When earth moves

The shaking woke Jeremy again.

Frames rattled, his lamp flickered. “Another quake?” he mumbled, sitting up.

His mother rushed in, pale and breathless. “Stay in bed,” she whispered. Not yelled—whispered, like someone might hear. “Don’t open the door. Promise me.”

“But isn’t it safer outside during—”

“No,” she snapped, then softened. “Just... stay away from the window.”

She locked the door behind her.

Jeremy sat in the dark, confused. The air felt colder after every tremor. Something was wrong. His mother had never locked him in before.

Then came the smell—like soil and dead flowers.

He crept to the window and peeked through the curtain.

Across the street, the cemetery gates stood open. Mounds of fresh dirt spilled from graves.

Figures rose, clawing through the earth, moving toward the road.

Jeremy’s blood ran cold as another tremor rolled beneath his feet.

This wasn’t an earthquake. It was them. Coming out.