Chapter 2: The New Blood

Chapter 2: The New Blood

The headlights cut through the gloom, painting the cemetery’s iron gates in a stark, momentary glare before blinking out. A car door slammed, the sound unnaturally loud in the evening quiet. Leo watched from the shadow of the gatehouse as the new kid approached, a walking cliché of nervous energy.

His name was Thomas Finch. He was maybe twenty-two, with a lean frame swimming in a security uniform that was at least one size too big. He walked with a forced swagger, a transparent attempt to project a confidence he clearly didn't possess. His eyes, however, told a different story; they were wide and restless, darting from the gnarled branches overhanging the wall to the deep shadows pooling between the tombstones.

“Leo Vance?” Thomas asked, his voice a little too loud. He stuck out a hand.

Leo looked at the offered hand, then back at Thomas’s face, his own expression unreadable. He gave a single, curt nod. He didn't offer his own hand. After a beat of awkward silence, Thomas let his arm drop.

“Right. Cool. So, uh, they said you’d show me the ropes,” Thomas said, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Doesn’t seem too complicated. Just walk around, make sure no kids are spray-painting stuff, right?”

Leo merely stared, his silence a heavy, smothering blanket. He pulled the massive iron key from his belt, unlocked the pedestrian gate, and gestured with his head for Thomas to enter.

The moment Thomas stepped across the threshold, he flinched, a slight tremor running through his shoulders. “Whoa. Temperature just dropped like ten degrees.” He laughed, a brittle, nervous sound. “Guess the old ghost stories are true, huh?”

Leo ignored him, pulling the gate shut. The click of the heavy lock echoed, a sound of finality that made Thomas’s smile falter. Leo held up his flashlight, then pointed a single finger at his own lips, his expression severe. Rule One. Then, he held up two fingers and made a sharp, warding-off gesture with his hands. Rule Two. He tapped his temple, pointed to his eyes, and then swept his arm in a slow arc across the dark expanse of the cemetery. Think. Watch. Everything else is a trap.

Thomas’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he nodded slowly, the last of his bravado draining away in the face of Leo’s unnerving solemnity.

Leo set off on the familiar gravel path, his limp a quiet, rhythmic counterpoint to the crunch of their boots. Thomas followed a few paces behind, his head on a constant swivel. As they passed the weeping angel statue, the soft, childish giggle from the night before echoed from the shadows. Thomas jumped, spinning around, his flashlight beam slicing wildly through the darkness.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, his voice a strained whisper.

Leo stopped and turned. He didn't look at the statue. He looked at Thomas. He put a firm, steadying hand on the younger man’s shoulder, applied just enough pressure to stop his trembling, and then slowly guided the flashlight beam back down to the path in front of them. He met Thomas’s terrified gaze and gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head. It’s nothing. Because if you make it something, it will be.

They continued on, the silence stretching between them, thick and fraught. The air grew cloying with the phantom scent of lavender near the Oakhaven plot. Thomas wrinkled his nose but had learned enough to keep his mouth shut this time. He was starting to understand that this wasn't a job; it was a ritual, and Leo was its grim high priest.

They were in one of the newer sections, where the graves were simple, flat markers instead of towering monuments, when Leo came to a sudden halt. His beam was fixed on a spot about thirty feet ahead.

Sitting on a small, granite headstone was the translucent figure of a little boy. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old, dressed in old-fashioned knickers and a cap, his form flickering like a faulty projection. He was crying, fat, silent tears rolling down his pale cheeks as he clutched a small, spectral toy car. He looked utterly lost and heartbreakingly sad.

Leo felt Thomas tense up beside him. The kid’s professional detachment, what little he’d built up, was crumbling fast.

“Jesus,” Thomas breathed, the word a puff of white in the cold air. “It’s just a kid.”

Leo shot him a warning look, his eyes cold as granite. He held up two fingers again, more forcefully this time. Never touch.

But Thomas wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was locked on the weeping child. This wasn't a playful giggle or a terrifying, unseen presence. This was a tragedy. It was a lure crafted not for fear, but for compassion—the most dangerous hook of all.

The spectral boy looked up, his large, sorrowful eyes seeming to plead directly with Thomas. He sniffled, a soundless, heartbreaking gesture, and held out the little toy car. An offering. A plea for comfort.

“We can’t just leave him like that,” Thomas whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

He took a half-step off the gravel path.

It was the exact same mistake Mark had made.

In a flash, Leo’s years of weary vigilance ignited into action. He grabbed the front of Thomas’s uniform, his grip like iron, and hauled him back with a force that sent the younger man stumbling into him.

The instant Thomas’s foot left the consecrated path, the illusion shattered.

The lost boy’s sorrowful face contorted into a mask of impossible rage. His jaw unhinged, stretching wide, wider, until his entire head was nothing but a gaping, silent maw. From the black vortex within, a wave of pure malevolence washed over them—not a sound, but a crushing psychic pressure that felt like drowning in ice. The air vibrated, and the toy car in the entity’s hand dissolved into black dust.

The figure flickered violently, like a dying bulb, and then vanished, leaving behind only an unnerving stillness and a lingering cold that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Thomas stood frozen, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The color had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly, chalky white. He stared at the empty tombstone, then at Leo, his eyes wide with the primal terror of a man who had just peered over the edge of a cliff and seen the abyss stare back.

Leo released his grip on Thomas's shirt. He slowly, deliberately, raised two fingers, holding them right in front of Thomas’s horrified face. His expression was grim, unforgiving. This was the lesson. This was the only way it could be taught.

He turned and continued his patrol without a backward glance. He heard the frantic crunch of gravel as Thomas scrambled to follow, sticking so close now that his shadow merged with Leo’s.

Leo felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. The boy’s bravado was gone, shattered by one close call. But what remained was worse. He’d seen the look in Thomas’s eyes just before he’d stepped off the path—not just curiosity, but a deep, aching empathy. The same doomed compassion that had gotten Mark unraveled from the world.

The night was far from over, and the hooks of Blackwood Hollow were just getting started.