He looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Those men might come back. I’d feel safer if I was somewhere better hidden.” It was as close to the truth as she could get without letting him guess how dark her thoughts had become. He seemed to buy it, though, and pursed his lips in thought.
“The church has awful insulation. You’ll freeze to death if I put you there… Oh, I know. We have a groundskeeper’s cottage behind the graveyard. It’s been empty since Peterson passed on last year, bless him, but it has a bed and a fireplace, and there shouldn’t be more than the normal amount of rats. Would that do?”
Keira dearly wanted to know how many a “normal amount” of rats entailed, but she wasn’t in a position to be choosy. “Sounds perfect!”
“Finish your stew, then, and I’ll take you to it.”
Keira shoveled the warm stew into her mouth while Adage went back into the kitchen. She could hear him digging through drawers, and he returned holding a large, rusty ring with a single key hanging from it.
“Ready.” Keira put the bowl aside and snagged her still-wet jacket off the chair. The idea that her presence might be a threat to the older man had embedded itself. Something in her stomach said that the strange men would search the area quickly, and they wouldn’t give up easily.
Adage led her back to the hallway wardrobe and pulled out a pair of heavy coats and two umbrellas. “People leave them at the church,” he explained as he handed one of each to Keira. “I usually keep them until they’re claimed, but these have been waiting for their owners for the better part of a year, so I think it’s safe to borrow them. Ready?”
Keira felt a little ridiculous pulling the raincoat over her already-wet clothes, but she did so anyway. “Ready.”
The parsonage’s thick walls had done a good job of blocking out noise, but the storm’s intensity assaulted them as soon as the door was open. A heavy sheet of rain came across the threshold, buffeting them and making a mockery of their supposedly waterproof coats. Keira scanned the surrounding area as she waited for her companion to close the door. She looked for motion or for hulking, watching shapes, but the deluge made it impossible to see more than a dozen meters.
“This way.” Adage had to bellow to be heard through the rain.
Keira followed in his shadow, careful not to let the distance between them grow too great for fear of losing him. The spongy ground sucked at her boots, and the wind made them both stagger as they trudged across the field to reenter the graveyard she’d passed through less than an hour before. The gravestones, dark from rain, loomed out of thin mist. It seemed disorganized, an assortment of traditional headstones battling for space around elaborate sculptures of angels and tall, cowled figures. Keira couldn’t stop herself from staring at each passing face, searching for awareness in their eyes or a twitch of motion in their hands. The fog twisted and swirled about the grave markers, dancing in the rain. Chills ran over Keira as fingerlike tendrils brushed her cheeks.
“Just up ahead,” the pastor called, and Keira saw a small building near the edge of the forest. She thought she must have passed close to it when dashing to the parsonage.
The cottage didn’t seem large enough to hold more than two or three rooms. Dark, uneven slats covered a sharply peaked roof, and vines grew up one wall. The windows were cold and empty, and an atmosphere of neglect surrounded the hut. It struck Keira as a lonely building, hidden as far from civilization as possible, with a forest on one side and a garden of graves on the other.
Adage huddled close to the door as he fit the key into the lock and struggled to twist it. The door ground on its hinges as it opened, and they both shuffled into the relative comfort of a dry room.
“Like I said, an exciting night.” Adage closed the door and shed his coat. Keira couldn’t help but feel impressed that he’d maintained the note of warm optimism. “Let’s see…it should still have power… Ah.”
He’d found the switch, and golden light filled the space. Keira shrugged out of her coat as she stared around the cottage. Instead of dividing the tiny building into even tinier rooms, the bedroom, kitchen, dining, and lounge areas had all been combined. A door at the back led to what she guessed was a bathroom, but otherwise, the entire house was just one room.
She could have crossed the space in ten paces, but it had a comfortable, welcoming atmosphere. The single bed wedged against the left wall was covered in a colorful patchwork quilt, and a small kitchen offered the comfort of a kettle and stovetop.
