school—hell, she was 19 th century—espousing her traditional values and somewhat archaic (and fanatical) belief system, but her heart was good.
She cared.
She did not deserve to end up as a cleaved carcass on the kitchen floor, reduced to basal anatomy by the perverse and creative imagination of that creeping, grave-dirty, tomb-smelling girl.
Lisa tried to put it out of her head. There would be time for trauma later, right now she had to keep it together.
She knew where she was.
And she tried to fight back the madness that tickled in her brain.
She had been dragged up grassy hillsides, down through leaf-choked hollows, her arms and legs knocked off jutting tree roots, knotted boles, and leaning monuments.
Now she was here.
At this awful place.
Pale moonlight filtered down through latticed tree branches above, illuminating tombstones, markers, the rectangular shafts of burial vaults. This was Hillside Cemetery and the man who had brought her here was humming. At home amongst the headstones, shadows, and seething graveyard damps .
He was not human.
Lisa was certain of that much.
He was a monster.
He was a ghoul.
Behind her, like a child playing tag, the girl darted through the headstones. Hiding behind them. Creeping over them. Perching herself atop certain ones like a vulture and staring up at the moon above. Now and again, Lisa could hear the girl’s chattering teeth.
Like she was hungry.
And again, the immortal question in Lisa’s mind: What do they want from me? What do they want? What the hell do they want?
The man dragged her through an opening between two sepulchers which seemed to be sinking into the ground, drowning in a cloying nest of shadows. Grave markers leaned this way and that in solemn battalions. The man pulled her forward and dumped her on a heap of black, moldering earth in which things were crawling.
Peering from behind a hedgerow that glistened with droplets of dew, the girl giggled.
Lisa looked at her, smelling her rancid stink, and made a moaning sound. The girl shook her head, dirty locks falling over her face. She held a single finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
A grave.
An open grave.
That’s what this was.
Lisa looked back at the man. He stood atop the mound of black graveyard earth, framed by moonlight and crisscrossed tree branches. With his cadaverous face, flapping black coat, and the shovel held firmly in his fists, he looked like some old-time graverobber.
The girl scampered over to Lisa on all fours.
She put her face in Lisa’s own.
Lisa looked up into the black glistening eyes punched into that pallid mask. A droplet of drool broke against Lisa’s cheek. She squirmed and thrashed, smelling the girl’s breath which was flyblown and black, the breath of an animal that had been chewing on things long dead.
The man said something and the girl leaped away like a faithful dog.
He set his shovel aside and reached for Lisa.
His cold hands gripped her arms.
He lifted her up into his arms and continued to hum a morbid dirge.
7
It was terribly quiet.
Almost unnaturally so.
Every light was on in the house which was not like Margaret at all, but very much like Lisa. Tara set her purse down, stretching and working the kinks out of her back. The living room was spotless. The TV was off. Strange. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any noises anywhere. She could hear the toilet running down the hall. The anniversary clock ticking on the mantel. Nothing else.
Was Lisa in bed already? And Margaret…
“ Lisa?” Tara called out. “Margaret?”
No answer.
Not even a hint of activity.
Tara stood there, staring into the empty living room without knowing exactly why. She was rooted to the spot. She could hear her own heart beating in her ears. What was it she was feeling? Something like a flat dread in the pit of her stomach, a nervous emptiness. Was it the silence? That awful, brooding silence that told her that she was completely alone?
She shook her head.
She
She cared.
She did not deserve to end up as a cleaved carcass on the kitchen floor, reduced to basal anatomy by the perverse and creative imagination of that creeping, grave-dirty, tomb-smelling girl.
Lisa tried to put it out of her head. There would be time for trauma later, right now she had to keep it together.
She knew where she was.
And she tried to fight back the madness that tickled in her brain.
She had been dragged up grassy hillsides, down through leaf-choked hollows, her arms and legs knocked off jutting tree roots, knotted boles, and leaning monuments.
Now she was here.
At this awful place.
Pale moonlight filtered down through latticed tree branches above, illuminating tombstones, markers, the rectangular shafts of burial vaults. This was Hillside Cemetery and the man who had brought her here was humming. At home amongst the headstones, shadows, and seething graveyard damps .
He was not human.
Lisa was certain of that much.
He was a monster.
He was a ghoul.
Behind her, like a child playing tag, the girl darted through the headstones. Hiding behind them. Creeping over them. Perching herself atop certain ones like a vulture and staring up at the moon above. Now and again, Lisa could hear the girl’s chattering teeth.
Like she was hungry.
And again, the immortal question in Lisa’s mind: What do they want from me? What do they want? What the hell do they want?
The man dragged her through an opening between two sepulchers which seemed to be sinking into the ground, drowning in a cloying nest of shadows. Grave markers leaned this way and that in solemn battalions. The man pulled her forward and dumped her on a heap of black, moldering earth in which things were crawling.
Peering from behind a hedgerow that glistened with droplets of dew, the girl giggled.
Lisa looked at her, smelling her rancid stink, and made a moaning sound. The girl shook her head, dirty locks falling over her face. She held a single finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
A grave.
An open grave.
That’s what this was.
Lisa looked back at the man. He stood atop the mound of black graveyard earth, framed by moonlight and crisscrossed tree branches. With his cadaverous face, flapping black coat, and the shovel held firmly in his fists, he looked like some old-time graverobber.
The girl scampered over to Lisa on all fours.
She put her face in Lisa’s own.
Lisa looked up into the black glistening eyes punched into that pallid mask. A droplet of drool broke against Lisa’s cheek. She squirmed and thrashed, smelling the girl’s breath which was flyblown and black, the breath of an animal that had been chewing on things long dead.
The man said something and the girl leaped away like a faithful dog.
He set his shovel aside and reached for Lisa.
His cold hands gripped her arms.
He lifted her up into his arms and continued to hum a morbid dirge.
7
It was terribly quiet.
Almost unnaturally so.
Every light was on in the house which was not like Margaret at all, but very much like Lisa. Tara set her purse down, stretching and working the kinks out of her back. The living room was spotless. The TV was off. Strange. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any noises anywhere. She could hear the toilet running down the hall. The anniversary clock ticking on the mantel. Nothing else.
Was Lisa in bed already? And Margaret…
“ Lisa?” Tara called out. “Margaret?”
No answer.
Not even a hint of activity.
Tara stood there, staring into the empty living room without knowing exactly why. She was rooted to the spot. She could hear her own heart beating in her ears. What was it she was feeling? Something like a flat dread in the pit of her stomach, a nervous emptiness. Was it the silence? That awful, brooding silence that told her that she was completely alone?
She shook her head.
She
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