Run to Ground

Jim, a groundskeeper at a cemetery, discovers his colleague, Cundle, gruesomely murdered. The shed where Cundle worked is a scene of unimaginable horror, suggesting an otherworldly force at play. As Jim flees, he realizes he's being hunted by an invisible entity that manipulates the very earth beneath his feet. The line between reality and nightmare blurs as Jim uncovers dark secrets about the cemetery and his own past. Can he escape the relentless pursuit, or will he become another victim of the ground's insatiable hunger?

Run to Ground

Jim, a groundskeeper at a cemetery, discovers his colleague, Cundle, gruesomely murdered. The shed where Cundle worked is a scene of unimaginable horror, suggesting an otherworldly force at play. As Jim flees, he realizes he's being hunted by an invisible entity that manipulates the very earth beneath his feet. The line between reality and nightmare blurs as Jim uncovers dark secrets about the cemetery and his own past. Can he escape the relentless pursuit, or will he become another victim of the ground's insatiable hunger?

The air hung heavy and thick, a cloying sweetness that was both sickening and strangely fertile. Jim, a groundskeeper by trade, approached the shed with a growing sense of unease. It was supposed to house tools, but now it held Cundle's 'fancy equipment' – seismic apparatus meant to unravel the cemetery's peculiar tremors.

A cloud of flies, buzzing with the low hum of a distant engine, swarmed around the open door, which creaked a mournful tune on its rusty hinges. The smell, though, was the worst. It reminded Jim of his father’s abattoir overalls, a scent of something fundamentally, terribly wrong.

He pulled the door open, waving away the wave of flies that erupted, and stepped into the gloom. The shattered bulb did little to pierce the darkness, but as his eyes adjusted, his brain screamed in protest. Every piece of Cundle's equipment lay in ruined fragments. And the floor...

The floor was a shimmering, dark crimson lake, congealing slowly, seeping into Jim's new trainers. He waded through the viscous fluid, his stomach churning, searching for Cundle.

Then he saw him. And wished he hadn't. Cundle lay face down, his body grotesquely contorted, his rectum impossibly distended by a foot-thick column of compacted earth. Internal organs, glistening pink tubes, spilled from his torn mouth, mingling with the blood and bile. Flies crawled over the horrific tableau.

Jim's mind reeled. This couldn't be happening. Who? How? The new, putrid smell, rancid yet fertile, began to envelop him, a living presence in the shed. Then the floor shook. Something rumbled beneath the boards, moving. It was hunting. Jim turned and fled into the cemetery, the chilling realization solidifying: he was next.