𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟑𝟏] 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ DEAD MANS GRAVE

     ENOCH WAS DEFINITELY SUSPICIOUS.

     I sauntered into the house and up the stairs like I had business there and didn't care who knew it. Reaching the second floor unobserved, I crept to the room at the end of the hall and tried the door. It was locked. I knocked, but there was no answer. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, I ran my hand along the top of the doorframe. Sure enough, I found a key.

     "What are you doing?"

     My whole body jumped, and I almost dropped the key. My hand only glanced the doorknob by the time I noticed that it was only Jake behind me.

     "Uhh—nothing!"

     "Sure, nothing," Jake said, pushing me aside and taking the key from my hand. "Let's break some rules together."

     He unlocked the door and slipped inside. It was like any other bedroom in the house—there was a dresser, a wardrobe, a vase of flowers on a nightstand. Late-morning sun shone through drawn curtains the color of mustard, throwing such yellow light everywhere that the whole room seemed encased in amber.

     Only then did I notice a young man lying in the bed, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open, half-hidden behind a lace curtain. I froze, afraid I'd wake him. I recognized him from Miss Peregrine's album, though I hadn't seen him at meals or around the house, and we'd never been introduced. In the picture he'd been asleep in bed, just as he was now. Had he been quarantined, infected with some sleeping sickness? Was Enoch trying to get me sick, too?

     "Hello?" I whispered. "Are you awake?"

     He didn't move. Jake put a hand on his arm and shook him gently. His head lolled to one side.

Then something terrible occurred to me. To test a theory, I held my hand in front of his mouth. I couldn't feel his breath. My finger brushed his lips, which were cold as ice. Shocked, I pulled my hand away.

     Suddenly, it came to me, where I'd seen his face. He was the boy holding the boulder in my grandfather's pictures. Victor was Bronwyn's brother. There was no telling how long he might've been dead, as long as the loop kept looping, it could be fifty years and only look like a day.

     "What happened to him?" I asked.

     "Maybe I'll wake old Victor up," came a voice from behind us, "and you can ask him yourself." It was Enoch. He came in and shut the door.

     Bronwyn beamed at him through welling tears. "Would you wake him? Oh please, Enoch."

     "I shouldn't," he said. "I'm running low on hearts as it is, and it takes a right lot of 'em to rise up a human being, even for just a minute."

     Bronwyn crossed to the dead boy and began to smooth his hair with her fingers. "Please," she begged, "it's been ages since we talked to Victor."

     "Well, I do have some cow hearts pickling in the basement," he said, pretending to consider it. "But I hate to use inferior ingredients. Fresh is always better!"

     Bronwyn began to cry in earnest. One of her tears fell onto the boy's jacket, and she hurried to wipe it away with her sleeve.