The Groundskeeper
One Month Later
I wipe the sweat from my brow, though the morning’s cold seeps into my bones. The air’s too still. Too quiet.
Fifteen years, I’ve worked these grounds. Cutting back roses no one notices, pulling weeds like it matters, skimming broken champagne bottles off the lake from spoiled brats who’ll never acknowledge I even exist.
But today feels wrong. Like the trees are holding their breath. A flicker of movement in the mist catches my eye. I still and narrow my gaze toward the tree line.
It’s a fox. Thin. Patchy-furred. Something pale dangles from its mouth as it trots across the path. I squint. It drops whatever it’s carrying when it sees me, then bolts into the underbrush without a sound.
I step toward the thing it left behind.
My boots crunch along the gravel path, and then the grass dampens the sound. The fog thins just enough. And I freeze.
Because I see it. A hand. A human hand, curled, limp, the wrist jagged where it’s been torn or chewed clean through. Fingers gnawed to the bone. Skin slick and gray, like it’s been soaking in something for too long.
My stomach lurches.
No…no, that’s not…
I stagger back two steps, breathing shallow and sharp. My throat closes up as the stench hits. Sweet rot. Copper. Wet earth soaked in death.
I double over and vomit into the grass. It splashes hot and sharp, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove.
My head’s spinning. My ears ring. This can’t be real. It can’t.
But I force myself to look again. And there, just beyond the hand, is more.
A body. Half covered by brush and fog, but unmistakably human. Face down. Hair matted with mud. Limbs bent the wrong way. A torn dress—or nightgown maybe—barely clinging to its frame. The flesh is bloated, discolored. Bugs already swarming above it.
I choke on a scream. Stumble back again, nearly fall. My radio crackles on my hip, but I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’ve worked here fifteen years, and I’ve never seen…
I clamp a hand over my mouth. Tears sting my eyes, and I blink too hard, trying to ground myself. Trying to breathe .
I need to call someone. I need to run. I need to do something. But all I do is stare.