The boy, Christopher Addison, twelve, stood near the grave of his father, Frank Addison, thirty-six. He seemed anxious. The last time he did so, was last Halloween, when the shadows came over the windows of his bedroom; the spiders webs hovered above the sill. He seemed eager to tell them what was going on.
'Don't!', Becky Addison, thirty, said.
'What's the matter, Mother?', Christopher asked her.
'Hush!', Becky answered her son.
Christopher sighed.
He wiped away the short, black hair with his right hand; he saw the girl watching him. Anne James, a pretty twelve year old neighbor. She looked at the graves in statue-like observance; she was eager not to stare at him for too long. Anne never dreamed of boys---unless her mother and father told their daughter off for staring at strangers. And, as a result, the blackness of the thick clouds burst in the black skies that was a red color. Maybe she imagined it was a "red color"; maybe she was dreaming of the talk about vampires at Mist Gate. She didn't much care about religious meetings, unless Father McNally told a fire and brimstone story, and everyone was sent to Hell of evil ways that gripped everyone's imaginations.
'Follow me, Anne', Christopher said.
And she did so willingly.
Page 4.