What the Dead Want(24)

The girl ran and got her a glass of water and brought it into the living room.

Gretchen tried to breathe easily but she was hyperventilating. She was grateful and relieved to be inside and away from the horrible old mansion, but she was still trembling. She took a deep shaky breath and put her hand over her eyes, willing it to have been a nightmare.

“She’s in shock,” the girl said. Gretchen struggled to remember the names Esther had told her. Hawk. One of them was named Hawk. The girl took Gretchen’s hand and sat close beside her, then pulled a blanket off the top of the couch and tucked it around her. She looked like her brother but was thinner and lankier. She had a kind smile, and her hair was done in many tiny braids that hung down to just below her chin. “What happened?” the girl asked her gently. Gretchen couldn’t speak. “You’re okay,” the girl said quietly. “You’re safe.”

Gretchen lay there, looking around the place. The whole thing was too surreal; she had come from some kind of gothic hallucination into a normal living room, well kept, with simple modern-looking furniture. A piano; a guitar leaning in the corner by a large comfortable chair; a cello; family pictures that looked like they’d been taken in the last decade; bookcases full of bright paperbacks, not giant leather-bound tomes or cracked disintegrating journals; a television in the corner; and—thank God—an iPod dock with speakers, some tiny island of civilization in this backwater hell.

“I’m Hawk,” the boy said. “Sorry we didn’t let you in right away.”

Then it all came flooding over her again. Esther sprawled on the darkroom floor. The two little girls with their dirty hands and sharp teeth. Gretchen took a deep breath. “Esther . . . ,” she said. “My aunt . . . she . . .” But then again she couldn’t speak.

She drank the water and sat up. How could any of this really be happening?

“Let me start over,” the girl said, smiling at her. She was wearing boxer shorts and a tank top, her eyes looked sleepy, and Gretchen realized that it was probably now three in the morning. “I’m Hope. What’s your name?”

“Gretchen.”

“Hi, Gretchen. Can you tell us what happened?”

She looked at Hope and Hawk, their faces grave. Hope’s eyes were full of understanding. Her brother looked more worried, and though he was older, he somehow seemed frail compared to Hope; something about her seemed grounded, strong. She studied Hawk’s face: high cheekbones and a wide jaw, thick eyebrows and full lips. His hair was cut shorter on the sides and long in the middle. He had a perfectly symmetrical face, the kind anyone would want to photograph.

Gretchen took a breath and said, “We have to call 911.”

“Start from the beginning,” Hope said.

“I came here to help Esther with the house. . . . I . . . she wanted me to come up to the darkroom,” Gretchen stammered. “I only turned around for a minute . . . she drank . . . she drank poison.”

Hawk and Hope exchanged a look, and Gretchen had the feeling that what had happened was no surprise. Hawk’s shoulders slumped and Hope’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

“They’re all out there now, aren’t they?” Hawk asked.

Hope shushed him. “Stop with that,” she said, quickly wiping an eye. She took a deep breath and more tears fell down her cheeks. “Nobody’s really out there and you know it. You’re gonna scare Gretchen.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Gretchen said. She thought again of Esther up in the attic, dead, with those animals lurking around her, and she shivered.

Hawk looked out the window. “I can see them, Hope,” he said. “I can see them and they’re way past the barn now.”

Gretchen stood and looked out the window too. There was indeed a group of people congregating in the field beneath a tall maple.

Hope looked at her brother, concerned and skeptical. “There’s nobody out there. It’s not the anniversary yet. The only thing we got to worry ourselves with is making sure no accidents happen.”

Hawk and Gretchen watched what looked like an ethereal picnic beneath the stars. People sat in rows as if they were watching a play. And finally they scattered, screaming.

“You can see it,” Hawk said.

“This can’t be real,” Gretchen said, scared but utterly transfixed. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

He rested his forehead on the windowpane. “Neither have I,” he said.

Hope looked up, her eyes dark with terror. And Hawk nodded at her. “Not like this.”

Hope picked up her phone from the coffee table and dialed 911.

“I’d like to report a death at the Axton mansion,” she said quickly. “Yes, Axton Road just past where it intersects with County Road 89. Yes. Past the old grange.”



Dear James,

I am thrilled about your graduation and homecoming. Pastor Axton has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? According to your mother they have already hired some Amish to start construction on a church next to the estate. I imagine that was your idea as the church can so easily be used as a safe haven. The house and offices of Axton Cotton and the trade route from Georgia to New York have been very convenient. I only hope you are right in your convictions about a new congregation. I know of no other integrated church—though admittedly my education is lacking.