Whispers from the Grave

This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice. The brass key felt unusually cold in Margaret Sullivan's palm as she stood before the wrought iron gates of Raven's Rest Cemetery. October mist clung to the weathered headstones like ghostly shrouds, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows between the ancient oaks that bordered the property. She had inherited this place from her great-aunt Cordelia, a woman she had met only once at a childhood Christmas gathering, yet who had somehow deemed her worthy of this peculiar bequest. Margaret adjusted her wool coat against the autumn chill and pushed open the gate. The hinges protested with a prolonged creak that seemed to echo across the cemetery grounds. As the newly appointed caretaker, she supposed she would need to add oil to her growing list of maintenance tasks. The lawyer had been quite clear that the position came with a modest salary and free residence in the caretaker's cottage, but he had also mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that the previous caretakers rarely stayed longer than a few months. The cottage sat nestled among a grove of birch trees at the far end of the cemetery, its stone walls covered in ivy that had turned brilliant shades of orange and gold. Smoke curled from the chimney, which struck Margaret as odd since no one should have been there. She quickened her pace, her boots crunching on the gravel path that wound between the graves. As she approached the cottage, the front door opened, and an elderly man emerged, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He was perhaps seventy, with silver hair that caught the dying light and eyes the color of storm clouds. His face was deeply lined but kind, and when he smiled, Margaret felt some of her apprehension ease. "You must be Margaret," he said, extending a weathered hand. "I'm Thomas Hartwell. I've been looking after the place until you arrived. Cordelia asked me to stay on as groundskeeper, if you'll have me."