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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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Hopelessness churns in my stomach as I sit in the rocking chair, my knees pulled to my chin, watching the late afternoon shadows stretch across the floor. It's the same position I've been in since we came home—after I watched my own father gut my best friend.
In the kitchen, Papa and Honor sit at the table, silently picking at their bowls of soup. Papa continues to eye me with his brows drawn together. His sets down his spoon, the metal clinking against the table, and lets out a defeated sigh. "Faith, you should have some supper. You haven't eaten since breakfast."
I don't answer.
Wind pummels against the side of the house and sneaks between the crevices, making the flames above our candles waver like ghosts. Goosebumps slither across my skin.
Their warm golden glow usually comforts me, but not tonight.
Papa's gaze scorches the side of my face. "I know you're upset, but you need to keep up your strength. Especially now. You're going to make yourself sick."
I'm already sick.
"Faith." A warning lurks in his voice.
Finally, I give in, though I refuse to meet his gaze. "I'm not hungry."
Papa continues to stare. After what feels like forever, he turns to my brother with a tone much gentler than what he used with me. "Why don't you finish up in your room. I'd like a moment alone with your sister."
Honor bounces out of his seat as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity, his bowl in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. I don't blame him for wanting to get away. If I was offered the chance to leave, I'd jump on it, too.
Using his hip, Honor bumps open our bedroom door and nudges it closed with his socked foot.
After a long beat of silence, Papa pushes away from the table. It's not until he's sitting next to me that I realize he brought along the kitchen chair. "We need to talk." His mouth is set in an even, unbreakable line.
I turn away.
Papa grips my shoulder and gently swivels me around to face him. When he settles back into the seat, the wood groans beneath his weight. "Keeping quiet doesn't suit you," he says with the hint of a smile.
Tears blur my vision as all the words I've been biting back beg to gush from my mouth.
I glare at him, unwilling to hold them in any longer. "How could you? I asked you to stop them, but you—"
A breath shudders through me. Papa sits silently, and waits for me to continue.
"Eliza was my best friend. She deserved better than that. And you sliced her open like she was nothing more than a muskrat from one of your traps. You're just as guilty as the rest of them!" By the time I'm finished, my rushing breaths turn into a cough I can't control. I bark and hack until my lungs smolder like the logs in the stove.
