Warning: this chapter contains graphic scenes of violence involving dead bodies.
Mrs. Lloyd wants to dig up Andrew and Agnes' graves.
What little I'd choked down for breakfast threatens to come up. My heart's pounding too fast, my breathing too shallow.
Silence spreads through the church like a plague until the voice of Ambrose Washington, the town butcher, cuts through the tension. "You want us to go on a witch hunt?" His voice is strained, his lips barely visible beneath his bushy, black beard.
Mrs. Lloyd's eyes dart around the congregation as if searching for support. No one speaks up. "They're not witches—they're Undead. And yes. That's the way they're doing it in Rhode Island."
Papa steps through the crowd, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "You cannot honestly believe that innocent children are rising from the dead?"
Her chin rises, one brow arched in a challenge. "Are you implying my sister is lying, Mr. Alexander?"
"No one's implying anything." Pastor Turner turns to Mrs. Lloyd, his expression unreadable. "What proof do you have that this is happening?"
Mrs. Lloyd squares her shoulders and slips a pale hand into the pocket of her overcoat. "I'm so glad you asked." Pulling out a folded piece of paper, she hands it over. "This is the letter I received yesterday morning. At first, I thought my sister was teasing, but Tilly's not as good-natured as I am. She's actually rather dull."
With careful precision, Pastor Turner studies the note until his throat bounces with a hard swallow.
After a long silence, Constable Webster leans forward, his eyes shifting between our pastor and the piece of paper shaking in his hands. "Well—what does it say?"
Tiny hairs prickle across the nape of my neck. Whatever happens next has the potential to change our lives. I can feel it, the same way one senses an approaching storm.
The pastor releases a long sigh. "The letter validates her claim."
My breathing shallows as shocked whispers buzz around the room. I reach out in search of Honor and my fingers close around his hand. His skin is cool and clammy.
When the men exchange a look, Papa adjusts the lapels of his coat and clears his throat. "It wouldn't be right to desecrate the resting place of our neighbors. We must leave them in peace."
"Why—so the little monster can kill the rest of us?" A look of exasperation flashes through Mrs. Lloyd's eyes. She snatches the letter from Pastor Turner and shoves it back into her pocket. "That awful Milton boy has just taken two more people, and now he's after my son. I am not going to let that happen!" Victor's staring at the floor when she grabs him by the arm and yanks him to her side.
In a feeble attempt to calm her, Constable Webster holds up his hands, his palms facing outward. "Now, now. Let's not speak hastily. Other than that letter, there's no evidence to confirm such an outrageous accusation."
"You can't be serious?" With one arm latched to Victor, Mrs. Lloyd plants her free hand on her hip. "What more on God's green earth do you need?"
"I wasn't finished." The constable's eyes flick toward his wife and children, and his shoulders slump with resignation. "There's little proof, but we all have loved ones to protect..."
"I'm sorry, but what are you suggesting, Constable?" Pastor Turner demands. "That we exhume the children's bodies? Now—in the middle of winter?"
Andrew and Agnes' sweet faces dance before me, their luminous eyes mirroring a perfect summer sky. They were so close with each other—even at the end.
Yet my back stiffens as Agnes' last conversation echoes in my thoughts.
My brother's come to see me. He's not dead in the ground. Andrew's alive!
"That's exactly what I'm suggesting." The constable's response yanks me out of my head. "We'll thaw the ground and dig them up. It will be a lot of work, but it's the only way to know if they're rising from their graves."
Papa's fists clench at his sides, his knuckles blanching white. "And when do you propose we do this?"
Constable Webster's eyes drag across the room until they finally meet his. "There's no time like the present."
As the congregation lumbers through the snow toward the cemetery, clumps of gray clouds clot the sky. Flurries spill over us in a disorganized haze.
A handful of men lead the way, each one lugging a shovel over their shoulder. The ground slopes downward, and wind tunnels between the tombstones, smacking me in the face. My eyes and nose burn from the cold.
Honor walks alongside me, silent and slow. His teeth pull at his bottom lip. I snake my arm around his shoulders and cradle him to me like a baby. "This is nonsense, you know. What they're saying isn't true."
He barely nods, just stares straight ahead, his eyes unblinking.
Beyond the leafless trees, the ocean howls louder than the wind, the air so cold, I can barely taste the salt. White crests slam against the ice-laden shore as a relentless thought pokes at me like a finger.
What will we find inside the ground?
