What the Dead Want(23)

The little girls were gone. In their place was a tall thin man with dark eyes and dark skin holding a book. Behind him were several other men and women, a small group talking among themselves in southern accents. Two women were passing a baby back and forth trying to hush its crying.

She shut her eyes and went to push through the crush of people and tumbled to the floor. No one was there at all. No bodies in her way.

She sat for a minute in the hallway breathing hard, trembling, rubbing her bruised elbow and knee. When she heard whispering she scrambled to her feet, grabbed her suitcase firmly by the handle, and tore through the house, turning on every light as she ran by it. She could still hear murmuring and animals scurrying. She tried to find a telephone in the kitchen and found only another nest of insects—this time an enormous anthill on the tile counter, the black ants moving steadily forward, carrying the contents of a box of cereal that had spilled across the floor. There was no phone in the parlor, and she was not going to go upstairs again and look around. She ran into the front room and saw the same group of people descending the long stairs, a massive silent crowd now, as though they were at a solemn event. She stood directly in front of them to frame the shot. Not believing she could even do something like this—never in her life had she been that brave or stupid or possibly completely out of her mind—she took the picture, then ran outside and slammed the door.

The silent night surrounded her and the forest loomed in the distance. She raced off the porch, dragging her bag. There was only one house—that little white house nearby. And only one light, a small square window at the back. Esther had said who lived there. That piano tuner, some kid and his sister. There was no other option. She began running desperately down the road, her new camera bumping against her chest, the stars overhead shining as brightly as stars had ever shined.





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NOTICE:

Mayville Community Picnic and New Member Meeting



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Our children, our race, and our Nation have no future unless we unite and organize White Christian Patriots.

As we light the fires of truth to dispel the darkness around us and bring light to the night, so must we dispel those who would bring darkness into our midst.

This Order will strive forever to maintain the God-given supremacy of the White Race. To preserve the blood purity, integrity, culture, and traditions of the White Christian Race in America.

“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?”

—II COR. 6:14

Come this afternoon to hear the truth and Join the

Traditional Knights of the White Christian Patriots

3 P.M. Village Grange at Axton Road



Dear James,

Now more than ever I know there is no going back. If we are not committed to this struggle we are committed to nothing. Thank you for bringing me with you. It was the most terrifying night of my life, and the most worthwhile. Those hours in the woods waiting for the dogs to pass, those horrible men with their lanterns. Hunting people as if they were prey. I saw the true face of evil in those men that night. It was a miracle we were able to bring anyone to safety. I was so certain we would all be caught. And in that certainty I knew that this is something I would die for and that I would be a coward and a hypocrite if I did not do even more. And when you held my hand, I knew that you felt the same.

All of this is to say: of course I will be there next week. I would be nowhere else but by your side.

Yours,

Fidelia





PART TWO





TWELVE


GRETCHEN WAS EXHAUSTED, TERRIFIED, HER VINTAGE slip dress wet from the tall, dewy grass. Her makeup was running, and she had scratches all over her legs. She didn’t know why she had worn that ridiculous rhinestone necklace, but it kept snagging in her tangled hair. Her topknot had come undone somewhere back in the high brambly field. The whole time she was running she could hear voices and shouts and barking dogs coming from just beyond the woods, and twice somebody ran past her panting.

By the time she reached the little white house her heart felt like it might burst. She ran up the steps and pounded on the door, calling out for help.

A face appeared in the lighted window and then the light shut out. Her heart sank.

She stomped on the porch in her Doc Martens and banged loudly on the door again.

“Please!” she yelled. “Help me!”

From behind the door she could hear people talking.

Then the door opened and two people, a boy and a girl about her age, stood staring at her, not moving.

“It’s just another ghost,” the boy said.

“No it’s not!” the girl said. “I can see her too.”

“My aunt is dead!” Gretchen said, barely catching her breath as her words came rushing out. “In her darkroom! I just came here from New York today. Just let me inside and I’ll explain everything!”

They stepped back to let her in, their faces turning to shock and sadness. Gretchen tumbled into their front hall and collapsed, and they knelt to help her.

The boy was a little older than her, almost a man really. He had razor stubble and a small patch of acne on his cheek. He was barefoot, wearing pajama pants but no shirt. He had dark, serious wide-set eyes and brown skin. He took her hand, pulling her up. Then they guided Gretchen to the couch.