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August 1, Thursday
AFTER A restless night of dreams featuring flying witches that reached out to me from their graves, I jolted awake.
To find myself shrouded.
I flailed at the cloth over my face and head, crying out. I tore away the quilt I’d burrowed under and fell back, limp. The bedroom I slept in was stuffy and warm—the recent power outage had definitely affected the central air conditioning along with other appliances in the house.
I flung back the covers and sat up. The images of the robed figures in the graveyard the previous evening were branded on my brain. I stood and walked to the window, shivering despite the temperature. Picking up the binoculars I left there, I swung them toward the Whisper Graveyard, which appeared empty and quiet in the rising sun.
I exhaled. As it should be.
But the words of the white-haired tour guide still revolved in my head.
The gates have to be locked to keep the witches’ spirits within the cemetery.
I’d been spooked away the previous evening by the group gathered to celebrate an unpronounceable Wiccan holiday before I had the chance to secure the padlock on the graveyard gate. So there was no real reason for me to walk to the graveyard this morning except sheer curiosity… and to ensure the visitors had left the cemetery untouched.
When I emerged from the sprawling farmhouse, the clucks and cackles of the hens from the chicken coop reached me. Satan the white goat bleated with irritation from his pen.
I would deal with them later.
It occurred to me as I walked down the pitted one-lane road that sometime in the month since I’d arrived to housesit The Whisper House in remote Irving, Alabama, I’d embraced the role of caretaker of the Whisper Graveyard.
Remembering how vulnerable I’d felt the night before, I picked up a piece of tree limb to use as a walking stick and potential weapon against…
I smirked.
Against witches? If I believed the local gossip, no mere stick was going to protect me. But since I didn’t believe anyone had magical powers, I reasoned a stick would work just fine on regular old humans.
And snakes, I thought, as I scanned the ground in front of me, ever watchful.
When I reached the graveyard, the only sound in the air was the cacophony of birds in the trees that surrounded and invaded the cemetery. Low-hanging limbs lent a shady, peaceful air to the sacred spot, but made it feel insulated… and isolated.
I opened the creaky metal gate, then stepped inside to look around. The monolithic monument that Sawyer had repaired dominated the scene, rendering the stones around it a little shabby by comparison. I walked around to the grave of the Civil War soldier whose headstone Sawyer had restored, smiling to see the stone standing erect and polished.
I was inexplicably drawn to the newest headstone in the cemetery belonging to Rose Whisper. The headstone was light gray, with a rounded top. According to Sawyer, she’d died here in the cemetery and according to the date on the headstone, on February fourteenth of this year.
Valentine’s Day.
Sawyer had found her body in the graveyard and had inferred she’d committed suicide by overdose. I idly wondered if she’d chosen the date for a reason. Conversely, the leader of the group that had gathered last night, librarian Tilda Benson, had declared to attendees that Rose was murdered, and vowed vengeance.
In the light of day, it all seemed like fantasy spun out the desire to create drama where none existed.
I continued strolling among the headstones, then I stopped and inhaled sharply.
Two of the decades-old Benson graves had been covered with slabs of black granite. According to the aged forager Muriel, the granite was supposed to keep the spirits of the occupants—alleged witches—contained.
One of the slabs had been dislodged and lay to the side of the grave, exposing the compacted dirt underneath, which had a fresh furrow running through it.
As if something had been removed from the grave… or had escaped it.
August 2, Friday
I WAS sitting on the porch, enjoying a plate of fresh scrambled eggs, but my gaze kept wandering in the direction of the graveyard, looking for… I didn’t know what.
I wasn’t sure who to report the upended slab of granite to—or if it was even my responsibility. I considered calling Sawyer, but realized I didn’t have a contact number for him. It occurred to me all I had to do was ride my bike into the small town and ask literally anyone on the sidewalk how I could reach him, but I didn’t want to seem… needy.
The obvious culprits were the people who’d gathered in the graveyard, although I couldn’t be certain it hadn’t happened before they arrived. Plus Sawyer had told me the town of Irving didn’t have its own police department but instead depended on the nearby city of Birmingham to provide protection. And this seemed like a small potatoes problem to report to a department that undoubtedly had more serious crimes to solve.
