by R. L. Stine
Hannah made her way to the front row, took Gina’s gloved hands in hers, and squeezed them tightly. The two women didn’t say a word. What more was there to say? They had talked two or three times a day since the night of the murders.
Hannah held onto Gina’s hands for a long moment. Then she turned and moved to sit next to cousins David and Mariana in the second row. Their son Peter was having trouble sitting still, as usual, and he kept tugging and fiddling with the black-and-white striped necktie his parents made him wear.
“Why can’t I see Uncle Angelo?” he demanded.
The question made Gina cringe, but she didn’t turn around to face Peter. She bit her lip hard to keep from crying. How awful that poor, innocent Peter had to face death at such an early age. How confused—and frightened—he must be.
“You have to be quiet in church, remember?” Mariana told him.
“Why can’t I see Uncle Angelo?” the four-year-old repeated, this time in a loud whisper.
Gina turned in her seat. “Don’t worry,” she told Peter. “Uncle Angelo is watching you. From heaven.”
Peter stared back at her, thinking hard. She knew that would confuse him. But maybe it would make him stop asking that question.
Before turning back to the front, Gina glanced at the crowd. The chapel was nearly filled. Angelo had a lot of friends. A lot of cousins and a lot of friends. The sad, silent faces were a testimony to how much they liked and admired him.
But, wait.
Gina squinted through the veil. Her vision must be distorted by the black lace. She must be seeing things.
Her heart felt as if it jumped to her throat. She tossed back the veil as she jumped to her feet. And stared in shock at Martin Dooley.
Martin Dooley, in a black suit, his hat between his hands. Martin Dooley seated on the aisle near the back of the chapel, chatting nonchalantly with a man Gina didn’t recognize.
A hoarse cry escaped Gina’s throat. Without even realizing it, she was running now, pushing people out of the way, stumbling, charging up the aisle, screaming, screaming words she couldn’t even hear because of the roar of fury in her ears.
She flew up to Martin Dooley, snatched the fedora from his hands, struggled to rip it, to tear it in half. “How dare you? How dare you come to his funeral?” she shrieked.
A hush fell over the chapel. People turned to watch. The organ player stopped the music abruptly. Father McCann poked his head in from the vestibule.
Gina tossed the hat at Martin Dooley’s face. “How dare you show up here?” She pressed her trembling hands against the waist of her black skirt, her chest heaving up and down.
Dooley didn’t move. He gazed up at her calmly. The only sign of tension on his face were the two blotches of red that formed on his well-shaved cheeks. “I came to pay my respects,” he said softly.
“Pay your respects? You murderer!” Gina shrieked. She lunged at him. But two ushers appeared, grabbed her arms, held her back.
“I came to pay my respects,” Dooley repeated, still not making any attempt to stand up. “You misjudge me, Mrs. Palmieri. Angelo worked for my family since he was a boy. I truly thought of him as a son.”
“LIAR!” Gina screamed. “LIAR!” She struggled to free herself from the young ushers’ grasp, but the two boys held tight.
“Did you forget?” Dooley continued. “I lost my nephew that same night. Aaron vanished without a trace.”
Gina leaned over him, breathing hard. If only she could kill him with her stare. Send a bolt of lightning into his head, blow up that smug face.
“I lost Aaron that night, remember?” Dooley repeated. “I know your daughter Beth had something to do with it. Everyone knew your daughter was a witch!”
Pain stabbed Gina’s temples, and she grabbed the sides of her head, as if trying to shut out that word. Something snapped. She could feel herself burn, beyond anger, beyond anything she had ever felt before.
With a furious scream, she spun her body hard, sending the two frightened ushers tumbling backward.
“MURDERER! MURDERER!”
She staggered back a few rows. Grabbed a lighted candle from its holder in the aisle. Lurched forward—and stabbed it into Dooley’s left eye.
His hoarse scream rang off the chapel rafters as he leaped to his feet. Screams rang out all around.
He staggered into the aisle, the burning candle plunged deep in his eye socket. His hands flailed helplessly at his sides, as if he was too terrified to think, too terrified to grab the candle and pull it out.
