Nightlight by Michael Cadnum

from spilling onto the grass. He walked the tractor back, and the machine was silent.
    â€œChrist,” whispered Franklin.
    No one else spoke.
    Franklin shook his head slowly. “That was too close for comfort, as far as I’m concerned.” He stroked soil off the top of the box. “But, all’s well that ends well. Where’s the can opener?”
    Franklin took a few steps, and picked the crowbar from the grass.
    â€œI am,” Franklin said, “surprised at the fit condition of the container. I can usually find even a very old grave by nose. But what we have here”—he grunted with effort—“is well constructed.”
    He gasped as he pried unsuccessfully at the lid. The wood creaked, but then was silent, and the crowbar slipped out of Franklin’s hands. Paul backed away, praying that the lid would hold.
    â€œLike I say,” panted Franklin, wiping sweat and drizzle with a sleeve. “Constructed.”
    Skip dusted his hands against each other, and placed them on his hips, shifting so he had a good view.
    Franklin held the crowbar like a pointer. “This is the workmanship of the Oakland Casket Company.” He bent, and grunted. “Notice the beveled edge all the way around the lid.” He grunted. “Ah. And the brass—where it’s green, that’s brass—hinges.” He gasped and closed his eyes.
    He opened his eyes. “We have it. Let’s see now. Let me loosen her up down here. It’s just about ready. Those hinges could use a little oil.”
    He stepped back.
    Paul glanced, and looked away. A mouth with yellow teeth gaping wide, and a black suit. He glanced back again. That’s all there was. A skull with hair, dark and confused as a bird’s nest, and a collar rich with mildew.
    He walked away and did not look again.
    Paul stirred the fire. Lise was singing in the kitchen. Singing a song he did not recognize, perhaps because it was in Latin, or in Middle English. He was thankful that he was able to hear Lise’s voice.
    Since seeing the exhumation, he had been very glad to be alive. But he had also been very careful not to remember it very clearly. Until this moment, here in this cabin, he had not really dwelled on it at all. He had typed up a quick story, one that Ham cut in half anyway, and it had been all a day’s work, nothing more.
    Until now.

13
    Lise wanted to have the pork chops with sliced carrots for dinner, but Paul wanted spaghetti. He always prepared the dish by following a recipe he had long-since memorized. It was a meal that always seemed so hearty. “We don’t want hearty,” Lise said. “We want romantic.”
    â€œWhat’s romantic about pork chops?”
    â€œI don’t know. Just trust me.”
    Paul zipped up his raincoat. Spaghetti was romantic, redolent as it was with those Italian herbs, and smacking of red wine. Pork chops were harmless, but uninteresting.
    The rain continued, but Paul was determined to inspect the grounds of whatever place this was. He did not understand it, entirely. It was like a hunting lodge, or the weekend retreat of a prosperous but discomfort-loving businessman. It was well built. The stone walls were solid, and beautiful in this late-afternoon light. But it had an inhuman quality, as if it had erected itself out of the rock of the creekbeds without human assistance.
    He walked behind the cabin, but did not get far. A creek, as loud and deep as any he had seen, ran behind the house. The cabin was on a sort of island, he realized. He followed the creek to the end of the island and stumbled over the roots of redwoods until he reached the bridge they had crossed. The Volkswagen made Paul laugh, it looked so out of place.
    Everywhere the ground was tangled with roots, or heavy with half-rotted leaves. The bay trees of the creekbed were evergreen, in theory, but dropped many leaves in the autumn, and Paul gathered a handful to use in his