The Graveyard Book

by Neil Gaiman

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t have to be like this,” said the other boy. He tipped his head on one side as if he was listening to something. “They’re hungry,” he said.

  “What are?” asked Nick.

  “The things in the cellar. Or belowdecks. Depends whether this is a school or a ship, doesn’t it?”

  Nick felt himself beginning to panic. “It isn’t…spiders…is it?” he said.

  “It might be,” said the other boy. “You’ll find out, won’t you?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Please no.”

  “Well,” said the other boy. “It’s all up to you, isn’t it? Change your ways or visit the cellar.”

  The noise got louder—a scuttling sort of a scuffling noise, and while Nick Farthing had no idea what it was, he was utterly, completely certain that whatever it would turn out to be would be the most scary terrible thing he had ever—would ever—encounter…

  He woke up screaming.

  Bod heard the scream, a shout of terror, and felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

  He was standing on the pavement outside Nick Farthing’s house, his face damp from the thick night mist. He was exhilarated and exhausted: he had felt barely in control of the Dreamwalk, had been all too aware that there was nothing else in the dream but Nick and himself, and that all Nick had been scared of was a noise.

  But Bod was satisfied. The other boy would hesitate before tormenting smaller kids.

  And now?

  Bod put his hands in his pockets and began to walk, not certain where he was going. He would leave the school, he thought, just as he had left the graveyard. He would go somewhere no one knew him, and he would sit in a library all day and read books and listen to people breathing. He wondered if there were still deserted islands in the world, like the one on which Robinson Crusoe had been shipwrecked. He could go and live on one of those.

  Bod did not look up. If he had, he would have seen a pair of watery blue eyes watching him intently from a bedroom window.

  He stepped into an alley, feeling more comfortable out of the light.

  “Are you running away, then?” said a girl’s voice.

  Bod said nothing.

  “That’s the difference between the living and the dead, ennit?” said the voice. It was Liza Hempstock talking, Bod knew, although the witch-girl was nowhere to be seen. “The dead dun’t disappoint you. They’ve had their life, done what they’ve done. We dun’t change. The living, they always disappoint you, dun’t they? You meet a boy who’s all brave and noble, and he grows up to run away.”

  “That’s not fair!” said Bod.

  “The Nobody Owens I knew wouldn’t’ve run off from the graveyard without saying so much as a fare-thee-well to those who cared for him. You’ll break Mistress Owens’s heart.”

  Bod had not thought of that. He said, “I had a fight with Silas.”

  “So?”

  “He wants me to come back to the graveyard. To stop school. He thinks it’s too dangerous.”

  “Why? Between your talents and my bespellment, they’ll barely notice you.”

  “I was getting involved. There were these kids bullying other kids. I wanted them to stop. I drew attention to myself…”

  Liza could be seen now, a misty shape in the alleyway keeping pace with Bod.

  “He’s out here, somewhere, and he wants you dead,” she said. “Him as killed your family. Us in the graveyard, we wants you to stay alive. We wants you to surprise us and disappoint us and impress us and amaze us. Come home, Bod.”

  “I think…I said things to Silas. He’ll be angry.”

  “If he didn’t care about you, you couldn’t upset him,” was all she said.

  The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod’s feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.

  “I did a Dreamwalk,” he said.

  “How did it go?”

  “Good,” he said. “Well, all right.”

  “You should tell Mr. Pennyworth. He’ll be pleased.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I should.”

  He reached the end of the alley, and instead of turning right, as he had planned, and off into the world, he turned left, onto the High Street, the road that would take him back to Dunstan Road and the graveyard on the hill.

  “What?” said Liza Hempstock. “What you doin’?”

  “Going home,” said Bod. “Like you said.”

  There were shop-lights now. Bod could smell the hot grease from the chip shop on the corner. The paving stones glistened.

  “That’s good,” said Liza Hempstock, now only a voice once more. Then the voice said, “Run! Or Fade! Something’s wrong!”

  Bod was about to tell her that there was nothing wrong, that she was being foolish, when a large car with a light flashing on the top came veering across the road and pulled up in front of him.

  Two men got out from it. “Excuse me, young man,” said one of the men. “Police. Might I ask what you’re doing out so late?”

  “I didn’t know there was a law against it,” said Bod.

  The largest of the policemen opened the rear door of the car. “Is this the young man you saw, Miss?” he said.

  Mo Quilling got out of the car, and looked at Bod, and smiled. “That’s him,” she said. “He was in our back garden breaking things. And then he ran away.” She looked Bod in the eye. “I saw you from my bedroom,” she said. “I think he’s the one who’s been breaking windows.”

  “What’s your name?” asked the smaller policeman. He had a ginger mustache.

  “Nobody,” said Bod. Then, “Ow,” because the ginger policeman had taken Bod’s ear between finger and thumb, and had given it a hard squeeze. “Don’t give me that,” said the policeman. “Just answer the questions politely. Right?”

  Bod said nothing.

  “Where exactly do you live?” asked the policeman.

  Bod said nothing. He tried to Fade, but Fading—even when boosted by a witch—relies on people’s attention sliding away from you, and everybody’s attention—not to mention a large pair of official hands—was on him then.

