding up toward my shoulder, a black vine tracing veins that shouldn't exist.
That night, I tried everything to sleep with the lights on. I sat in the armchair, eyes fixed on the door, watching the shadows stretch and shrink on the walls. But exhaustion eventually pulled me under, and when I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my room anymore.
I was standing in the cemetery again. But this time it wasn't raining. The sky was a bruised purple, the moon swollen and blood-red, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to move on their own. Row upon row of graves stretched out before me, and in every single one… the earth was stirring.
Soil cracked. Bones shifted. Fingers—some skeletal, some still wrapped in tattered remnants of flesh and cloth—pushed upward, clawing their way into the night air.
Panic seized me. I tried to run, but my feet wouldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, as if the ground itself had reached up and grabbed my ankles. And then I realized—I wasn't the one in control here. My hands were rising on their own. My fingers were curling into a shape I had never seen before, guided by something that knew them better than I did.
"Wake," I spoke—but it wasn't my voice. It was deeper, echoing, as if it came from everywhere at once. "Arise."
The nearest grave burst open.
A figure pulled itself out—rotting clothes, hollow eyes, skin clinging tight to yellowed bone. It stood there, swaying, and turned its empty sockets toward me. Not with hunger. Not with rage. With obedience.
"No," I whispered, tears spilling over. "Stop. I didn't ask for this."
But the Necromancer's voice flooded my mind, drowning out everything else. You do not command them yet, Gerie. You only call them. I am the one who holds the leash. And they will come—every last one—until you learn to wield what I have given you.
The zombie took a step forward. Then another. And behind it, more were rising—dozens, hundreds, the dead of the whole cemetery waking at the touch of my will.
"Look at them," the voice urged. "Your father is among them. Do you want to see him again? Truly see him, speak to him, hold him? All you must do is reach out."
My heart shattered. The temptation was agony. To hear his voice one more time… to apologize… to tell him I was sorry…
But then I remembered what he had said in my last vision: Don't let him use you… don't let him bring us back wrong.
If I reached out now… would he still be my father? Or just a hollow shell answering a call?
I clenched my fists, fighting against the power surging through me. "No!" I screamed into the dark. "You don't get to use him against me! You don't get to use any of them!"
I forced my hands down. I fought the pull in my blood, the command burning in my bones, and shoved it back with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The rising dead froze. The earth stopped cracking. For a heartbeat, silence returned to the graveyard.
Then the Necromancer spoke—not in anger, but in something that sounded almost like satisfaction.
"Good. Fight it. Resist. Because the stronger your will… the more powerful my vessel becomes."
The dream shattered.
I jolted awake in my own bed, gasping, drenched in cold sweat, sunlight streaming through the window. It was morning. The world was bright and normal. But when I looked at my arm… the black lines had stopped spreading. They hadn't faded, but they weren't moving either. As if whatever force was driving them had paused—waiting.
I sat up, wiping my face. I didn't know how long I could hold out. I didn't know what the Necromancer was training me for, or what terrible purpose lay at the end of this path. But one thing was certain:
I wasn't going to go quietly. And if I had to carry death inside me… I would make sure it answered to me.