“We’ll get a fire going so that you don’t freeze to death,” Adage said, weaving around the overstuffed lounge chair to reach the dark hearth. “There’s no heater, I’m afraid, but there should still be some spare blankets in the cupboard over there if you need them.”
“I’ll be okay from here.” Keira followed the pastor to the fire and eased the kindling bucket out of his hands. She was dripping on the large rug that took up the center of the room, so she shuffled back onto the wooden boards. “Thank you so much. For everything.”
“I’ll help you settle in,” he said happily. “I don’t mind, really.”
Keira managed a tight laugh. “Actually, I was really hoping to get out of these wet clothes…”
It was a half-truth. She was shivering, but her more urgent worry was making sure the strange men didn’t discover the pastor’s deception. If Adage left quickly, the storm would still be strong enough to wash away his footprints, but she didn’t know how much longer the deluge would last.
“Oh! Oh, of course. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Adage picked his coat off the hook beside the door and shook off some of the excess water. “You know where to find me if you need anything. And tomorrow, I’ll see if I can uncover any leads in town. Have a good sleep, Keira.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Wrong religion,” he said cheerfully, then let himself out. A torrent of rain poured through the doorway, seeming to embrace the pastor as he closed the door behind himself.
Keira crossed to the window and pressed against the chilled glass as she watched her new, unexpected friend march into the graveyard. Clumps of fog clung to his hunched form, looking almost like wraiths grasping at his coat. He disappeared into the night within five paces.
At least he’ll be safe now… I hope.
Alone, Keira couldn’t ignore how quiet the cottage was. Rain still beat against the roof, and the wooden supports groaned under the strain, but inside felt strangely isolated from the storm.
Keira stepped back from the window and looked at her hands. Just like in the forest, they seemed both very familiar and completely unrecognizable. She took a deep breath and clenched them into fists. “Okay. Time to figure out who the hell you are, Keira.”
Chapter Three
Keira was freezing and soaked, but she ignored the fireplace in favor of searching for a mirror. She figured she had at least an hour before hypothermia set in, and her missing identity was digging at her like an itch she couldn’t reach.
As she’d guessed, the door at the back of the room led into a bathroom-slash-laundry. She turned on the light and found a bedraggled, wide-eyed stranger staring back at her through the sink’s mirror.
So, this is what I look like. She stepped closer to the reflection and pulled the limp crown of bandages out of her hair. It’s not what I expected.
After running through the forest so swiftly and efficiently, she’d imagined having a toned, fit body, the sort of figure that comes from drinking wheatgrass smoothies for breakfast and having memberships for three separate gyms. Instead of a twelve-pack and a Marine Corps tattoo on her bicep, the person looking back at her was bone-thin, with a pale face and too-large eyes.
Keira lifted her T-shirt’s hem. There were no abs underneath and not a hint of fat either. Her ribs jutted out under anemic skin. She looked as though she’d either been starved or…
She pointed a warning finger at her reflection. “So help me, Keira, you’d better not be
addicted to anything illegal. Because I know exactly zero drug dealers, and I’d really prefer not to go through withdrawal on top of everything else.”
Her face, which she’d initially thought was meek and mousy, took on some personality as she spoke. That was good; she might have a chance of being taken seriously after all.
“No wonder Adage was so willing to help you,” she grumbled as she began peeling off the wet clothes. “You look like an orphan waif straight out of a Hollywood movie. Please, sir, can I have some more porridge?”
Her jeans were hard to get off and tripped her when she tried to pull them over her feet. She bumped into the wall and hissed as pain flashed through her arm.
I forgot I was hurt there too. She twisted to see a long, straight cut not far below her shoulder. Keira, you’re a mess. How many terrible life choices did you make to end up like this?
The skin around the cut looked red, but it wasn’t bleeding, so she decided it could wait until later.
She didn’t like the idea of walking around a stranger’s house naked, so Keira left her underwear on. The cupboard in the bathroom’s corner held spare blankets, so she took one, wrapped it around herself like a coat, and carried the wet clothes back to the main room.
