Where the Dead Talk by Ken Davis

said, breathing hard, shaking his head as if he could force the images out. "You don’t want to go up there."
    He wanted the boy to understand what he was going to do. Kneeling down in front of him, he spoke as clearly as he could.
    "The upstairs is full of them," he said, "piled high. I don’t think they’re so dangerous now, during the day. They move, but slowly. I think there’s a way that we can take care of this problem rather effectively. Right now."
    The boy looked as though he understood where he was going with this.
    "Jonathon?" Thomas said without hope.
    Pomeroy wanted to be straight with him.
    "If he’s there, he’s one of them. If he’s not, then you needn't worry about it."
    Thomas looked over at the house. His eyes traveled all over the front of it, as if looking for some other way to see the situation. Finally, he turned back to Pomeroy.
    "There’s lamp oil in the mill," he said, "I saw it."
    The frightened child of a few nights before was gone; the boy had apparently grown a bit of backbone. A minute later they each had two bottles of the whale oil and were dousing the steps and slats of the house itself. Once they’d gotten all the way around, Pomeroy ran back to the mill and pulled out a few more bottles. He returned to the house with these and kicked open the front door. The kitchen and main room beyond it were still. Shadows held on the stairs past the room. He opened the first bottle and poured it out over the floor.
    "Oh, hell," he said.
    He took the final two bottles and smashed them to the floor. They broke with a shatter and splashed the oil all about. He turned and stepped outside. Thomas handed him a flintbox.
    "Right. Nothing a little fire couldn’t take care of," Pomeroy said.
    He turned and squatted down. It took a few tries, but when it caught, a blue flame raced across the floor with a soft fluttering noise. He turned and did the same to the edge of the house. It took longer to catch there, but by the time it did, orange flames were rising up inside. They stood back, near the wagon. A column of thick grey smoke began to rise up into the sky. The rain wasn’t enough to stop the fire.
     
    The muddy road grabbed at the horses’ feet. Thomas looked over his shoulder at the smoke rising into the bruised rain clouds, as though it was the very source of the world’s darkness. Cold rain fell, hid the farms and houses and bodies behind a grey veil. The whole village had turned to ghosts – Thomas’s life with it. Pomeroy peered into the growing rain and motioned.
    "Isn’t the center of town back that way?"
    "She’s meeting us at Pannalancet’s. It’s this way," Thomas said.
    "Why is she meeting us there – at whatever-you-said’s."
    Thomas pretended not to understand and kept his horse moving. They neared a crossroads. Across the way, a plowed field followed the rolling land, bordered by a stone wall. From the road to the heart of the village, a covered post chaise pulled by a single horse came around the corner, splashing through the puddles. After a moment, Thomas recognized – with a start – that it was Carolyn Bucknell. The Major pulled his horse to the side of the road as the carriage approached. He tipped his hat and the rain danced in the puddles forming on the road.
    "Miss Bucknell," he said, "we were just on our way to our rendezvous."
    She pulled her carriage to a stop.
    "I’ve been searching for you," she said. She started to say something else, then froze when she saw the smoke rising behind them, plain to see. Her eyes widened and she turned to Thomas.
    "Is that your uncle’s mill?" she said.
    "We’re searching the village for Jonathon – or anyone else of the boy’s family," Pomeroy said. A smile touched his mouth.
    "I have to tell you, Major," she said, "I fear that I may have misspoken yesterday. Jonathon and the others have had little part in any of the troubles that you and your troops are attempting to quell – it’s primarily the others of the town that