"Morning came."
"Like it always does."
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
Ethan
I open my eyes wide.
I wake up and become fully conscious. I'm lying in bed in a quiet, dark room, breathing deeply and rapidly. My heart is pounding wildly in my chest. I place my hand on my chest, which calms me down a little. It's as if I'm trying to stop my heart from leaping out.
Above me, I make out a figure. The black silhouette of an animal. Kelly is sitting next to me, her head bent over mine. Drool is dripping from her lips right onto my face. I wipe my face with my hand. I sit up and scratch her behind the ear, and she starts licking my leg as if to thank me. She must have woken me up because she knew I was having a nightmare.
I'm sticky and sweaty, and my hair is limp and wet as though I've just stepped out of the shower. This terrifying image has been haunting me for weeks. It's always the same. I try to avoid sleep and stay awake most nights, but you can't keep this up forever. Every few nights, sleep and exhaustion get the better of me. At that moment, this fucking bloody nightmare returns. The past.
I reach for my phone, which is lying on the bedside table. I press the button, and the touchscreen lights up. I dim the brightness and wipe away a tear running down my face. It's almost five in the morning. I think I've had enough sleep for today.
Last Halloween was a difficult time for me. It's time to put it behind me and move on. I can't keep functioning like this; it'll soon start to affect my work, and I can't afford that. But I refuse to see a therapist. I don't believe in all that philosophical nonsense. I have my own remedy. No, it's not alcohol.
I climb out of bed and use my phone's light to find my workout clothes in the drawer. I pull on a T-shirt, shorts and socks. Spring is slowly coming to an end, and summer will start soon. The air temperature in Texas is already approaching twenty degrees in the early morning. Especially here in Dallas.
I strap a running armband to my arm, slip my phone into it and put my headphones in. I play my favourite tried-and-tested playlist, Run First, Think Later, on Spotify. It features a mix of older and newer songs that keep me in rhythm while running, help me clear my head or, on the contrary, let me think.
Half of the songs are hits from the '90s or earlier by artists such as Radiohead, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters and Nine Inch Nails. The other half consists of hits from 2000 onwards, such as Linkin Park, Imagine Dragons, Three Days Grace and Disturbed. I may have been born in '86, but I have good taste — unlike people who voluntarily put on country music after three beers. I'm not old, but I remember Discman players and the click of the CD player mechanism when you closed it. I also pay for Spotify Premium.
I run downstairs to the kitchen, where I boil some water and squeeze a lemon into it. It really gets your system going! In the hallway, I put on my running shoes. I leave the lead hanging on the hook — Kelly knows how to run by my side, and most importantly, she obeys my every command.
When I open the front door, a warm breeze hits me. The streetlights are still on, making it dim outside, but I can see the sun beginning to rise on the horizon. After stretching my muscles, mainly my legs, I start jogging, slowly at first because I'm still limping slightly when I walk.
This isn't as obvious when I'm running. Even though my leg hurts like hell, I won't give up; I'll keep training despite my physical therapist's warnings not to push myself too hard. After all, I suffered a serious injury, but I believe that through training I can get back to how things used to be. I have to believe it's possible.
Kelly runs alongside me at times, keeping an eye on her owner. Occasionally, a sound in the bushes catches her attention and she sets off to investigate. Hunting is in her blood — and why wouldn't it be? She's a hunting dog. She's even brought me a dead hare from the woods a few times.
A long time ago, our golden retriever had puppies and I kept one. I've had Kelly ever since — for seven years now. My faithful friend.
We dash into the forest behind the house and I pick up the pace, determined to maintain this speed all the way to my destination: a nearby ranch where my father lives with his wife and my stepsister.
Due to the nature of my job, which often involves staying in motels in other states, I have to leave Kelly in the care of my parents. I've been home for a few days now, but I have to travel for another case, so I decided to walk five and a half kilometres to the ranch this morning, where I'll leave Kelly with my parents for a few days.
It's cooler in the woods; the night air still lingers beneath the trees. Birds are already chirping in the treetops and, every now and then, I hear a branch snap beneath an animal's feet. I think I even spotted a deer among the trees.
We emerge from the woods into a green, grassy field where our horses are grazing. I stop for a moment to massage my left thigh – my leg is killing me, but I'm not giving up. Kelly is sitting by the fence, watching the bay horse munching on the green grass. That's our Dusty. She barks at him, trying to get his attention, but he completely ignores her. After a short rest, I stretch my muscles and set off around the field along the dusty road towards the ranch.
My father owns nearly fourteen thousand acres of land where not only horses, but also cattle graze. The steaks from them are really delicious, by the way. Home-raised meat is better than store-bought.
I grew up here, spending my childhood running around the fields and helping my father with his work. I don't want to think about what will happen to the land once he is gone. My sister isn't a rancher and won't take care of the cattle or the corn and wheat fields. As for me, I've loved this work since I was a child, but I don't have the time because of my job. My father is slowly reaching the age where he'll have to stop in a few years. He won't like it, but eventually he'll be convinced by time and age.
As I approach the farm, I can see our little brick house and the red barn. Behind the barn stands a tall silo where we store the harvested grain. The barn doors are open. My father has always been an early bird, and I inherited that from him. I slip through the open barn doors and look around. I see him loading bales of hay onto the trailer attached to the tractor. Next to the tractor is the combine harvester, which dad has prepared for the grain harvest. In Texas, the end of May and the beginning of June mean only one thing: the fields are waiting. He won't let the grain sit a day longer than necessary.
