The chill of a late autumn night in 1979 hung heavy over Marion Cemetery. Lucy Newcomb, dressed in a somber black coat, laid sunflowers and daisies on a flat, gray stone etched with the name 'Newcomb.' The dried leaves beneath her feet crunched with each step, the only sound breaking the silence until a faint whisper seemed to drift on the breeze.

"Hello?" Lucy called out, her voice trembling slightly. The whispering ceased, leaving only the rustle of leaves. A sense of unease settled over her as she peered into the deepening darkness, her gaze falling upon a freshly-dug grave nearby.

She hurried from the cemetery, seeking refuge in a dimly lit bar in Candle Square. Two Singapore Slings later, the unsettling whispers still echoed in her mind. "I think I heard a voice there tonight," she confided to the bartender. "Someone whispering."

From two stools away, a man named Mike, with a brown mustache and a name tag, interjected, "So what did they say?"

Lucy recounted the chilling words: "'Look at her, look how she breathes. She’s young. She probably has a healthy young heart, doesn’t she?'"

Mike's gaze dropped to the scuffed bar. "That’s weird." He lit another cigarette, the flickering flame briefly illuminating the unsettling curiosity in his eyes. Lucy, unnerved, finished her drink and left, unaware that the cemetery's dark secrets had only just begun to stir.