2:

2:

He had to get to Sloman’s office. Sloman could call the police, or the fire brigade, or whomever it took to fix this. The cemetery was large, covering many acres, but Jim had worked there nearly six months now, so he knew the quickest route.

As he ran down the asphalt path Jim felt the ground beside it rumble. Whatever had been underneath the shed was now chasing him. It was in the earth right beneath him. Something was terribly wrong, things like this shouldn’t happen. What had Cundle been doing in the shed to cause this to happen?

Jim’s heart pumped and the blood sang in his ears, colours seemed brighter and his vision was sharper. Jim could pick out individual blades of grass and petals on a daisy.

His cousin, a head-case who’d done two tours in Iraq, once told him this happened under fire. In fight or flight situations, all your senses went into overdrive and you knew things without realising how.

Jim was experiencing that now. He couldn’t tell how, but he knew whatever was pursuing him wasn’t burrowing beneath the earth, it was becoming it. The ground was too smooth and undisturbed for it to be digging. Somehow it was possessing the soil, like a vengeful spirit, converting the earth to whatever it was, then releasing it as it moved alongside the path in pursuit of him.

Jim’s pursuer overtook him and circled round in front, becoming the asphalt path in front of him. The asphalt up ahead rippled like it was suddenly gelatinous and the rumbling took on a harsher tone—the growl of a beast about to attack.

Jim turned and ran back up the path, tearing away from whatever was blocking his way. He spotted another path, branching off on his right, it would take him a little off course but he could still circle back and get to Sloman’s office. His pursuer followed, keeping time with Jim, sometimes beside the path, sometimes behind him, rumbling loudly like a hound nipping at his heels.

Jim came to a fork in the path and headed right to Sloman’s office. Whatever was pursuing him sped up and blocked his way again. Jim was forced to take the other fork. It’s playing with me, he thought. Pushing me down the route it wants me to take.

Jim was panting and his lungs were beginning to burn. He wasn’t in the best shape and the running was taking its toll. Halfway down the new path he saw the grave. He recognised it instantly. The gravestone was unique; Jim knew every inch of it intimately. The moment he saw it he knew why the thing in the ground had guided him here.

The ground in front of the gravestone had sunk into a deep depression, like a grassy pit. What made it look even odder was the way the turf all around it was folded in on itself. As though the grass was a balloon that had been deflated or the stretched and flabby skin of someone who’s undergone rapid weight loss. It had looked very different several days ago.