  Bod said, “You can’t arrest me for not telling you my name or address.”

  “No,” said the policeman. “I can’t. But I can take you down to the station until you give us the name of a parent, guardian, responsible adult, into whose care we can release you.”

  He put Bod into the back of the car, where Mo Quilling sat, with the smile on her face of a cat who has eaten all the canaries. “I saw you from my front window,” she said, quietly. “So I called the police.”

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” said Bod. “I wasn’t even in your garden. And why are they bringing you out to find me?”

  “Quiet back there!” said the large policeman. Everyone was quiet until the car pulled up in front of a house that had to be Mo’s. The large policeman opened the door for her, and she got out.

  “We’ll call you tomorrow, let your mom and dad know what we found,” said the large policeman.

  “Thanks, Uncle Tam,” said Mo, and she smiled. “Just doing my duty.”

  They drove back through the town in silence, Bod trying to Fade as best he could, with no success. He felt sick and miserable. In one evening, he had had his first real argument with Silas, had attempted to run away from home, had failed to run away, and now failed to return home. He could not tell the police where he lived, or his name. He would spend the rest of his life in a police cell, or in a prison for kids. Did they have prison for kids? he didn’t know.

  “Excuse me? Do they have prisons for kids?” he asked the men in the front seat.

  “Getting worried, now, are you?” said Mo’s uncle Tam. “I don’t blame you. You kids. Running wild. Some of you need locking up, I’ll tell you.”

  Bod wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no. He glanced out of the car window. Something huge was flying through th
e air, above the car and to one side, something darker and bigger than the biggest bird. Something man-size that flickered and fluttered as it moved, like the strobing flight of a bat.

  The ginger policeman said, “When we get to the station, best if you just give us your name, tell us who to call to come and get you, we can tell them we gave you a bollocking, they can take you home. See? You cooperate, we have an easy night, less paperwork for everyone. We’re your friends.”

  “You’re too easy on him. A night in the cells isn’t that hard,” said the large policeman to his friend. Then he looked back at Bod, and said, “Unless it’s a busy night, and we have to put you in with some of the drunks. They can be nasty.”

  Bod thought, He’s lying! and They’re doing this on purpose, the friendly one and the tough one…

  Then the police car turned a corner, and there was a thump! Something big rode up onto the hood of the car and was knocked off into the dark. A screech of brakes as the car stopped, and the ginger policeman began to swear under his breath.

  “He just ran out into the road!” he said. “You saw it!”

  “I’m not sure what I saw,” said the larger policeman. “You hit something, though.”

  They got out of the car, shone lights around. The ginger policeman said, “He was wearing black! You can’t see it.”

  “He’s over here,” shouted the large policeman. The two men hurried over to the body on the ground, holding flashlights.

  Bod tried the door handles on the backseat. They did not work. And there was a metal grille between the back and the front. Even if he Faded, he was still stuck in the backseat of a police car.

  He leaned over as far as he could, craning to try and see what had happened, what was on the road.

  The ginger policeman was crouched beside a body, looking at it. The other, the large one, was standing above it, shining a light down into its face.

  Bod looked at the face of the fallen body—then he began to bang on the window, frantically, desperately.

  The large policeman came over to the car.

  “What?” he said, irritably.

  “You hit my—my dad,” said Bod.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It looks like him,” said Bod. “Can I look properly?”

  The large policeman’s shoulders slumped. “Oy! Simon, the kid says it’s his dad.”

  “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.”

  “I think he’s serious.” The large policeman opened the door, and Bod got out.

  Silas was sprawled on his back, on the ground, where the car had knocked him. He was deathly still.

  Bod’s eyes prickled.

  He said, “Dad?” Then he said, “You killed him.” He wasn’t lying, he told himself—not really.

  “I’ve called an ambulance,” said Simon, the ginger-mustached policeman.

  “It was an accident,” said the other.

  Bod crouched by Silas, and he squeezed Silas’s cold hand in his. If they had already called an ambulance there was not much time. He said, “So that’s your careers over, then.”

  “It was an accident—you saw!”

  “He just stepped out—”

  “What I saw,” said Bod, “is that you agreed to do a favor for your niece, and frighten a kid she’s been fighting with at school. So you arrested me without a warrant for being out late, and then when my dad runs out into the road to try and stop you or to find out what was going on, you intentionally ran him over.”

  “It was an accident!” repeated Simon.

  “You’ve been fighting with Mo at school?” said Mo’s uncle Tam, but he didn’t sound convincing.

  “We’re both in Eight B at the Old Town School,” said Bod. “And you killed my dad.”

  Far off, he could hear the sound of sirens.

  “Simon,” said the large man, “we have to talk about this.”

  They walked over to the other side of the car, leaving Bod alone in the shadows with the fallen Silas. Bod could hear the two policemen talking heatedly—“Your bloody niece!” was used, and so was “If you’d kept your eyes on the road!” Simon jabbed his finger into Tam’s chest…

  Bod whispered, “They aren’t looking. Now.” And he Faded.

