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Once the sunlight goes to bed, that's when darkness wakes the dead.
When a series of grisly deaths devastate 19th-century New England, sixteen-year-old farm girl Faith must outsmart the Undead to ke...
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We fall in line behind the horse-drawn wagon, its wheels sinking into worn grooves like feet into a pair of slippers.
After the carriage, the Milton family follows: Jacob, Emma, Agnes. Behind them is Eloise White, an elderly lady from town who's as close with the family as I am. She presses a handkerchief to her nose, her shoulders thin and shaking. Mr. Milton's cousin, Benjamin Dodd, stumbles along beside her, his mess of salt and pepper hair obscuring his face. I don't need to speak with him to know his conversation will be slurred, his breath heavy with the scent of whiskey he consumes like water. Their heads are bowed, postures slumped, boots scraping the gravel road.
Honor is, as always, at my side, his chilled hand curled around my own. "Sissy?" He glances up at me. "Do you think Andrew's in Heaven?"
It's been four days since Andrew Milton passed away, and this is the first Honor's asked such a question. The little hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I tighten my grip. "Of course, I do. Why wouldn't he be?"
"Mrs. Lloyd said sinners go to..." What he intends to say trails off, but I don't need him to finish.
My gaze lifts to Kitty Lloyd walking several feet in front of us, her pointy chin jutting out in front of her. She's decked out in one of her finer gowns, the pleats of her navy skirt narrow and rigid. Her fourteen-year-old son Victor prances at her side like an obedient lap dog, wearing an overcoat I've never seen. A keepsake, I assume, from their last trip to New York City.
"Andrew apologized for taking that piece of candy from their store. And he returned it unopened," I remind him. "If we confess our trespasses, we are forgiven."
"But what if—"
"No buts." I force myself to smile. "One could also argue that if we do not forgive others, our Father will not forgive us." I lean closer so no one else can hear, my braids falling over my shoulders like two sturdy ropes. "Don't you listen to that old hen. She enjoys nothing more than sticking that big beak of hers where it doesn't belong."
When Honor's expression brightens, I give him a playful "cluck".
Snowflakes dot my lashes and I blink them away. They're early this year, dancing on the October breeze as we herd into the cemetery. We crunch over crisp fallen leaves and weave between crooked tombstones toward a hollowed slice of earth.
Though he knows every word by heart, Pastor Turner's bald head hovers over the pages of his Bible, reciting the Lord's Prayer. As he speaks of temptation and evil, Papa and a group of men lower Andrew's casket into the ground. It's as small as a chest and still smelling of severed pine. Once it's in place, they begin the task of shoveling clumps of soil overtop.
And just like that, Andrew's gone. Swallowed by muck, and rock, and worms.
The church bell chimes, its melancholy farewell sobbing between the trees, their branches like knobby veins behind what's left of the leaves, when a sudden shriek stabs through the chorus of sniffles.