What they're planning isn't right. Like the devil himself has planted the idea in their brains. What will happen once the men uncover the caskets? Will they insist on opening them? Will they want to peek inside?
I twist the end of my braid, spiraling it around my gloved fingers. I've never seen a human corpse after it's been deceased for this long and I don't know what to expect. But I need to be here. When the Miltons moved to town, I'd felt a sense of responsibility toward Andrew and Agnes. Even now, in death, that feeling hasn't gone away.
Yet it doesn't stop me from wondering what their bodies will look like. If their flesh will be whittled away by worms, skin rotten and peeling from their faces, unveiling the skulls underneath.
As we approach the gravesite, the line of parishioners circle the area where Andrew and Agnes lie, their tombstones buried beneath a think layer of ice. Thomas and I share a look, but when my eyes find Papa, his gaze drops to the ground.
Constable Webster stabs his shovel into a fluffy white drift. "First, we'll shovel aside the snow, and then we'll start a fire. That will soften the earth and make it easier to dig." He turns to Papa. "You're going to help, aren't you? Not make us do all this work alone?"
Papa lets out a subdued breath. "I will not disturb their bodies."
The constable gives a slow nod. "Keep in mind that you, too, have a family to protect. If uncovering these children will provide us with answers, that's what we must do."
Papa's shoulders straighten. "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." But even as he says this, I see his resolve weakening. My father won't let elders perform manual labor when there are younger men available to do the job. "I will help you dig, but nothing more."
Constable Webster smiles and claps a hand to Papa's shoulder. "I knew we could count on you, John."
It's not long before a fire rages in the clearing, its orange flames reaching toward the low-hanging clouds. Heat curls around us, drawing us in, and for a moment I'm so entranced I forget what we're about to do.
All too soon, the men snuff out the blaze. "We'll dig them both up and then start with the boy." The contable leans against his shovel as he addresses the men. "They should be about six feet in."
With a series of mighty blows, their tools drill into the earth, scooping out heaps of black soil. One by one, they toss it atop the snow.
As we silently watch over them, the soft weight of flakes dust over my cheeks. When a loud thump rises from the hole, everyone pauses, our gazes searching, bodies too anxious to move. The shovels once again peck away, the echoes of metal hitting wood growing louder in my ears.
And then...silence.
Unease tingles across my flesh as I grip Honor's hand tighter.
While the crowd leans forward, I shrink back, a ribbon of turmoil curling in my chest. This is it. Part of me wants to run, but my feet remain planted as a slow creak pierces the frigid air. The sound of tired hinges forced to move after sitting motionless for so long.
I focus on Sadie Clumb next to me. The way her eyes widen like a frightened animal, her gloved hands rising to her mouth. After what feels like forever, she shakes her head and steps back, terror taking over her features. Gasps ripple around me, one right after the next, as others react in similar ways.
I don't want to look but I have to.
"Stay here," I tell Honor before shouldering my way closer. When I peek inside the hole, a warning bell goes off in my head.
Andrew passed away weeks ago. I'm not well-versed on the stages of decomposition, but I've been around enough to know his appearance isn't normal. I've seen dead animals before. It doesn't take long for their muscles and organs to liquefy; for skin to separate from the body like peeling husks of corn.
But instead of rotting flesh, Andrew's cheeks are the same alabaster-white they'd been when he was alive. Lips like perfect rosebuds. Dark hair, longer than before, curling over the collar of his jacket. His arms remain crossed atop his chest as we'd left them, but his nails have grown. They extend beyond his fingertips, smooth and round at the corners.
Andrew looks like an angel; not the diabolical beast Mrs. Lloyd wants everyone to believe.
As I tower over him, transfixed, another slow groan rises from the earth as the lid to Agnes' casket opens next. Before I'm aware of what I'm doing, I scramble closer for a better look. Just like her brother, Agnes is perfect, too.
With one exception.
Blood smears across her chin and pools in the center of her chest, thick and black against the green pleats of her smock.
I glance up and catch Thomas's eye. He gives me an incredulous look before shifting back to the open graves.
Nausea squirms through me but I push it down and squeeze my eyes closed. It doesn't work. I can't unsee them.
This isn't possible; I knew these children in life. What Mrs. Lloyd said can't be true. The Milton family is—was—a good family. A God-fearing family. They're not monsters.
My gaze shifts to Paster Turner. His face mirrors the slew of expressions in the graveyard; wide-eyed, open-mouthed, staring in disbelief.
I'm holding my breath, but don't realize it until a cough spasms in my chest and explodes from my mouth. The sound jars the townspeople into action. All at once, their voices rise in a panic and ricochet off the bare trees.