Kelly's barking alerts him that he's not alone in the barn. He lifts his head and the deep wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he bends down to Kelly, who is demanding his attention.
„Hi, girl," he says, scratching her behind the ears and under her muzzle. Kelly wags her tail with joy, stirring up dust and bits of fallen hay that get tangled in her tail hair. I'll have to comb it out again.
„Hi, Dad," I say, greeting my father.
„Good to see you, son. What are you doing here so early?" It's just after half past five. It took me about twenty minutes to get here because of my leg. I used to get here in ten minutes, but that was when I could run faster.
„I couldn't sleep, so I brought Kelly over. I don't know how long I'll be gone for because of work." He looks at me thoughtfully, then gets up and tosses another bale of hay onto the trailer. I jump in to help him load the rest of the bales onto the trailer. I stack them so they won't fall off on the way.
„What?" He doesn't take his eyes off me. The sun has already risen above the horizon, and perhaps he has noticed how tired I look.
„We'd love to keep her here, but I'll probably never understand why you chose this job, son." I'd love to tell him that I ask myself the same question. Being a detective in the homicide division isn't exactly the dream job for someone like my dad. You need the stomach for it, nerves of steel, and maybe even a bit of courage. Despite the nightmares that haunt me, I know I'm helping to put criminals behind bars. I'm contributing to society. It's just that dad used to think I'd be a full-time farmer, following in his footsteps.
„I'd like to say, that thanks to people like me, there's less evil in the world, but I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you, dad. You know I wasn't happy as a Ranger. I was bored – I need more action." I used to think being a Ranger would satisfy me, but once I entered this world, I gradually started wanting more. I was drawn to becoming a detective and solving murders. I've fulfilled my dream.
„And what did it cost you? More action. You nearly died last year. I'm too old to worry about your life, son. Besides, parents shouldn't outlive their children — remember that." He always plays the sentimental card in situations like this. But, in a way, he's right. Last Halloween was hell for me – well, not just for me. People had shot at me before, of course, but last year was the first time I'd been wounded myself. I almost didn't make it.
I was investigating a series of sadistic murders that mirrored the crimes that had shaken Rhode Island a few years ago with disturbing precision. The same mutilation method. The same „signature". It was the kind of brutality that burns itself into your memory and never fades.
There was one major problem, though.
The perpetrator of the original murders had been dead for two years.
It didn't make sense. Every detail, every forensic report and every piece of photographic evidence pointed to him — and yet it wasn't possible. Dead men can't kill. This kept me awake at night. It played over and over in my head like a broken record. If he was truly dead, who was continuing his work? And why?
I had to go back to where it all began.
I contacted the local sheriff, whose involvement in the case was closer than it might seem at first glance. I had good reason to suspect that he knew more than he was letting on. As it turned out, his involvement was primarily personal: he was sleeping with the wife of his former best friend. The wife of a man who was officially considered a serial killer. A man who was supposedly dead.
But he wasn't
My investigation led me to a desolate part of Rhode Island where reality had completely disintegrated. The evening still haunts my dreams to this day: the damp air; the silence, broken only by my own breathing; and the feeling that someone was watching me. It was there that I realised the truth was far darker than I could ever have imagined.
The killer wasn't alone.
His wife, the woman who had always seemed a broken widow, was his accomplice. She shared more than just a marital bed with him; she also shared his obsession, his sense of justice and his cruelty.
They attacked me.
They also attacked the then sheriff, Garrett.
That evening, we both survived by the skin of our teeth. We both came away with scars — some visible, some deep beneath the skin. Some are still healing today. Some will never heal.
I was lucky: I escaped with a scar stretching from my left cheekbone to the corner of my mouth, and a knife wound to my thigh which thankfully missed the main artery. However, I now limp on my left leg because the blade ended up in my femur. Yes, it's that nightmare that haunts me every time I close my eyes at night.
After they discharged me from hospital against medical advice because I couldn't stand it there any longer, I returned to Texas. I took a few weeks off work, which turned into almost six months as I was still recovering. I was seeing a physical therapist and trying to get my life back on track. I returned to work a month ago and my boss assigned me a major case involving a wealthy tycoon.
„Don't worry, dad. I won't be on my own anymore — my partner has passed his exams. Now I'll have someone to watch my back." I've never worked with anyone before; I've always worked alone. Having someone I can rely on will be a new experience for me, even if he's a jerk like my new partner. But I trust him — he's experienced. After all, he was a sheriff for several years, in charge of the whole district. He knows how to work with lots of people in a team. The fact that we can't stand each other is beside the point.
Dad sighs resignedly and waves his hand at me. I know it worries him; he's afraid for me. But parents will always worry about their kids, whether they're six or thirty-six.
„Come and help me move this stuff out of the way, and then take a shower. You smell awful. Besides, Ruth and Mallory will be happy to see you." I lift my arm and sniff my armpit – dad's right; I do smell bad.
„It's a family tradition, isn't it?" At least I'll fit right in on the ranch.
I climb into the passenger seat of the tractor and dad swings into the driver's seat. He revs the engine to life and, amid the constant clatter of the machine, we drive out of the barn to feed the animals. I miss this life. I won't lie — I should visit my parents more often while they're still alive. I'll stop by again soon and take my old horse, the one I used to ride almost every day when I was young, for a ride.
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
*Ranger – a member of the Texas Ranger Corps
── ✧ 🐎 ✧ ──
JUDGEMENT OF THE BURIED
𝓜𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒆 𝒀𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏, 2026