  There was a swirl of deeper darkness, and the body on the ground was now standing beside him.

  Silas said, “I’ll take you home. Put your arms around my neck.”

  Bod did, holding tightly to his guardian, and they plunged through the night, heading for the graveyard.

  “I’m sorry,” said Bod.

  “I’m sorry too,” said Silas.

  “Did it hurt?” asked Bod. “Letting the car hit you like that?”

  “Yes,” said Silas. “You should thank your little witch-friend. She came and found me, told me you were in trouble, and what kind of trouble you were in.”

  They landed in the graveyard. Bod looked at his home as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. He said, “What happened tonight was stupid, wasn’t it? I mean, I put things at risk.”

  “More things than you know, young Nobody Owens. Yes.”

  “You were right,” said Bod. “I won’t go back. Not to that school, and not like that.”

  Maureen Quilling had had the worst week of her life: Nick Farthing was no longer speaking to her; her uncle Tam had shouted at her about the Owens kid thing, then told her not to mention anything about that evening ever to anyone, as he could lose his job, and he wouldn’t want to be in her shoes if that happened; her parents were furious with her; she felt betrayed by the world; even the year sevens weren’t scared of her any longer. It was rotten. She wanted to see that Owens kid, who she blamed for everything that had happened to her so far, writhing in miserable agony. If he thought being arrested was bad…and then she would concoct elaborate revenge schemes in her head, complex and vicious. They were the only thing that made her feel better, and even they didn’t really help.

  If there was one job that gave Mo the creeps, it was cleaning up the science labs—putting away the Bunsen burners, making sure that all test tubes, petri dishes, unused filter papers and the like were returned to their places. She only had to do it, on a strict rotation system, once every two months, but it stood to reason that here, in the worst week of her life, she would be in the science lab.

  At least Mrs. Hawkins, who taught general sciences, was there, collecting papers, gathering things up at the end of the day. Having her there, having anybody there, was comforting.

  “You’re doing a good job, Maureen,” said Mrs. Hawkins.

  A white snake in a jar of preservative stared blindly down at them. Mo said, “Thanks.”

  “Aren’t there meant to be two of you?” asked Mrs. Hawkins.

  “I was supposed to be doing it with the Owens kid,” said Mo. “But he hasn’t been to school in days now.”

  The teacher frowned. “Which one was he?” she asked, absently. “I don’t have him down on my list.”

  “Bob Owens. Brownish hair, a bit too long. Didn’t talk much. He was the one who named all the bones of the skeleton in the quiz. Remember?”

  “Not really,” admitted Mrs. Hawkins.

  “You must remember! Nobody remembers him! Not even Mr. Kirby!”

  Mrs. Hawkins pushed the rest of the sheets of paper into her bag and said, “Well, I appreciate you doing it on your own, dear. Don’t forget to wipe down the working surfaces, before you go.” And she went, closing the door behind her.

  The science labs were old. There were long, dark wooden tables, with gas jets and taps and sinks built in to them, and there were dark wooden shelves upon which were displayed a selection of things in large bottles. The things that floated in the bottles were dead, had been dead for a long time. There was even a yellowed human skeleton in one corner of the room: Mo did not know if it was real or not, but right now it was creeping her out.

  Every noise she made echoed, in that long room. She turned all of the overhead lights on, even the light on the w
hiteboard, just to make the place less scary. The room began to feel cold. She wished she could turn up the heat. She walked over to one of the large metal radiators and touched it. It was burning hot. But still, she was shivering.

  The room was empty and unsettling in its emptiness, and Mo felt as if she were not alone, as if she was being watched.

  Well, of course I’m being watched, she thought. A hundred dead things in jars are all looking at me, not to mention the skeleton. She glanced up at the shelves.

  That was when the dead things in the jars began to move. A snake with unseeing milky eyes uncoiled in its alcohol-filled jar. A faceless, spiny sea creature twisted and revolved in its liquid home. A kitten, dead for decades, showed its teeth and clawed the glass.

  Mo closed her eyes. This isn’t happening, she told herself. I’m imagining it. “I’m not frightened,” she said, aloud.

  “That’s good,” said someone, standing in the shadows, by the rear door. “It seriously sucks to be frightened.”

  She said, “None of the teachers even remember you.”

  “But you remember me,” said the boy, the architect of all her misfortunes.

  She picked up a glass beaker and threw it at him, but her aim went wide and it smashed against a wall.

  “How’s Nick?” asked Bod, as if nothing had happened.

  “You know how he is,” she said. “He won’t even talk to me. Just shuts up in class, goes home and does his homework. Probably building model railways.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “And you,” she said. “You haven’t been at school for a week. You’re in such trouble, Bob Owens. The police came in the other day. They were looking for you.”

  “That reminds me…How’s your uncle Tam?” said Bod.

  Mo said nothing.

  “In some ways,” said Bod, “you’ve won. I’m leaving school. And in other ways, you haven’t. Have you ever been haunted, Maureen Quilling? Ever looked in the mirror wondering if the eyes looking back at you were yours? Ever sat in an empty room, and realized you were not alone? It’s not pleasant.”