The cold wind howled around us as I staggered to a stop, chest heaving. “Huff… huff…” I bent over slightly, catching my breath, one hand resting on my knee while the other clutched my dark cloak. Somewhere along the sprint, it had slipped off my head, revealing my fox ears to the crisp morning air and anyone who might’ve been watching. With a hasty flick, I pulled the hood back up and secured it, trying to salvage what little stealth I had left. My breath came out in visible puffs, and I turned to my companion, my voice ragged. “Why are we running again?”

  “I mean… it's an undead, isn’t that enough reason?” Lyra replied, equally breathless. She leaned against a tree, adjusting the hood of her own cloak with trembling fingers. Her golden hair, now windswept and tangled, caught flickers of morning light as she stuffed the strands back inside the hood with visible frustration. “You saw that thing, right? They were glowing like cursed moonlight!”

  We turned our eyes back toward the graveyard, now a safe distance behind us. From where we stood, it looked like nothing more than a peaceful, mist-covered hill surrounded by weathered stone markers. But we both knew better. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t resting peacefully like the others buried there. A chill ran down my spine, whether from the cold or the memory, I couldn’t tell.

  Our frantic escape had carried us far enough that we now found ourselves standing in front of an old house nestled at the edge of the woods. The structure had clearly aged with time, its wooden frame darkened by years of weather and snow. Yet it wasn’t abandoned. The windows were clean, the door freshly oiled, and neat stacks of firewood lined the walls. There were flowers, too, little winter blooms growing in a stone planter box by the steps. Whoever lived here hadn’t given up on beauty, even in such a quiet and lonely place.

  Then, without warning, a voice sliced through the still air. Soft, low, and disturbingly close.

  “Excuse me, are you two the adventurers that accepted my quest?”

  The voice was raspy, brittle with age, and echoed as if it came from somewhere deep and cold. I spun toward it, and Lyra did too, just in time to see the source.

  A woman stood there. Elderly, with a frail, hunched frame, wrapped in layers of heavy robes that blended into the snowy backdrop. Her face was worn and pale like parchment, and her eyes shimmered with a strange clarity, too sharp for someone so old. There hadn’t been a single footstep, no sound of her approach.

  “AAAA! GHOST!” I screamed instinctively, and at the same time, Lyra let out a high-pitched shriek of her own. Without thinking, we grabbed each other in a tight, mutual hug, trembling like frightened cats caught in a blizzard. Our cloaks tangled, and I could feel Lyra’s heart pounding just as loudly as mine.

  The old woman raised an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by our dramatic reaction. “Oh hush, I’m not a ghost,” she muttered, leaning heavily on her cane as she stepped forward, her steps slow but certain. Her gray hair was tied neatly behind her head, and though her face bore deep lines, her eyes gleamed with a spark of sharp wit.

  Lyra peeked over my shoulder, still clinging tightly. “A-Are you sure? You came out of nowhere… and your voice was all spooky!”

  The old woman gave a small, raspy laugh. “Spooky, huh? Maybe that’s just age catching up with me.” She pointed toward the house. “This is my home. I’ve been waiting for someone to take care of that graveyard for weeks. You two are planning on doing the job, or were you just sightseeing?”

  Lyra glanced at me, then back at the woman. “I, um, technically did accept the quest… though I didn’t expect undead. That wasn’t in the posting!”

  “Well, the graveyard’s old. Spirits get restless. You want coin or not?” she said, turning and walking toward her house without another word, expecting us to follow.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Lyra and I exchanged a look. Still holding each other a little too tightly, we finally let go.

  “…She’s scarier than the undead,” Lyra whispered.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But we’re already in it now.”

  The old woman’s cane thudded softly against the ground as she shuffled toward her porch, not even bothering to glance back to see if we were following. The quiet rustle of her steps through the scattered leaves was almost more ominous than the undead we’d just barely escaped. It was like she’d walked this path so many times that fear had long since stopped bothering to tag along.

  “She just… lives here?” Lyra whispered beside me, eyes still darting toward the treeline as if another zombie might come lumbering out at any second.

  “I guess?” I replied, keeping pace with the old woman. “I mean, she said she’s been waiting for someone to take the job. Maybe this is just how things are around here.”

  As we approached the porch, the old woman reached into a basket beside the door and pulled out a small leather pouch. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it toward me. Despite her age, her aim was surprisingly good, and I caught it with a light thud against my palm.

  “Three silver each,” she said matter-of-factly. “For scaring off the restless ones, even if you ran off halfway. If you want to earn the rest, go back and finish the job. And this time, don’t run.”

  I opened the pouch and peeked inside. The coins shimmered faintly in the light, worn but real.

  “Wait—finish?” Lyra blurted out. “You mean we have to go back there?!”

  The old woman simply turned and headed into her house, the wooden door creaking behind her as she disappeared inside without another word.

  “…She didn’t say no,” I muttered.

  Lyra groaned. “I miss hiding in libraries. Quiet libraries with no undead and definitely no terrifying old women.”

  I walked behind Lyra, half-hiding behind her as we made our way, very slowly back toward the graveyard. I went behind Lyra as I not-so-gently nudged her forward, forcing her to walk back toward the graveyard with me. The wind carried a faint chill, and the snow crunched softly beneath our boots as we shuffled along the narrow trail.

  "Lyra, you’re strong, right? I mean, you have that magical silver bow and everything," I said, my voice half-teasing and half-serious as I kept pushing her forward, fully intending to use her as a meatshield. My pace slowed as I nudged her forward. "You can totally handle a ghost or two."

  Lyra huffed and glanced back at me with narrowed eyes. "Oi! I’m just a level nine elf! I picked this quest because I thought I wouldn’t have to fight anything! I was told it was just cleaning up graves! No undead, no cursed shadows, nothing!"

  Despite her words, she took a few more hesitant steps before quickly pivoting her feet and scurrying to my side, cowering just as much as I was. "You’re stronger than me! I’m just level five!" I shot back, mimicking her movement and ducking behind her again. "I can barely deal with frogs and cockroaches!"

  What followed was an incredibly unproductive game of who-can-hide-behind-who as we traded places again and again. We shuffled awkwardly in circles, making very little forward progress. Anyone watching us would have thought we were performing a poorly choreographed dance of cowardice.

  And so the game continued: me behind Lyra, Lyra behind me, both of us looking ridiculous as we danced around each other like nervous cats trying to avoid a puddle. Neither of us made any real progress toward the graveyard.

  After several minutes of this absurd dance, the front door of the house slammed open with such force that I nearly dropped the box. The same old woman from before emerged, her eyes sharp and her cane ready like a sword drawn for battle.

  The sharp clatter of ceramic against my skull rang through the morning air as a salt bottle smacked squarely against my forehead. I stumbled back, half from the impact, half from shock. Reflexively, I caught the bottle just before it could hit the floor, my fingers trembling as I cradled it like a relic of some strange battlefield.

  "SHADDAP!" she bellowed with the command of a seasoned general silencing her troops. She pointed her cane straight toward the graveyard with the intensity of someone casting a divine judgment. "There’s no monsters, undead, or whatever nonsense you want to call it over there. Just ghosts! Harmless, bored ghosts! Now get your cowardly behinds over there before I haunt you myself!"

  We both stood frozen, upright like two scolded children caught sneaking cookies before dinner. Both Lyra and I flinched like scolded puppies. I gulped and looked at Lyra, who seemed to be trying very hard not to make eye contact with the old woman.

  And we both shuffled forward in perfect unison, toward the graveyard at last.