struts about in a dramatic way, which I assume is how he imagines vampires walk. I cringe, waiting for another explosion from Bethany, but she’s busy pinching her cheeks and fluffing her blonde curls.
George throws his weight against the gate. The iron is cold in my hands as I grab hold and swing my weight along with George’s. At last we creak the gate open just enough for all of us to slip through.
“Is it ever locked?” I ask, marveling at the giant keyhole facing the inside.
“Almost never. After all, what good does it do? Now, I understand your interest in this historical structure, but we must reach shelter soon. Come along, please. We are vulnerable.”
18
the scripture is twisted
Legions of leaflets blow through the town. They press against windows, stick between cobblestones, impale themselves on briars. I snatch one from the wind as it flies past me. Squinting to read in the bit of light that is left to the day, I elbow Poe, invite him to take a look.
something polluted this way comes
Shakespeare altered to suit Memento Mori. The channelers take liberties.
George cuts down an alley that funnels the wind. My bare face stings. A turn, and we arrive in what seems to be a residential portion of town. Smoke drifts from every chimney, carrying soot that settles in our hair and on our shoulders. It’s created a thick sludge that cakes every surface, every crevice. Streaks of grime give the appearance of prison bars on windows.
Hugging my arms to my chest, I peer at heavy wooden doors. Miniature gargoyle heads bite down on oversized metal rings. I don’t think I’ll be knocking. Corn husks, stuffed into iron pots, line the cobblestone street.
“What’s that awful stench?” Ava says, coughing, breaking the silence of our trek.
Curtains shift at windows. Amber light shows through in slivers.
No one comes out.
“Not much farther,” George murmurs.
Night falls. I feel like I’ve been plunged into a cold pool. Suddenly. The breath is knocked out of me.
Figures, pale and ragged, materialize to my side. They vanish when I turn to look directly at them. I look away, and they reappear in the corner of my eye. A woman and a small boy.Ghosts.
Poe stumbles into me. “Did you see that?” he asks excitedly. “Where’d they go?”
“Properly acknowledge them,” George barks. He presses his palms together as if in prayer and bows his head. Poe immediately follows his lead. Reluctantly, I imitate the gesture.
The ghosts shift directly into my line of sight.
Chains drag along after them, clanging against cobblestones. Their faces are mostly hidden, but as they draw near, they pull back their cowled hoods.
Their eyes are matted shut. It’s as if whatever process made ragged their robes has done the same with their eyes. Wads of…threads…stuff their eye sockets.
Jesus
. The wads are held in place because they’re sewn there. I can see the stitches in the dark moons beneath their eyes and weaving in and out of their eyebrows.
It’s like they’re suspended in water. Hair floats, slowly waving out of rhythm with the wind.Their mouths hold a perpetual O shape. Like fish.
Twitching with excitement, Poe takes it all in.
The ghost boy waves up at me, then cringes. His mother snatches him back. They vanish.
George and Bethany urge us on.
Ava stares hard at each dark window we pass, as if she’s trying to divine whether Leesel could be trapped inside.
Smaller cottages. Roofs sag, doorways are crooked. This is not the better part of town. We arrive at a sunken cottage that’s filthy black, buried behind an overgrown hedge of thorned vegetation. “Welcome to my humble dwelling,” George says. Raindrops pelt as we duck inside.
Bethany lights two oil lamps before ushering us into a small sitting room. It’s crushed black velvet. Everywhere. Pretentious, shabby, cliché. A loveseat is positioned between two ripped wingback chairs, which crowd around a stone fireplace.Pancaked cushions are worn and
George throws his weight against the gate. The iron is cold in my hands as I grab hold and swing my weight along with George’s. At last we creak the gate open just enough for all of us to slip through.
“Is it ever locked?” I ask, marveling at the giant keyhole facing the inside.
“Almost never. After all, what good does it do? Now, I understand your interest in this historical structure, but we must reach shelter soon. Come along, please. We are vulnerable.”
18
the scripture is twisted
Legions of leaflets blow through the town. They press against windows, stick between cobblestones, impale themselves on briars. I snatch one from the wind as it flies past me. Squinting to read in the bit of light that is left to the day, I elbow Poe, invite him to take a look.
something polluted this way comes
Shakespeare altered to suit Memento Mori. The channelers take liberties.
George cuts down an alley that funnels the wind. My bare face stings. A turn, and we arrive in what seems to be a residential portion of town. Smoke drifts from every chimney, carrying soot that settles in our hair and on our shoulders. It’s created a thick sludge that cakes every surface, every crevice. Streaks of grime give the appearance of prison bars on windows.
Hugging my arms to my chest, I peer at heavy wooden doors. Miniature gargoyle heads bite down on oversized metal rings. I don’t think I’ll be knocking. Corn husks, stuffed into iron pots, line the cobblestone street.
“What’s that awful stench?” Ava says, coughing, breaking the silence of our trek.
Curtains shift at windows. Amber light shows through in slivers.
No one comes out.
“Not much farther,” George murmurs.
Night falls. I feel like I’ve been plunged into a cold pool. Suddenly. The breath is knocked out of me.
Figures, pale and ragged, materialize to my side. They vanish when I turn to look directly at them. I look away, and they reappear in the corner of my eye. A woman and a small boy.Ghosts.
Poe stumbles into me. “Did you see that?” he asks excitedly. “Where’d they go?”
“Properly acknowledge them,” George barks. He presses his palms together as if in prayer and bows his head. Poe immediately follows his lead. Reluctantly, I imitate the gesture.
The ghosts shift directly into my line of sight.
Chains drag along after them, clanging against cobblestones. Their faces are mostly hidden, but as they draw near, they pull back their cowled hoods.
Their eyes are matted shut. It’s as if whatever process made ragged their robes has done the same with their eyes. Wads of…threads…stuff their eye sockets.
Jesus
. The wads are held in place because they’re sewn there. I can see the stitches in the dark moons beneath their eyes and weaving in and out of their eyebrows.
It’s like they’re suspended in water. Hair floats, slowly waving out of rhythm with the wind.Their mouths hold a perpetual O shape. Like fish.
Twitching with excitement, Poe takes it all in.
The ghost boy waves up at me, then cringes. His mother snatches him back. They vanish.
George and Bethany urge us on.
Ava stares hard at each dark window we pass, as if she’s trying to divine whether Leesel could be trapped inside.
Smaller cottages. Roofs sag, doorways are crooked. This is not the better part of town. We arrive at a sunken cottage that’s filthy black, buried behind an overgrown hedge of thorned vegetation. “Welcome to my humble dwelling,” George says. Raindrops pelt as we duck inside.
Bethany lights two oil lamps before ushering us into a small sitting room. It’s crushed black velvet. Everywhere. Pretentious, shabby, cliché. A loveseat is positioned between two ripped wingback chairs, which crowd around a stone fireplace.Pancaked cushions are worn and
Similar Books
