Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They buried her at midnight, as the will demanded.

No priest, no mourners. Only a gravedigger and the attorney who delivered the last rites with a trembling voice. The woman, Miss Elara Greaves, had died without family, friends, or record. But her coffin… was silver-laced and glowed in moonlight.

The gravedigger, a man named Osric, had dug many holes in this cursed soil—but never for someone like her.

"It's… humming," he whispered, running a calloused hand over the casket's lid. A low, vibrating tone pulsed beneath it—like a heartbeat made of sorrow.

The attorney didn't respond. He was already halfway back to the carriage.

Osric buried her fast.

But he didn't sleep that night.

Because around 2:00 a.m., the moon burned brighter than he'd ever seen it—and the grave began to glow.

Not from above.

From within.

Osric returned the next night. And the next. Drawn, unwillingly, by something achingly familiar about that coffin. On the fourth night, he brought a spade.

He dug.

Six feet under, the coffin shimmered like polished bone. The soil had not dampened its shine.

He hesitated.

Then opened it.

She lay there, as pristine as the night she died. Not a hair out of place. Hands folded neatly. A thin veil over her face. But her lips—her lips moved.

Only one word.

"Osric."

He stumbled back. "No… how?"

Her eyes opened—silver as the moon above.

"You promised to wait for me."

Memories surged. A life he'd buried not just in dirt, but in his mind. Elara, the woman he loved when he was still a man, before the Hollow Wars, before the dead whispered his name.

"You… died," he choked. "You drowned."

"I was taken," she said softly. "By those who sing to the moon. They needed a vessel. But I kept your name in my mind. It anchored me."

She reached out, skin glowing with ghostlight. "Bury me again, Osric, and I'll be theirs forever."

The wind howled above. Shadows danced around the graves.

He hesitated.

"You're not alive."

"I'm more than that now," she said. "But not yet lost."

He made a choice.

That night, under the silver eye of the moon, Osric lifted the coffin and carried it to the crypt beneath Hollow Pines. Not to bury—but to guard.

For as long as he lived.

Because love, even when dead, sometimes waits to return.

And because the moon still watched.

Still sang.

To this day, the crypt remains sealed by chains of silver and salt. But travelers say that on the brightest nights, a hum can be heard from beneath the forest floor—soft, steady, and mournful.

A lullaby for a love that refused to die.