The storm created a steady drone on the cottage’s shingle roof as Keira built her fire. In the same way her legs had known how to run, her hands seemed to hold on to the memory of how to light the kindling, and the blaze was soon radiating heat through the room.
Keira stayed kneeling in front of it for a minute, hands extended, as she absorbed some of the warmth. Once her shaking stopped, she plucked the pile of wet clothes off the hearth and shook them out.
The T-shirt seemed cheap and well worn; she guessed it had been teal before repeated washing bled the color down to a watery gray. The jeans had a rip in the side, and not the deliberate, fashionable kind. But the boots and jacket both seemed to be of good quality, although old. She supposed that made sense; they were the two most valuable pieces of clothing for someone roughing it: sturdy shoes to protect her feet and a thick jacket to keep her warm. She hoped she hadn’t stolen them.
After draping the T-shirt over the back of a wooden chair, she propped the boots in front of the fireplace to dry. Keira then felt through the pockets. The jeans were empty, so they joined the T-shirt to air out, but the jacket had two zippered nooks full of treasure. A crumpled twenty-dollar bill came out of the left pocket. And, in the right, she found a small black-and-white photograph.
Keira unfolded the picture carefully and squinted at the grainy figures. It depicted three people, two men and one woman, facing the camera. They all wore neutral expressions and stiff, strange suits. The clothes looked like some kind of uniform, but Keira couldn’t guess which sector they belonged to.
The first man—tall and with an exceptionally thin face—and the middle-aged woman with a pinched mouth and rectangular glasses prompted no emotional response. The third figure, though, made bile rise in the back of Keira’s throat. She knew him. She hated him.
Why? C’mon, brain, throw me a bone here. What did he do to you? Is he a relative? No, you don’t know him that well… A friend’s parent? A boss? Some jerk who keyed your car?
She squinted at the face. It was deeply scored with creases, although he couldn’t have been more than forty. Heavy brows complemented a thick jaw and dark hair. The eyes held an unnerving intensity even when screened by the camera. A silvery shape over the lapel of his suit was faintly reminiscent of a name badge but was too small to see clearly. She sensed that it was some kind of insignia, like a medal or military rank, that set him apart from his peers.
She flipped the photo over. Someone had penciled seven words onto the back. Keira scrunched her mouth as she read them.
DON’T TRUST THE MEN WITH FLAKY SKIN
“Okay.” She tilted her head to the side as though that might somehow make the message clearer. “So should I stay away from people with dandruff or what?”
Unsurprisingly, the message didn’t reply. Keira carefully placed the photo on top of the fireplace mantel, where it could dry out, then dragged the couch closer to the hearth and snuggled into it.
Searching her clothes had given the fire time to warm her. She pulled her feet up under her and folded the blanket around herself as she watched the flickering flames.
I’ve been lucky, she thought as thunder cracked overhead. Sure, the whole no memory thing sucks pretty badly, but in other ways, I couldn’t have had better fortune. Tonight could have been spent hiding in an alley or huddled in the forest. Instead, I’ve been given food, shelter, and the promise of help. That’s a lot to be grateful for.
And hey…maybe it’s a good thing I don’t know who I was before. Some part of my life must have gone very wrong for me to end up like this. Maybe this is the universe’s way of giving me a second chance.
She turned to watch the rain flow down the window. Mist coalesced just beyond the glass, seeming to caress the frame as it passed.
Keira frowned. She could have sworn she’d heard something. A deep wailing sound, distorted and muffled by the fog until it was close to inaudible. She waited, holding her breath. The mist beyond the window seemed to thicken. It was like a soup, swallowing the cottage, cutting her off from the rest of the world.
The noise came again. A woman howling deep, wretched cries.
Keira rose, her bare toes curling lightly as she paced across the dusty wood floor. She approached the nearest window: a pane divided into six squares, overlooking the cottage’s dead front garden and, beyond that, the graveyard.
