# Read the first page of Indian Burial Ground by Nick Medina

Read the opening of Indian Burial Ground by Nick Medina free, no signup. A family confronts a curse tied to their reservation's past.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/indian-burial-ground-nick-medina
- Genre: Horror
- Year: 2024
- ISBN: 9780593546895
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780593546895&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780593546895
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780593546895

## The opening

She couldn’t feel her feet. Not her knees or her hips either. Running like a Thoroughbred in a race, no one would know that she’d been limping just thirty minutes earlier, from her front door to her Jeep, favoring her left ankle, swollen and plum purple.

Maximus bore the blame for her sprain. If the damn dog hadn’t snatched her phone from her hand, she wouldn’t have chased him yesterday in the yard, and she wouldn’t have rolled her ankle on the knot of wood—probably chewed up by old Maximus himself—hidden in the grass. Pain had made her grimace with each tender step thereafter, but now, despite the force of her wide, rapid strides driving her feet hard against the asphalt, she didn’t feel any pain at all.

Just worry and dread.

He might still be alive, she thought. Please, let him be alive.

It couldn’t have taken her more than a minute to run down the road to the Grand Nacre Casino and Resort, which was glittering in the light of the descending sun. She would have called for help from the Jeep if she could have found her phone. It’d been in the cupholder beside her when she’d set off for work, earlier than usual because the bum ankle would slow her down—thanks again, Maximus—but after she’d swerved the Jeep to the left in a desperate Hail-Mary-hold-tight attempt to avoid the inevitable, the cupholder was empty, the Jeep was on its side, and the man she’d tried not to hit was partially wrapped around the base of the tree trunk that’d prevented him from flying into the woods that bordered the road.

Sounds from the impact remained within her. Taylor Swift singing “Anti-Hero,” silent now. The deafening crash of the Jeep. The report of the man’s ribs meeting metal. The sickening crack of his skull against glass. Its top down, she’d clung to the Jeep’s steering wheel as the vehicle, toppling in slow motion, rolled onto its side like her ankle on that knot of wood.

Call an ambulance, she’d shrieked at Caleb Guidry, ragged nails between his teeth, at the security station just beyond the casino’s sliding glass doors.

What’s wrong, Lena? A piece of nail shot from his mouth. Used to her flirty smiles as she enticed high rollers to her blackjack table through the swing shift hours, he’d never seen her so worked up before.

She’d shouted other things at him in response
. . . Man . . .
. . . Hit him . . .
. . . Up the road . . .
HURRY!
before turning right around and pounding the pavement again.

Please don’t be dead. She wondered if Caleb had summoned the ambulance yet. The resort had medics on-site. It wouldn’t take them long to arrive.

I’m alive, had been her first thought after the toppled Jeep touched down, relief and disbelief swelling within her. Her fingers made quick work of disengaging the seat belt that had kept her head from cracking against the ground, an old commercial surfacing in her mind.

This is your brain on drugs.

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