The night she died, the rain fell like God Himself was weeping. Joseph held Amara’s cold hand on the hospital bed, watching the monitor flatline while the doctor whispered, “She’s gone.” His world shattered instantly.

They had been married for three years, childless, but deeply in love. She had been everything to him—his laughter, his prayer partner, his home. They said she died of complications from a sudden illness that no one could explain.

He buried her with his trembling hands, refusing to let anyone else touch her casket.

He cried so much that people began to wonder if he’d survive his grief. Every night for months, he visited her grave, talking to her, leaving flowers, sometimes food, like a man who didn’t understand death was final. Six months later, he finally decided to move on.

He changed jobs, stopped visiting the cemetery, and even started attending a grief support group. That was when things began to get strange. One cold evening, Joseph returned home from work and found muddy footprints at his doorstep. They were bare, small, and familiar. The scent of Amara’s perfume filled the air—the same one he had buried with her.

His heart raced as he called out, “Who’s there?” No response.

But the sound of soft humming came from inside—the same song Amara always sang when she cooked.

His legs trembled. Slowly, he pushed open the kitchen door… and dropped the grocery bag in his hand. Standing there, in the same purple dress he buried her in, was Amara. Her skin pale, her hair longer, her belly visibly swollen.

Her eyes met his, and she smiled faintly. “Joseph,” she whispered, “you buried me alive.” His knees buckled, and he stumbled backward, his voice shaking, “Amara… what—what are you saying? You’re dead.

I buried you myself!” She looked down at her stomach, then back at him. “And now… I’m carrying something that isn’t yours.” The lights flickered, the air grew cold, and Joseph’s scream echoed through the house as thunder roared outside.

EPISODE 2

Joseph didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t.

How could any man sleep after seeing his dead wife standing in his kitchen, alive—and pregnant?

His heart raced like it would tear through his chest. He kept staring at her, trembling, waiting for her to disappear like a ghost, but she didn’t. She was real.

He could smell her, hear her breathing, even see the faint scar on her wrist—the same scar she got when she cut herself while cooking. “Amara,” he whispered again, inching closer, “how are you here? I buried you, I watched them lower you into the ground.”

Her eyes glistened with tears as she said softly, “You buried me alive, Joseph. They thought I was dead, but I wasn’t.

I heard everything… the prayers, the crying, the sound of the sand hitting my coffin. I screamed your name, but no one heard me.” Joseph’s mouth fell open. His hands shook violently. “That’s impossible.

The doctors… they said…” “They were wrong,” she interrupted sharply, her voice trembling between pain and rage. “When I woke up, I was underground, choking, clawing through the coffin. I don’t remember how I got out.

All I know is that I woke up near the river—covered in mud and blood—and someone found me.” Joseph’s breath caught. “Someone?” Amara looked away, her face tightening. “Yes. A stranger. He said he was a missionary.

He took care of me, fed me… and after a while, I realized I was pregnant.” Her voice cracked at the last word, and Joseph felt his knees weaken. “Pregnant?” he repeated, as though saying it aloud would make it make sense. “By him?” She didn’t answer.

Instead, tears rolled down her face. “I don’t know what happened that night by the river, Joseph. All I know is that I woke up with no memory for weeks.

But then… I began to feel life growing inside me.” Joseph stepped back, his mind spinning. “So you’re telling me… I buried you alive, and now you’re carrying another man’s child?” The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the soft sound of rain tapping the window.

Then, suddenly, Amara turned toward him, her face pale as wax. “Joseph,” she said slowly, “there’s something else.”

She lifted her blouse slightly, revealing faint black marks crawling up her stomach like veins made of smoke. “The baby moves differently,” she whispered. “At night, it talks to me—in voices I don’t understand.

It tells me things about the grave, about you, about… our house.” Joseph froze. “Voices?” he asked, his voice almost breaking.

She nodded. “Last night, it said something terrible—it said it remembers being buried too.” Joseph’s eyes widened in horror.

He didn’t know whether to run, cry, or call a pastor. His wife—his dead wife—was alive, pregnant, and claiming that her unborn child spoke about being buried. Suddenly, the lights flickered again.

This time, a loud bang echoed from the living room. They both jumped. The photo of their wedding that hung on the wall had fallen, its glass shattered, but that wasn’t what made Joseph’s heart stop—it was the reflection in the broken glass. Behind them stood a shadow—tall, thin, and moving closer.

Amara clutched her belly and screamed. Joseph grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door, but it slammed shut on its own.

