The wind howled through the narrow streets of Aberfan, a village once scarred by the tragedy of its coal tip disaster, now quiet, save for the rustle of leaves caught in the chill of twilight. Miriam Potts pulled her woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out of the cottage she had inherited from her grandmother. There was something comforting about the familiar creaks of the old place, even as the shadows lengthened and the daylight surrendered to the encroaching dark.
Her grandmother’s passing had been sudden, each day since laced with the dull ache of loss. Miriam sensed an urgency in her mind, a consuming desire to clarify the mysteries her grandmother had whispered about in stories during childhood—stories about things that crawled beneath the flesh, embodiments of hurt and heartache, of the very essence of despair.
As darkness fell, the local neighbourhood became an eerie ghost of itself, the bulbs flickering like nervous fireflies. The village was depressingly still, each house staring blandly like an indifferent host at a wilted party. But the cottages were not without tales—each brick bearing witness to suffering, as if the village itself had absorbed the grief of its inhabitants.
Miriam wandered along the derelict pathways, aiming for the village pub. She needed a drink to quiet the nostalgia that nibbled at her resolve. When she stepped inside The Red Lion, a whiff of stale beer and old laughter welcomed her. The men seated at the bar, faces lined by years of toil, glanced up briefly, returning to their conversations as if ensuring no shadows had slipped through the door behind her.
“Evening, love,” said Tom, the barman, pouring her a pint of bitter. His hands were rough and calloused, much like the warmth she remembered from her childhood visits. “Heard about your grandmother. A right character, she was.”
“Aye.” Miriam took a sip, savouring the bitterness as well as the bittersweet memories it invoked. “She always had interesting stories.”
Tom winked knowingly. “Stories or warnings, depends who you ask.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice despite the empty bar. “You know how she felt about the old churchyard?”
Miriam nodded. “She was always wary of it.”
“Aye, and for good reason. Something dark there, I reckon. She was one of the few who knew the real tales, not the ones the children repeat. Head to the graveyard at night—some say even shadows whisper.”
Miriam shivered despite herself, an odd sensation coursing through her at the mention of the graveyard, visions of moss-covered stones and tangled roots dancing mockingly behind her eyelids.
As she finished her pint, the familiar warmth settled into her bones, emboldening her to push against the chill of fear. She left The Red Lion with resolve, stepping back into the embrace of the night. The urge to explore her grandmother’s cryptic warnings tugged at her. The graveyard loomed a short walk away, nestled against the church like a secret it couldn’t contain.
Crossing the threshold brought an immediate shift in atmosphere. The air thickened, charged with an energy that felt both ancient and raw, as if the memories of loss and sorrow hung over the graves like a heavy fog. Half-obscured by shadows, the headstones jutted up from the ground in peculiar angles as if rebelling against their confinement.
Miriam walked slowly, the crunch of her footsteps mingling with a faint rustling. The wind seemed to echo the whispers Tom had mentioned. She paused at a headstone bearing her family name, noting how the letters were etched deep but worn smooth by years of weather.
“Hello, Nana,” she murmured, reaching out to touch the cold stone. Beneath her fingers, she felt a vibration, a surge that sent a shiver racing up her arm. Startled, she recoiled; her heart raced.
She continued wandering deeper among the stones, the soft glow of her phone casting an eerie illumination. As she stepped farther into the graveyard, the wind stilled, squeezing all sound from the air, leaving only the thudding of her heart.
Suddenly, a reflexive instinct told her that she was no longer alone. The feeling creeped in beneath her skin, subtle yet distinct. Shadows, darker than the night around them, flickered at the edge of her periphery. She turned, but nothing was there—just cold stone and the faint silhouette of the church.
Miriam fought to recall her grandmother’s words: What is hidden beneath the flesh? It was supposed to be a riddle, something to ponder over warm fires and well-stocked pantries. Now it felt like a warning plastered on her skin, an itch that begged for attention.
The sound of breath, laboured and uneven, broke the silence. It came from within the grounds, a sound so throaty and guttural that it sent a fresh wave of fear rippling through her. She moved toward it instinctively, entranced by a morbid curiosity. The chilling breaths led her to an old crypt, the entrance half-hidden by ivy and overgrowth. It seemed to exhale a stale, rancid scent that held a peculiar allure.
With a deep breath, she pushed the heavy stone door open, the creak echoing like a long-forgotten lament. Shadows stretched into the darkness, and she hesitated; inside lay a convergence of the past—a resting place of those who carried life within the very flesh she sought to understand.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw the outline of a casket; the sheen of polished wood caught the faintest glint of her light, drawing her nearer. The grief etched into her features mirrored the sorrowful tales that hung thick in the air.
Miriam felt a strange compulsion, an irresistible urge to touch it. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing the surface, and in that instant, the air thickened, swelling with an otherworldly heaviness. Deep groans resonated around her as shadows twisted, forming shapes that undulated with a life of their own.
It was then that she caught the emotion behind the darkness—anguish, desperation, and an insatiable hunger, all twisting together like the tendrils of an insidious dream. They warred against her, demanding release, clawing at her senses until she could no longer tell where flesh ended and darkness began.
The whispers crescendoed, reverberating in her head, coiling like smoke. The dead spoke in a language of pain, voices looping in and out, echoing betrayal and sorrow, secrets penned beneath the flesh of the living. They pleaded for freedom, for acknowledgement of a truth so profound it sought to consume her.
“Let me in,” a voice rasped, not from without but within, a siren call laced with the promise of liberation. Every ounce of her being screamed to run, yet her feet remained rooted. She was ensnared in a haunting embrace of revelation and terror.
Miriam cried out—part in horror, part in defiance. “No! You can’t have me!”
But as the spectres twisted tighter around her, she felt her mind unraveling, the boundary of self blinking like a faulty light. She tumbled into darkness, swept beneath the surface of flesh, swallowed whole by a void that promised both anguish and salvation.
When she awoke outside the crypt, the night clung to her skin, visceral and real. Clutching her aching head, she grasped for the remnants of memories now fogged, floating just out of reach. The graveyard was still, yet it felt alive, vibrant with the lingering essence of those who had come before.
She staggered to her feet, marvelling at the stars above, blinking like a moment away from collapsing. The graveyard was enchanting yet grotesque, a living museum of the damned. Heart racing, she fled back into the village, pulsating with a heightened awareness of the thin veil that divided existence from oblivion.
Miriam returned to the cottage, her cocoon of memories shattered and frayed. She sought the warmth of familiarity, grasping for solace. But as she fell into bed, the shadows followed her, a lingering reminder of what she’d unearthed—of the truth beneath the flesh, and the hunger it still bore.
Now she understood the reason for her grandmother’s warnings; the darkness that dwells within flesh is eternal, waiting patiently for the right moment, a whisper in the night that beckons to those willing to listen.
