“Mom, wake up.” My eight-year-old daughter shook me in the middle of the night. “Dad and Grandma are burying something in the garden.” I looked out the window and saw my husband and mother-in-law holding shovels, lowering a large bag into the ground. The next morning, my daughter and I dug it up. The moment I saw what was inside, I grabbed her hand and ran from the house.

My daughter Harper’s small hands shook my shoulder insistently in the darkness, pulling me out of a deep sleep while confusion swirled in my mind and the quiet bedroom felt suddenly heavy with something that did not belong in the middle of an ordinary night.

“Mom,” she whispered again with fear in her voice, “Dad and Grandma are burying something in the garden.”

The strange seriousness in her tone forced my eyes open completely, and I pushed myself upright while the room remained dark and still, although the pounding of my heart told me something outside those walls had already changed.

“What are you talking about?” I murmured as my voice came out rough with sleep.

Harper’s wide eyes reflected a faint line of moonlight from the window while her fingers pointed nervously toward the curtains.

“I heard the back door open,” she whispered, “and when I looked outside they were digging with shovels.”

A sudden chill crept down my spine while I slowly pushed the blanket aside and walked toward the window without turning on any lights.

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled the curtain open just enough to see into the backyard.