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July 12, Friday
I HAD ridden my bike down to the cemetery to close and lock the gate just before darkness. When I got there, a late-model dark sedan with Fulton County, Georgia tags was parked in front of the gate. I hadn’t seen or heard the car pass the house, which made me realize I wasn’t always aware when someone drove onto the property.
The thought was unsettling, but I was getting used to feeling off-balance. I was still digesting the information that Rose Whisper had probably been the last inhabitant of the house and had died. I was starting to have nightmares that maybe she’d died in the house, that she’d fallen down the stairs or had been pecked to death by a chicken. Or bitten by one of the several thousand poisonous snakes I was sure lived in the grass surrounding the house that was now well past my knees.
I hoped how soon Kelly Brown recovered and could get back to groundskeeping duties. The chicken coop was also in need of tending—the straw nests were dirty and reeked of poo.
I stopped at the gate and quietly leaned my bike against the post. Inside the cemetery on the “have-nots” side, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a suit stood with his hand on a simple white gravestone. I could tell from his body language that he had loved the person buried there. Indeed, as I watched, he passed a hand over his eyes, I assumed to absorb moisture. Then he knelt to lower a small bouquet of flowers to the base of the monument. When he straightened, he noticed me.
“Hello,” he offered.
“Hello,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I came to lock the gate but take as long as you want.”
“It’s okay, I’m ready to leave.”
He walked toward me, his face still grim with whatever thoughts he’d been processing. Then he passed and strode to his car, swung inside, turned the car around, and drove away.
Burning with curiosity, I walked over to the headstone. Serena Benson, loving daughter and friend. The woman had died several years prior, and had died young, in her late twenties. There were other Benson headstones around. In lieu of a headstone, some of the early Benson graves were covered with slabs of shiny granite.
I wondered what had happened to the young woman and who the man had been to her. A brother? A friend? A lover? A grieving husband? Because the big handsome man had definitely been wearing a wedding ring.
And I’d seen the flash of a police badge at his waist.
July 13, Saturday
All night my dreams were haunted by young women dying and being buried together in the Whisper Graveyard. They were all sitting on their gravestones, with their hands stretched out to me. Help us… or join us.
A loud bang! jarred me awake. Bright daylight streamed through my window. I’d overslept. My mind raced to identify the noise.
Bang!
My bedroom door jostled. Terror gripped my heart. Someone was in the hallway, trying to break down my door. Thank goodness I’d gotten into the habit of locking my door before I went to bed.
“Wh-Who’s there?” I shouted.
Bang! The door rattled again.
I leapt out of bed and ran to my window to climb out onto the Juliet balcony. My heart pounded against my chest. I estimated the damage I’d endure when I jumped into the deep grass—if I didn’t break both my legs, I’d probably be eaten alive by snakes. But both seemed less likely than being killed by whoever was intent on breaking down my bedroom door. I climbed to sit on the edge of the railing, trying to work up the nerve to jump. I heard a noise coming down the road and my heart soared to see Sawyer’s black truck rolling up.
“Help!” I screamed, waving my arms. “Help me!”
The truck came to an abrupt halt in front of the house. Sawyer jumped out and ran toward the house. “Josephine! What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s in the house, trying to break down my bedroom door!”
He disappeared under the roof of the porch. I heard the distant sound of glass breaking. Inside, my bedroom door was still being viciously kicked—it couldn’t withstand much more. My heart was in my throat when I realized Sawyer had to confront an angry intruder—he could be hurt, or worse. And crazily, my mind went to Rose Whisper—had she lost her life at the hands of an intruder?
I heard the pounding of feet as Sawyer ran up the stairs, and then….
Laughter?
The kicking abruptly stopped, and I could hear Sawyer’s voice scolding someone. I frowned, confused. Then a knock on the door sounded.
“Josephine? It’s okay. Open up.”
I climbed off the railing and stepped back into the room, then fumbled to unlock the door. I opened it gingerly.
To find Sawyer holding back a hooved white furry animal with floppy ears. It opened its mouth and bleated at me.