"These children have been dead for almost two months!" someone shouts. "But they look as though they're sleeping!"
"What should we do now?" another voice demands. "Are they of the blood?"
Everyone turns to Mrs. Lloyd. She brings a hand to her hair and smooths back the wind-whipped strands. "We must do what they're doing in Rhode Island." The slightest tremor in her voice betrays her stoic expression.
"Which is what?" Papa asks wearily.
"There's only one way to kill the Undead." She visibly swallows before sucking in a breath. "We need to cut them open and remove their hearts, and burn them until there's nothing left but ashes."
From the corner of my eye, Papa glances my way, but I don't have the courage to look back. Instead, I tighten my grasp around Honor and silently chant the prayer Mama recited every night before bed:
Look upon us, O Lord, and let all the darkness of our souls vanish before the beams of thy brightness—
But before I can finish, Papa is at my side, whispering into my ear. His tone is tight, his arm rigid, as it slides around my shoulders. "Take Honor and go home. This is no place for children."
I open my mouth, but it's Honor who responds. "I'm not leaving."
In shocked silence, Papa and I stare at him as a sliver of apprehension needles at my gut. Honor is never defiant. He only puts up a fuss at meals. Other than that he does what he's told, even when he doesn't want to.
My hand moves in comforting circles across his back. "Papa's right. We should get out of the cold. I'll make us something warm to drink when we get home. How about tea with honey—would you like that?"
"I'm not leaving." Honor's small body stiffens like a plank of wood. I know without trying that he'd be impossible to move.
Once again, my stomach churns as I meet Papa's gaze. I glance back at the open caskets. "What if we stay and I watch over him? We can pray for Andrew and Agnes' souls."
Papa hesitates before answering. When he does, his voice is quiet. "Make sure he doesn't..."
I shake my head. I don't need him to finish. Don't let Honor see what's about to happen.
Since he's accustomed to butchering livestock, the constable asks Ambrose Washington to carry out the task. To my surprise, he retrieves a wood-handled hunting knife from the leathery confines of his belt. The pointed tip winks in his hand. Without hesitation, he lowers himself into Andrew's casket, taking care not to step on his corpse. In one single movement, he rips open Andrew's clothing as though he's tearing away hide. The blade quivers above his heart. I pin Honor to me and bury his eyes in my coat, my muscles burning with the effort.
With an unsteady breath, Mr. Washington sinks the knife into Andrew's flesh, making a clean slice through the pale layer of skin. Blood bubbles from the incision and flows down the sides of his torso, spilling onto the beige linen underneath.
Bile stings the back of my throat. I turn away and hide my face in Honor's hat. He squirms beneath me, and I force myself to loosen my grip. But just a little. I don't want this image in his head, competing with all the other horrifying memories I'm sure he hasn't forgotten.
"Pray with me, Honor," I whisper in his ear. He clings to me like a burr. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy Name..."
But the words are cut off by a loud crack. When I peek back, Mr. Washington's hands dive inside Andrew's chest. He pulls at his ribs, each bone snapping as he pries them apart. When they're out of his way, he digs deeper into the cavity, and with a great tug, releases a glob the size of my fist. His hand shoots above his head, the thick lump of muscle seeping between his fingers. "I've got it!"
Another man kneels at the edge of the hole and thrusts a canister in Mr. Washington's direction. Andrew's heart hits the tinny bottom with a thump. He climbs out of the crevice and repositions himself above Agnes.
I swallow past the bitter tang, unable to turn away.
With little more care than what he'd shown Andrew, Mr. Washington cuts into Agnes' dress and pulls the bloody fabric from her body. Once again, he raises the knife and jabs the blade into her chest.
But upon impact, an audible huff of air rushes beyween Agnes' lips.
Mr. Washington freezes mid-movement and everything stills. And for one terrifying moment, the entire world is shrouded in silence.
An uncontrollable shudder moves through me. My arms sag as a cold realization sets in, and Honor slips from my grasp. With vacant eyes, he stares down at the casket. I'm in no position to stop him; I'm barely able to hold myself up.
Too stunned to move, my gaze jumps around and the first person they make contact with is Victor. He's standing with his mother just off to my left, his dark eyes much wider than they should be.
He heard it, too. Agnes released a breath as if she were alive.
But she's not.
Victor's face drains of color. When he opens his mouth, his voice is raspy with fear. "You see?" he mumbles. "I told you I wasn't lying."