Gina stepped back and watched as Dooley’s face appeared to flame. And then, with a dry whoosh, his hair caught fire.
“Do something!” a woman behind her screamed. “Somebody—do something!”
Gina crossed her arms in front of her chest and watched.
PART THREE
PRESENT DAY
19.
“What did I just step in?”
Gabe laughed. “It’s only mud, Michael. The ground is so muddy here, we could sink right into the graves.”
“Cool,” I said.
Diego tilted his head to one side, stuck his hands straight out in front of him, and staggered stiff-legged down the row of graves. “It’s the zombie apocalypse,” he growled. “I need to eat flesh.” He bit the sleeve of Gabe’s parka.
Gabe growled back at him, snapping his teeth. “I see dead people!” he cried. “All around. Dead people. Look. I’m stepping on them.” He stomped around in a circle, his shoes sinking into the soft mud.
I shook my head. “Can’t take you anywhere. You guys act as if you’ve never been in a graveyard before.”
“Have you three found your graves yet?” Miss Beach called. She stood looking down on our class from a gently sloping hill covered in rows of tilted, gray tombstones.
“Not yet,” I shouted back. “We’re still looking.”
Just like Miss Beach to take us to the old graveyard on the coldest, grayest, foggiest, eeriest day of the winter. Kind of perfect, I guess, for making gravestone rubbings.
Pepper motioned to me from down a long row of graves. A strong gust of wind sent her jacket flapping behind her. “Over here, Michael. Kathryn and I found some of the oldest ones. They’re from like 1790.”
“Too old,” I said, shaking my head. “They’ll be rubbed smooth.”
“Since when are you the expert?” she yelled.
“I used to be a grave robber,” I said. “I collected skulls when I was in first grade. My mom made me stop. She said they were unsanitary.”
“You’re sick,” she shouted.
I laughed. “You don’t believe me?”
She made a face and turned back to Kathryn and the little square gravestones they’d found.
“Hey, guys, stop wasting time,” Miss Beach called. The wind blew her hood back and her blonde hair flew about her face.
“She’s totally hot,” Diego said.
Gabe laughed. “Seriously?”
Diego shrugged. “Just saying.”
Gabe was squatting in front of a tall tombstone. It had two angels engraved at the top and fancy decorations all down the sides. I stepped up behind him and read the name cut deep in the stone: COLONEL FREDERICH DEVERAUX. Beneath the name, I could make out the words A Leader A Gentleman A Soldier.
Diego bumped me out of the way. “This is awesome. Miss Beach will go nuts over this one.”
Gabe stood up and slid a sheet of rubbing paper from his bag. “Okay. We’ll do this one. Help me hold it down, Michael. The wind is crazy.”
Gabe and I pressed the paper against the front of the stone. Diego began rubbing with a stick of charcoal. We had almost finished the rubbing when Gabe turned to me, a troubled expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. The wind made the top of the paper flap as if it was trying to fly away.
“Doesn’t being here creep you out?” Gabe said. I could see he wasn’t joking.
“Hey, let me finish,” Diego said, bending over Gabe to reach the bot
tom of the stone.
Gabe hesitated. “I mean, I keep thinking about that guy you hit. You know. Angel. How did he just vanish like that?”
“He got up and walked away,” Diego said. “Enough about that. Shut up.”
“But … Lizzy said he was dead,” Gabe replied. “She checked him, remember? She said he was dead.”
“So now you think Lizzy is a doctor?” Diego said, jabbing Gabe in the side with the charcoal. “You think she’s a medical expert? She pronounced him dead so he has to be dead?”
“But I saw him,” Gabe replied. “He was dead. Definitely.”
I turned and saw Miss Beach watching us from the hill. “Guys,” I said, “we can’t talk about this now. Seriously. The wind carries our voices. We don’t want…”
I stopped when I saw Lizzy on a low rise near the cemetery fence. She stood all alone in front of two slender tombstones, a sheet of paper flapping in her hand, her back to everyone.
