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With all your strength, you jam the long steel rod straight downward deep into the grassy soil.

There's a muffled thund. The rod has hit something hard, something six feet below the surface. You glance over at the sheriff. He gives you a nod. Dig it up.

It takes hours to get there, but eventually that familiar thund rings out again.

The blade of your shovel has made contact.

You brush away the dirt with your hands, uncovering the lid.

This could definitely be the one.

It's the exact style of coffin she was buried in.

But then again, it's the style a lot of people around here get buried in.

The sheriff is peering down at you from the edge of the hole.

You receive another nod.

Pry it open.

There's a palpable energy in the air as you take up the crowbar.

The mystery that has plagued this town for so long is at last on the cusp of being answered.

But as the lid comes off, your face falls.

You know it right away.

There are no answers for you here, only more questions. Because Mary Grimes is not

in this coffin, and at this point, you have to wonder if she's even dead at all.

You have to wonder if she's even dead at all. January 10th, 1954. The sun hasn't yet risen on the rural outskirts of Zinia, Ohio. In these last few moments before daybreak, all is perfectly silent and still, but now a train approaches from the east.

The locomotives engineer rubs his eyes as he gazes warily out the windshield.

He's driven these tracks, from Columbus to Zinia, dozens, maybe hundreds of times over the years.

...