The noises had sounded close, like they might be coming from the cemetery itself, but at the same time, they’d been heavily muffled, as though Keira were wearing earplugs. Only the faintest strains of sound came through.
Her breath formed a cloud of condensation on the glass. The night was too dark and too wet to think that anyone would have come to mourn at the gravestones, but Keira couldn’t stop herself from searching the dark monuments. They were disturbing; some were as tall as a human, many had tilted, many others grew lichen and robes of moss. In the smothering fog, their irregular outlines almost looked like sentries surrounding Keira, motionless as they stared at her.
One shifted. Keira’s heart caught in her throat. Her eyes burned as she stared toward the space where she was certain a gravestone had existed seconds ago. It was now just empty space, filled by tendrils of mist.
It’s not the men. No. This is something else.
The wailing noise teased at the edges of her hearing. It was deep and low, and although it was growing quieter, Keira thought it was also moving nearer.
The sudden urge to barricade her windows and lock the doors took hold of her. She reached for the curtains and gripped a fistful of musty fabric in each hand but still hesitated. The moving fog and sentry gravestones played tricks on her eyes. She thought she heard dead leaves crunch somewhere to her left, but it could have just been the effects of the rain.
The sounds of wailing had blended so thoroughly into the droning rain that they caught Keira off guard when they stopped. The sound strangled out mid-howl, killed as thoroughly as though someone had clamped a hand over the victim’s mouth.
Keira waited, her breathing shallow, hands still gripping the curtains, fearful but reluctant to block out her view of the surrounding land.
A woman’s hand reached past the window frame. It came from Keira’s left, the owner’s body hidden by the stone wall. Twitching fingers felt along the metal joining the glass panes. Ragged fingernails tapped the glass.
Keira smothered a gasp and lurched back. The curtain rods rattled as she belatedly let go of the fabric, and the curtains swung on either side of the view they framed. The hand retreated back out of sight.
Something had been very wrong about the hand. Shock rooted Keira to the spot, and it took a second for her to register what she’d seen.
She’d been able to look through the skin. Even as the hand ha
d pressed against the glass, scrabbling along the panes, she’d still been able to see the twisting fog and black monuments behind it.
No. Not possible.
She swallowed and edged to the side, trying to see around the wall that blocked her view of the unwelcome presence. Something flickered on the edge of her vision. Something translucent: a layer of pale white blending into the mist, barely highlighted by the glow flowing out from her cottage’s windows. Keira took a step closer, craning her neck, trying to see the shape more clearly.
Two dead eyes stared at her from behind curtains of flowing hair. The specter moved forward, closing the distance between them, and Keira scrambled back. The ethereal form dissolved into the rain as easily as a breath of warm air on a cold night.
Keira’s back hit the chair she’d rested on. She clutched for it, digging her fingers into the soft fabric, as her mind scrambled. The figure was gone, but she still wasn’t alone. At the edges of her hearing were the heavily distorted wails.
What was that?
The answer came quickly. Ghost.
Sticky fear filled Keira’s mouth. That answer had come from her subconscious—and it had come easily. Whoever she had been before her memories were wiped, she’d not only believed in ghosts but knew them well.
“Normal people don’t see ghosts. Normal people probably don’t even believe in ghosts.” Keira held still, pressed close to the chair as her heart thundered. Her eyes darted between the windows, waiting for the woman to reappear. The fire no longer felt warm on her skin.
Can she get inside? The idea sickened Keira. Closely followed on its heels was a more unpleasant question: Can she hurt me?
Her subconscious remained silent, but she had the unpleasant sense that the answer was yes to both. Mist continued to swirl outside, but there was no sign of the woman. Slowly, cautiously, Keira approached the window again. She reflexively rolled her bare feet as she walked, minimizing any noise she might make on the wooden floorboards.
The Whispering Dead: Gravekeeper Book 1 Page 2