Let Them In

When the Dead Walk

It was with dull and tired eyes that I watched the rain come down outside of the house. It threw itself onto the stones of the drive and the puddles of the dirt. It was a dark and sleepy sort of day, and despite the anticipation of tonight, I had difficulty staying alert.

"If this doesn't let up by evening," said Ann, "it will be very hard to keep the candles lit."

I considered the leaves which spiraled to the ground in the slow rain, like men exhausted collapsing into bed. "Well, we'll need to think of something."

"Maybe lanterns," Ann said, folding her arms. "I suppose lanterns might work."

"You know," I said, "I think we might have my father's old jack o'lanterns in the attic. Should we take a look?"

"Oh, that would be perfect," said Ann, and I straightened from the sill. Thoughtfully, she added, "I wish I had met your father. He seemed like an interesting man."

"I wish I had known him for longer," I said.

We climbed the stairs to the second floor, the red runners softening our steps. I took a candle from the sideboard in the hall and lit it before proceeding further, and Ann did the same. Though the hall could be lit brightly by the lamps, the attic had no such fixtures. Chill and musty air rushed at me as I opened the attic door, where stairs ascended into darkness.

"I think he did use to bring them on the vigil," I said,starting up the stairs. The boards creaked under my feet. Ann followed, shutting the door behind her. "The old lanterns, that is. He never used to bring me, of course - I was too young - but I do remember waking up once to see him out in the graveyard, holding that lantern in his hands."

We reached the top of the stairs, Ann lifting her skirts up slightly from dirt of the floor. The attic was filled with dust and grime. I couldn't see from the light of the candles, but I was sure there were bats roosting in the eaves somewhere. Crates were stacked up along the length of the attic, labels tacked to their sides.

"We always carved ours out of turnips, but his must have been made of something more durable," Ann remarked.

"Yes," I said, walking slowly down the length of the attic, reading the labels. Old linens, no doubt moth-eaten; Ann's mother's good china, which we never had occasion to bring out; a broken table that had lain unfixed since we inherited it. The rain was louder up here, pounding the roof so feverishly that the drops blurred from drumbeats into a dull roar. "They were clay. Those were what we had in the old country. I remember the old manor house had their own clay ones, set in all the windows."

"Ooh," said Ann, looking at the boxes on the other side. "I always thought those clay ones were unsettling, didn't you? With the slit eyes?"

"Not especially," I said. I stopped to look at Ann's old skin horse, the glass eyes cracked and the hair all but gone from its mane. I gave it a little push on its rails, and it rocked back and forth.

"Hm," Ann said. "Perhaps if I'd grown up with them, I wouldn't mind them. But then, you don't mind the carved turnips, do you?"

I laughed. "No, I don't find turnips frightening. But then, we also carved those. Only when we had a few to spare, though."

"Ah," said Ann. Then she exclaimed, "Aha! Could this be it?"She raised the candle flame higher, squinting at a crate much older from the rest, stained from the growth of old molds where it had gotten damp in its trip over the sea. She wiped away at a label. "It looks like a shipping address. I think this was one of the ones that was sent to you."

I crouched down closer, setting my candle on the floor. "I think it is," I said. "I knew I didn't get through all of those. This must be it." Bracing myself, I tried my hand at pulling off the top, but it wouldn't budge. "It's still nailed shut," I said."We're going to need to get the crowbar."