The air grew thick, heavy, and freezing. “It’s here!” Amara cried. “It followed me from the grave!” “What followed you?” Joseph shouted, his voice breaking in fear.

Amara’s pupils dilated as her lips trembled. “The one that saved me,” she whispered. “The one that said I belong to him now.” The lights went out completely, plunging them into darkness. Then a voice, deep and distant, echoed through the house—calm, haunting, and unmistakably human: “You buried her, Joseph.

Now it’s your turn to sleep beneath the earth.” Joseph fell to his knees, clutching his chest as the walls seemed to close in, Amara crying beside him, her belly glowing faintly in the dark like something alive inside was trying to come out.

EPISODE 3

The night grew heavier than Joseph had ever known.

Darkness swallowed every corner of the house, and the voice—deep, echoing, almost human—seemed to come from beneath the floor. Amara clung to him, shaking uncontrollably. “Joseph,” she whispered, “it’s him… he’s here for me.”

Her belly rippled as though something inside was moving violently, pressing against her skin like it wanted to burst out. Joseph stumbled backward, reaching for his phone, but the screen flickered and died.

The lights blinked once, twice—and then came fully back on. But the house wasn’t the same anymore. The air smelled of wet soil.

Muddy footprints led from the door to the center of the living room, where dirt began to push up from the floorboards, rising like a growing grave. And from that dirt came a voice—soft at first, then sharper: “Amara, you promised.” Joseph froze.

His body refused to move as Amara fell to her knees, crying. “I didn’t mean to!” she shouted toward the dirt. “I just wanted to live!” The earth trembled.

“You were not meant to live,” the voice thundered, “you were mine the moment you took your last breath.

I gave you back your life, but now you carry my seed.” Joseph grabbed her, yelling, “What is this? Who’s talking?!” Amara turned to him, her eyes dark and distant, her voice no longer hers.

“The one who found me that night,” she said, “the one who dug me out of the ground… he wasn’t human.” The realization hit Joseph like lightning. “What are you saying?” he whispered.

“That the thing that saved you… is the one that impregnated you?” She nodded weakly, her hands clutching her swollen stomach. “He said I would never die again if I carried his child.”

Suddenly, a sharp scream tore from her throat as blood streamed down her dress. “It’s coming!” she cried. Joseph panicked. “We need a hospital!” But before he could move, the windows shattered all at once. The curtains blew violently, though there was no wind. The dirt on the floor opened wider—forming a hole, deep and black.

Amara collapsed beside it, shaking uncontrollably, screaming in agony as the ground beneath her pulsed like it was alive. “Joseph!” she cried, grabbing his hand. “Don’t let it take me!” But it was too late.

A pale hand—long, thin, with black veins—shot up from the dirt and gripped her ankle. Joseph screamed and pulled her with all his strength, but the grip was inhumanly strong.

Amara’s eyes widened as another hand appeared, then another. “It wants its child!” she screamed. “It’s coming for the baby!” Joseph fell backward as Amara’s body arched, and an unearthly wail filled the house.

Light burst from her belly—white, blinding, and pulsating like lightning in her womb. When Joseph’s vision cleared, the hole in the ground was gone.

The house was quiet. And Amara… was lying still. He crawled to her side, shaking her shoulders. “Amara! Please! Wake up!” But she didn’t move.

Her stomach was flat again—empty. The pregnancy was gone. And then, from the corner of the room, came the soft cry of a baby. Joseph turned slowly.

There, wrapped in a torn piece of Amara’s burial cloth, lay a baby on the floor. But its eyes—its eyes were not human. They were pitch black, with faint rings of red glowing inside.

The baby stared at him, and for a second, he could swear it smiled. Joseph stumbled back, trembling, whispering prayers under his breath. “God… what is this?” The baby’s mouth opened, and in that same deep, haunting voice that had echoed through the house, it spoke: “She broke her promise. Now you’ll raise what death refused to keep.” Joseph screamed until his voice gave out.

By the time the neighbors broke into the house at dawn, they found him sitting in the corner, clutching a small baby to his chest, muttering nonsense, his eyes hollow, his face pale. Amara’s body was nowhere to be found.

No grave could ever hold her again. Weeks later, when the police came to take the child for DNA testing, the baby was gone too—disappeared from its crib without a trace.

All that remained was a faint smell of earth and the whisper that drifted through the cold morning air: “You buried her, Joseph… but she’ll never rest.”

THE END