Sheriff Luther Cole

They woke me before sunrise, which, in my book, is the surest way to sour a man’s disposition before the day’s begun. Dispatch said it was Oliver down at the funeral home, claiming somebody had been “walking among the graves.”

Now, I’ve known Oliver since high school. He’s got a voice that can make Sunday sound like a funeral and a way of telling a story that’ll chill you clear through, but he’s no fool. If he calls, I go.

The air was thick as pond water when I pulled up, headlights slicing through mist. Oliver was waiting by the gate, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like a man who’d seen something he couldn’t rightly name.

“Sheriff,” he said, “I reckon you’ll think I’m cracked, but I heard Merlene’s whistle last night.”

I looked at him for a long moment. “She’s been dead a pretty good while, Oliver.”

He nodded, eyes steady. “That’s what makes it worth mentionin’.”

I didn’t laugh, but I sure did want to. There’s something about a graveyard that makes humor feel disrespectful, even when it’s needed most. I followed him through the rows, dew slick on the grass, the stones gray ghosts in the half-light.

He stopped near her grave and pointed. There, clear as footprints in fresh snow, were two impressions in the wet grass. One deep and square, like a man’s boot heel, and one small, bare, and light as a breath.

“You reckon somebody’s playin’ games out here?” I asked.

Oliver shook his head. “I think somebody’s been called back, Sheriff. And not all who come back do so of their own accord.”

Before I could answer, something flickered through the trees. It was just a glint of silver, quick as lightning. I turned, flashlight raised, but it was gone. Just a shimmer of fog curling through the fence, I reckon.

I told Oliver I’d circle the grounds, though I half-expected to find nothing but my own echo. Still, I felt watched, not by any person, but by the place itself. By the weight of stories that never got told right.

By the time I reached the cruiser, the sun had begun its climb, pale and unwilling. I turned the engine over and drove straight into town, figuring a cup of coffee and a plate of Sadie Mae’s biscuits might put things in perspective.

When I walked into the Huddle House, all heads turned. They already knew. In Piedmont, the dust barely has time to settle before the whispers rise.

“Sheriff,” Clara Mae called from the counter, “is it true? They say Merlene’s walkin’ again.”

I didn’t answer right off. I just took my seat by the window, watching the sunlight burn the fog off Terrapin Creek.

“Ma’am,” I said at last, “I’ll let you know soon as I figure out who’s stirring; the living or the dead.”

*****

New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.