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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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Saturday brings more clouds, a low-hanging gray gloom that reaches for the earth like phantom fingers.
Despite the ominous sky, Papa, Honor, and I make our weekly trek to the cemetery. Snowflakes cling to my eyelashes and add to the accumulation already suffocating the tombstones, some of their tops barely visible through the thick blanket of white.
Pulling a piece of cloth from his pocket, Papa brushes snow from the brown-speckled memorial to reveal words carved in the stone:
In memory of Rose Helene Alexander and her newborn daughter, Grace. Together, they reside in our Lord's loving embrace. January 23, 1849 — May 26, 1886
Papa steps aside and we share a moment of silence. Bare branches from nearby trees clack together as wind from the bay pushes through them. I block out the noise and focus on the inscription, until the familiar pang of guilt pokes at my chest.
A deep-seated sigh floats out of me like a ghost. If I could turn back time, I'd go back to that night and do things differently. I failed them. If it weren't for me, my mother and sister might still be alive.
"Faith?" Papa's voice jolts me from my thoughts. Dark half-moons shade the space beneath his eyes. "Are you all right?"
Do you blame me?
It's a question I've wanted to ask for so long, but haven't dared. Some days, a need for the truth burns inside me like an inferno. Other days, I'm terrified of the answer.
"Yes, Papa." I shift my attention past the gravestones, and stare out at the ocean. Yet the weight of his gaze lingers.
A flurry of thoughts spin through my head. Images of Mama and Grace. And what Mrs. Lloyd said yesterday about the Undead; how she forced me to rat out Agnes. Everyone knows the dead can't rise from their graves, but she kept on, trying to convince the townspeople that Andrew was...of the blood. The phrase turns my stomach.
A sharp pain suddenly stabs beneath my coat, like shards of glass drilling into my flesh.
I pull the material away and let the frigid air rush over my wrist. They're still there—the three red scratches—swollen and tender to the touch. I tend to them daily, keeping them clean and applying salve. Today, they look worse.
"Papa, why doesn't she come back for us?"
My eyes snap up as I yank down my sleeve. Honor's staring at Mama's gravestone, his face solemn and pale.
Papa and I exchange a look before turning back to him. "What do you mean?" Papa asks.
Honor's lower lip trembles. "If Andrew came back for his family, why doesn't Mama come for us?"
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bring him close. His body quivers against mine.
"He who goes down to the grave does not come up," Papa says, quoting the Bible. "Your mama and sister are at peace now. And one day, when God sees fit, he'll allow us to join them."