I walked over to her, my shoes squishing in the mud. Wisps of fog hovered low over the ground, and beyond them a wall of thick fog was floating closer. “Hey,” I called.
She was concentrating so hard on the tombstones, she didn’t hear me. I stepped up behind her and touched the shoulder of her down coat, and she jumped.
She turned, blinking hard. “Oh, hi, Michael.”
“What did you find?” I asked. “Something good?”
Her dark eyes studied me for a moment, and I thought I detected a tremble of sadness on her face. She pointed. “Look at these stones.”
I stepped up next to her and leaned down to read the first granite stone. The engraving had been worn down by the years of weather, but the inscription was easy to read:ANGELO PALMIERI. 1912–1950. Then I turned and squinted at the second stone: BETH PALMIERI. 1934–1950.
“Side by side,” Lizzy murmured. “And they both died the same year.”
“A man and wife?” I said.
Lizzy’s dark hair fluttered in a gust of wind. She didn’t move to tug it back down, just let it fly around her face. “No. She must have been his daughter,” she said. “Look at the dates.”
Yes. Beth Palmieri would have been sixteen when she died.
“So sad,” Lizzy said. She suddenly pressed her cheek against mine. “Oh, wow. You’re as cold as I am.”
I realized I wanted her to keep her cheek there, to stay so close to me. I started to slide my arm around her waist.
But she turned quickly and raised the large sheet of paper in her hand. “Help me do this rubbing. Then maybe Miss Beach will come to her senses and let us go back to the warm school.”
I took the sheet of paper and spread it across the front of Angelo Palmieri’s stone. I could still feel Lizzy’s cheek against mine. Lizzy dug in her bag and pulled out a stick of charcoal.
She moved to begin the rubbing, but I stood up. I thought I saw something. Something moving in the patch of gravestones across from us.
The fog swirled in the wind, light at the top, then thick and gray near the ground, like a living thing, like an enormous creature oozing over the mud. I squinted hard. It was like peering through a dark window curtain.
“Michael? What is it?” Lizzy’s voice suddenly seemed far away.
I stared hard and saw the man. Yes. A man rising up in the billowing fog. He was a blur of black against the gray wall of fog, but I could see him clearly. I could see him climbing up from a grave.
20.
“Hey—!” I shouted.
I recognized him. I recognized the black overcoat, his long black hair, blowing around his face. Angel. Yes. Definitely the guy Lizzy called Angel. Shrouded in fog, floating out from behind a tall monument.
He stood there staring back at me, motionless as the gravestones all around. Stood there, watching. Threatening?
“Lizzy, do you see him?” I cried.
I didn’t wait for her reply. I took off, running toward him, the clouds of gray thick around my legs, my heart suddenly pounding. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. Just took off running to him, shouting, “Hey! Hey, you!” my shoes plopping noisily in the mud.
And when I reached the monument, a tall rectangular stone, shiny like marble, with a large cross on the top … when I reached the monument, breathing hard, squinting into the thick mist … he was gone.
I grabbed the monument with both gloved hands and held on, struggling to catch my breath. Leaned against the cold marble and peered all around, watching for any movement, any sign of him. But no. He had vanished.
Back to the grave?
Back to the grave I had seen him climb out of?
Finally, I let go of the monument. I started to turn back to the others—and someone grabbed my shoulder.
I let out a cry. Spun around. “Lizzy.”
Her eyes burned into mine. She wrapped me in a hug. “Michael, you looked so frightened. What did you see? What was it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, holding her close.
* * *
Diego stomped across our kitchen and pulled open the fridge door. He leaned into the light, examining each shelf. Then he turned back to me. “No beer?”
I shook my head. “Diego, you know my parents don’t have beer in the house.”
He pulled out a Coke and shut the fridge door. “Why not? They’re alcoholics?”
“No,” I said. “They’re afraid you might come over and drink it all.”
