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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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A messenger arrives with the dawn. When Papa opens the door, Everett Winsley, a young fisherman from town, informs us of a mandatory meeting after church. Pastor Turner wants everyone there.
When we arrive, nearly every pew spills over with families and friends. Soon, there will only be room left to stand. People I've seen every day of my life, whispering about their neighbors, wondering who will be next. Even Eliza's family is here. They're sitting up front, the toes of their boots touching the altar.
My throat aches as I stare at the spot where my friend should be. Nestled in between her younger siblings, making sure they don't fidget too much or speak too loudly as the pastor leads us in prayer.
Behind me across the aisle, Thomas is with his parents. Before service begins, he tries to get my attention, but I pretend not to notice. I shouldn't be upset with him, especially after Papa explained himself last night. But I can't help feeling betrayed. Thomas held me back at the fire, preventing me from going to my friend. Even though he did it for my own good—who knows what trouble it might have caused if I'd intervened.
I'm still not sure how to feel about it.
My hand sags into my pocket and my fingers close around the compass. The brass is cool against my skin. I slept with it last night, as dreams of Mama danced inside my head. I awoke in the morning with my lips tucked into a smile. I tried to hold on to those memories; to her laugh and the sound of her voice when she sang, but they slipped away before I even rolled out of bed. Still, it's the first morning in a long while where I rose less tired than when I fell asleep.
I wish Mama were here now. She always had the answers I could never reach on my own.
A sudden pain slices across my wrist, sharp and hot, like needles stabbing through my flesh. My eyes close before I lift the sleeve of my dress. But this time it sticks, the fabric pulling at the edges of my skin.
A hiss sneaks between my teeth.
Carefully, I peel away the material and fight back a cringe. The scratches are still there, but they're oozing now and warm to the touch. Sending angry red streaks up my arm. I've made every effort to forget about them, ignoring them while I bathe or dress. Yet my refusal hasn't changed a thing.
Why aren't they healing?
From the corner of my eye, Papa turns and gives me a funny look. When he glances at my arm, I yank down the sleeve and stare straight ahead. Try not to appear flustered. But there are so many things to think about; too many worries inside my head.
As Pastor Turner reads from the Scriptures, the underarms of his shirt damp with sweat, the only thing I can focus on is the meeting. Thanks to Mrs. Lloyd, the townspeople already have a plan. And right or wrong, they've put it into action. What more is left to discuss?
When the service ends, a weighted silence hangs over us.
Finally, Pastor Turner closes his Bible and stares at us from behind the podium. His expression morphs into something I've never seen. No longer does it hold the spirit and liveliness he brings to his weekly sermons. Now, it's twisted. Hostile.
