“Hear what?” His voice thins.
For a handful of seconds, neither of us moves.
“Someone’s speaking,” I whisper. “But it sounds distant.”
He doesn’t reply, straining to listen. My hand tightens on him. “There it is again. And don’t you feel the vibrations? I think it’s…footsteps. Walking over our graves.”
Eighteen
In July 1952, at a quarter after two p.m., over forty witnesses reported snow falling over Downigan Cemetery, piling thick enough to bury the tombstones. It did not snow anywhere else, and the temperature in town was recorded to be ninety-one degrees. The snow melted by the end of the day, and there remains no explanation for what occurred.
Local Legends and Superstitions,
Tempest Family Grimoire
Morgan wrests hisarm from my grasp, exasperated. “What iswrongwith you?”
“A lot.”
“Never going to sleep peacefully again. Thanks. No wonder you wrote about sleep paralysis demons.”
“I’ve never written about sleep paralysis demons.”
“Yes, you have. Tall, thin, upside-down-walkers with tentacles that transform from solid into gas. InCave of a Thousand Crystal Wings, they stole Henriette in her sleep and tied her to the ceiling.”
He’s right. “I completely forgot about that.”
“How? Youwroteit.”
I shrug. “The demons were just background characters. Second-string villains.”
“The background characters are my favorite. What sort of monsters are you incorporating into the book you’re working on now?”
I flick all thoughts of books and writing away before they can trigger full panic, having already succumbed to the first stage of it, with weak legs and nausea. “Do you think that light looks closer now?”
“Don’t even start,” Morgan scoffs.
“No, really! I’m not suggesting it’s anything creepy.”
“Speaking of creepy. How was your movie date?”
“Don’t know yet. We had to reschedule because his parents decided to drop in from Michigan for a week and are staying with him.” I pinch his elbow. “And Dylan isnotcreepy.”
“Sure, he’s great if you’re into beady reptilian eyes. His face is like one of those filters that shows you what you would look like if you were completely symmetrical. You know? Which you’d think would be attractive but instead the result is sinister. He looks like he wears a beige backpack around in his own house, and he’s filled it with knives.”
“He does not! Dylan looks like he could do my taxes in under ten minutes. Like he barely watches television, but when he does, it’s the Travel Channel. Which I find hot.”
“He looks like he reads Kerouac in bed,” Morgan replies gleefully. “To his lovers. Then explains the metaphors to them.”
“I’m not listening.”
For the next few minutes, Morgan amuses himself inventing Dylan trivia. “He tells people he’s lower middle class and thrifts all his clothes, but he’s just referring to the one jacket that he stole from the coatroom they put rich people’s jackets inat fancy restaurants. You know, if this whole finding-the-Black-Bear-Witch-and-getting-magic-from-her thing doesn’t pan out, you could do worse than fall in love with me. I’m so much better-looking than Dylan, and I’ve got a friend with keys to the library. I’ll ravage you in the reference section.”
“Stop trying to charm me. You’re so fake, you’ve got seven different names.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe you write that whole newspaper by yourself. You’ve got to be exhausted!”
“Nah. I write in batches, staying up all night churning out enough material to stretch for two weeks. Interviews with made-up people, horoscopes recycled from last year, petty squabbles between neighbors, predictions about the weather based on my mood. I work quickly, then get bored because I run out of stuff to do.”
“You could report on real news?” I suggest.