Gabe and Kathryn, sitting across from me at the kitchen table, burst out laughing. Pepper sat at the end of the table with her arms crossed in front of her yellow sweater. She had arrived at my house in a bad mood but didn’t seem interested in talking about it. Lizzy was perched at the counter across from the table, dipping into a big bag of tortilla chips. Diego dropped down on the tall stool next to her and began pawing up chips with both hands.
“Did you all have dinner?” I asked. “There’s some leftover ham if anyone wants a sandwich.”
“Michael, you’re such a good host,” Pepper muttered.
“Where are your parents?” Diego asked with a mouthful of chips. “Out drinking beer?”
“You are so not funny tonight,” Kathryn said.
“Huh? You kidding? I’m a riot,” Diego replied.
“They’re visiting my cousins in Martinsville,” I said. “They wanted me to come, but I told them I had too much homework.”
“You lied to your parents,” Gabe said.
“Like you always tell the truth?” I said. “What should I have told them, Gabe? That I killed a guy on the snowmobile on Saturday, and today he rose up from a grave in the cemetery, and I thought we should all get together tonight and talk about what to do about him?”
“They wouldn’t believe that, anyway,” Gabe said. “Better to lie.”
“So what are we going to do?” Pepper said impatiently. She swept both hands back through her coppery hair.
“If he’s a zombie, we have to kill him again,” Diego said. He laughed at his own joke.
“I don’t think he’s a zombie—” I started.
“But you said you saw him climb up from a grave,” Gabe said.
“It was so foggy,” I replied. “I’m not sure what I saw. I only know I recognized him. It was Angel, and he was staring at me, just standing there staring at me.”
“He was dead,” Lizzy chimed in. She dropped down from the tall stool and walked over to us at the table. “I know he was dead.”
“But, Lizzy, if he walked away…” Kathryn said.
“He couldn’t be alive,” Lizzy insisted. “I examined him. I couldn’t be mistaken. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes were dead. They were like glass. Like doll’s eyes. And he wasn’t breathing.”
“Then … what are you saying?” Pepper said. “That Michael saw Angel’s ghost this morning?”
“His spirit,” Lizzy replied. “It must be his spirit. Maybe his spirit lives on in that graveyard.”
No one said anything for a long moment. I think we were all studying Lizzy to see if s
he was being serious.
She was.
Diego snickered. “You believe in spirits?” he asked.
“Of course,” Lizzy said. “We all have spirits. We all have souls. Don’t you think our souls can live on outside our bodies? Don’t you believe—” She stopped suddenly. Her whole body shuddered. Her hands were trembling.
I jumped up from the table. “Lizzy? Are you okay?”
A sob escaped her throat. “He’s dead, Michael. Angel is dead. And now he’s coming after us. I know it. He won’t rest. He was an evil person when he was alive. I know he’s much worse now. He won’t stay in his grave until … until he’s paid us back. Aren’t you afraid? Aren’t any of you afraid?”
She shuddered again. “I’m so frightened, so horribly frightened.” Another loud sob burst from her throat and tears began to pour down her face.
Without thinking, I hurried forward, wrapped my arms around her, and hugged her tight. I was only thinking of stopping her from trembling.
But I glanced up and saw Pepper glaring at me, her face twisted in an angry scowl.
I held onto Lizzy. Her tears felt hot against my cheek.
Am I becoming obsessed with her?
The question flashed uninvited into my mind.
I don’t know her at all. It’s like … I’ve been hypnotized. I think about her all the time.
“Michael.” Pepper’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Michael, you and I—we have to talk.”
21.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I hugged Lizzy. I know why you’re angry, Pepper.”
She shook her head. “I’m not angry because you hugged her, Michael. I’m angry because you’re a sucker. Because you’re an idiot. Because you fell for all her phony garbage.”
The others had left. We hadn’t been able to decide anything. Gabe and Kathryn voted for calling the police and telling them everything about Saturday. Diego and I were totally opposed. How would confessing to the police help us with the Angel situation?
We all argued for nearly an hour, then decided we weren’t getting anywhere. Lizzy was the most frightened of all of us. Maybe because she knew about Angel from her old school. Maybe because she was totally convinced he was dead in the snow last Saturday.