Like Lambs Led

20 Blaring Sirens

It sure feels and sounds like it knows. Hail taps on the porch's tin roof a few yards away. Thunder makes the ground quiver. Wind chimes slam into each other with shrill gongs.

Mr. Thatcher and I have retrieved dozens of chimes from Aunt Shannon's attic, copper ones and silver ones, small ones shaped like birdhouses, and large Corinthian bells. We hung each one on her porch while the relentless rain battered our faces. It was his idea to mount the black, sacred one in the oak tree.

Alex has constructed a khaki-colored canvas tent under the tree, anchoring it with rocks and bricks when the steel pegs threatened to bend.

When Mr. Thatcher mentioned a Veil, I imagined some black, lace, elaborate number. Something that would adorn my head, cover my face, and shudder down my back, making me feel invincible and powerful. I'd stand with my arms outstretched like a mutant from X-men, and command the dead to march at the sound of my voice. When he told Alex to set up The Veil, and Alex fetched this tan canvas tent from the trunk of Mr. Thatcher's car, I was less than impressed.

But the tent wasn't the only thing Alex grabbed. He handed a large, bulky, black trash bag to Mr. Thatcher saying, "I gotta be honest. This idea still skeeves me out."

Now, the trash bag is at my feet, and Mr. Thatcher says I'll have to open it soon. The bag bulges out at odd angles with sharp points jutting through the plastic. A strong aroma of dirt and moldy cheese wafts from it.

Mercy, I don't think I can do this.

"I'd have preferred a night with a full moon," Mr. Thatcher murmurs as he steps back from the wind chime hoisted by the rope. The pentagram sways in the wind as the golden bells clang.

A series of beeps sound from Mr. Thatcher's flannel-shirt breast pocket. He takes his phone out, reads the message, and responds as quickly as his frail hands will allow.

"Your mama is waking up," he says, dropping the phone back in his pocket. "Alex thinks he can make her ready for when it's time."

He doesn't know how much of a wildcard Mom is, Mercy, but his plan relies on her. This is the stupidest thing I've ever been a part of. And I'm counting that time I thought it was a good idea to moon passersby from the school bus in fifth grade.

"Now, Shannon always said it all starts with a spidery whisper. Like it has legs." Mr. Thatcher gives the ominous sky a worried look. "Once you feel that, then you should know what to do next."

The sirens scream.

I want to say that this isn't enough. I need more. He literally expects me to raise the dead with a whisper and a wish.

As I'm ready to tell Mr. Thatcher his plan sucks, the wind kicks at the back of my neck. It rams against the tree's branches. The wind chime spins.

A humming rushes through my body. Starts in my hair, zooms down my neck, and spreads through my stomach. The hum grows louder. Knocks my knees together and chatters my teeth.

"What the—What is happening to me?" I cry as Aunt Shannon's journal shakes free from my jacket, falling to the wet grass.

Mr. Thatcher swallows, taking a step closer to me with his hands outstretched. "Calm down. Breathe like I told you. I think it's happenin'."

And so it is. Happening.

Tendrils of breath creep up my pant legs. It feels like fingers. A soft shiver nips at the collar of my jacket. The hum expands throughout my cells. Loud. Until the tornado sirens are just white noise in the background.

"Moriah. My sweet." A voice moans. Sings.

"That's it, Moriah! Hang in there." Mr. Thatcher's voice sounds faraway, like he's calling from a tunnel.

My eyes roll. Lungs struggle for air.

"Call to me. Let me live, my dear." The moan comes from the sky, the oak tree, the ground. It drifts from the trash bag.

I open my mouth to tell Mr. Thatcher that I can hear Aunt Shannon, that she wants to be free. But my knees fold into themselves. I careen into rain-soaked leaves, my cheek scraping a tree root that's broken through the dirt.

A word churns in my stomach and flies out of me. "Redress!"

Every nerve in my body is on fire, like I've harnessed the sun.

"Yes, say the words that give me life. I want to live." Oh, she wants to live so bad. To feel blood running like rivers in her veins again. Her yearning makes me dry heave.

My voice drops several octaves. "Redress this situation. This grievance must be avenged." Turning on my side, my head lolls in the dirt. Above me, Mr. Thatcher's face swims.

"Say it again, Moriah," Mr. Thatcher says, hooking his hands under my armpits. Sticks and rocks dig into my back and scrape my rib cage as he drags me towards the entrance of the tent. "Don't stop saying it."

But I can't stop, even if I wanted to. It tumbles from my guts: "Redress this situation."

Inside of the tent, a musky smell taints the air. It's a one-person dwelling, pitch-black, sparse, and snug. The hum inside of me crashes in my ears as I peek through the mesh opening.

Mr. Thatcher dumps the contents of the garbage bag out. Though I knew she was in there, the sight of  Aunt Shannon's corpse tumbling out makes me gag.

"Say the fucking words, Moriah!" Mr. Thatcher orders, as her skeleton smacks the ground. A tattered blue dress with polka dots clings to the bones. The skull is the last thing to fall out of the bag.

The wind pummels the top of the tent. As I sit cross-legged on the cold ground, uttering the words, Aunt Shannon's skull spins and wobbles like a fumbled football. The jagged bones on the rib cage make a cracking sound. The femur, still attached to the pelvis begins to vibrate. Next, the feet click clack and move toward skeletal hands.

With a loud ziiiiip, Mr. Thatcher unlatches the tent's opening and flies inside with me. His eyes are wild, crazed. "You're doin' great. Soon you're gonna black out. But I'm gonna be right here. And when you come back, Shannon should be here."

My back seizes when he says this. Goes bone-straight. And with one, last, "This grievance must be avenged," I fall into a darkness blacker than the grave.