“I love you, Sis. Please try to remember that. In the end, it’s the only thing that counts, though fuck only knows why.”
Marian pressed her back against the doors and said nothing as she let herself slide down onto her knees.
The mourners remained still, eyes fixed on Jack and his wife as they stood at the bottom of the church steps. After giving Marian one last look, Alan moved down to join them, leaving his sister in the shadows.
From the organ loft above came the powerful opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
From the soil below came the answer of the dead.
—thumpity-whump-thump!...(Let)...thumpity-whump-thump!...(Us)...thumpity-whump-thump...(OUT)!
Marian thought she saw movement beneath the soil at one of the now-deserted graves. Her breath came up short as the pain in her body increased.
Children broke away from their parents and started building the bonfire, clapping their hands and squealing with joy. A few small flames at first, growing higher, then a whoosh! as the fire roared to life, the children dancing in a circle as each tossed in more wood and branches. From the center of their dance came young, giggling voices: “Beasties on the doorstep, Phantoms in the air/Owls on witches’ gateposts, Giving stare for stare/Jack-o’-lanterns grinning, Shadows on a screen/Shrieks and starts and laughter, This is Hallowe’en!”
The organ music rose beyond a scream, its music of praise becoming the howl of a wolf raging at the moon, shaking loose a few stones from over the doorway.
The moon seemed to move closer to the Earth, its light so brilliant and silver Marian winced.
And Jack said: “Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead lived on a vine ...”
The dancing children answered: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house ...”
“... Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead thought it was fine ...”
“... a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round...”
—thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)!—
Marian saw that she hadn’t imagined it—something was moving under the graves...under the soil...shifting, rolling like small waves, rocking the jack-o’-lanterns back and forth as each mound rose and fell with ease.
It’s breathing. The whole goddamn cemetery is breathing.
The bonfire grew higher and wider, its roar almost equal to that of the church organ, the flames spreading and raging, hissing and popping, scattering sparks that were caught by the nightbreeze and flung across the grounds.
“...First he was small and green,” said Jack.
“...He bumps and he jumps and he thumps around midnight...”
“...Then big and yellow...”
—thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)!—
“...a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round!”
“...Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead is a very fine fellow,” all sang as one.
Marian struggled to stand again, letting the pain compel her, readying herself to make a run for it—
—and the organ music grew even louder, tinged at the edges with a dark majesty that soon gave it richer form and deeper feeling as it began “Let There Be Peace On Earth”—
—and Marian watched as a scene right out of her grainy childhood nightmares unfolded before her.
As the fiery sparks bounced against the soil, each grave split open and the thin, pale, rotted hands of its tenant reached up to touch the night air.
Marian felt her legs starting to buckle but she did not—would not—fall. She slowly pushed herself up, the pain pushing her forward, moving along the smooth oak doors, covering her head as bits and pieces of stone and plaster fell from above, steady, old girl, steady, that’s it, keep moving, no one’s looking at you, they all think you’re down for the count so don’t you dare stop moving, that’s good, just...a…little...farther...and...you...can...there! You can get through that gap in the gate and sneak back to the house, grab your car keys and drive away from here and—
—Boots.
She couldn’t leave Boots, not here, not now.
She looked over her shoulder and saw the hands from each grave grip the jack-o’-lantern left for them and pull it beneath the soil.
Then came the sounds of tearing and snapping.
She tried not to imagine what those sounds might mean.
She pushed away from the doors and edged herself over a section of crumbling wall into the ruins of the church, fell on her chest, and choked as the paroxysm of pain doubled her into a tight ball. She gulped down air and tried to stand, fell on her knees, rose again, half-crouching, and slowly struggled forward. The organ loft stairs were only a few yards away.
It was the longest trip of her life. Every movement seemed to jar something loose inside. Once, gripping the edge of a pew, she thought she felt a rib dislodge and puncture a lung.
Outside, the flames were growing so bright it looked like mid-afternoon. She caught glimpses of children running back and forth, carrying more twigs and dried leaves. “Marian!” came her Jack’s voice. She turned, balancing herself against a marble holy water fountain, expecting to see him standing behind her. Nothing.
So don’t wait around, she warned herself, moving toward the stairs. Where she was finding the strength to do this, she didn’t know. One slip and she’d collapse, she knew it, she’d fall and be poured from herself like water, all of her bones out of joint and clacking against one another as they were swept away in the stream of her fluids.
From the loft high above, the organ howled in ecstatic agony.
An owl perched atop a rotting crucifix spread its wings and soared past Marian. She gripped the railing and pulled herself onto the first stair.
“Honey?” called Mom-thing’s voice from outside.
Marian pushed herself up another stair, then two more, finally getting a delayed rush of adrenaline and taking them two at a time, blood dripping into her eyes, the pain spreading from her chest and ribs down to her pelvis. She kept climbing, thinking, Use the pain, use it, use it! She labored to breathe as smoke from the bonfire began rolling into the church and up the stairs, following her, nipping at her heels, then encircling her ankles and slithering up her legs, but then she rounded the first landing and found herself one flight away from the organ loft. The collapsed wall next to her allowed a harsh, cold breeze to cut through, holding back some the curling smoke. She filled her lungs with crisp air, blinking until her eyes cleared—
—and looked down on the cemetery below.
The glow from the fire illuminated the grounds, casting everything is a sickly pall of burnt orange.
From every grave (except her parents’, some part of her brain noted) came its occupant; many were old and feeble with little flesh left on their bones—what skin remained was shriveled, torn, and discolored; some were younger, perhaps her own age, housewives who’d died in accidents or factory workers killed in the riots or by their machines; a few were teenagers, buried in their favorite clothes, nice clothes, trendy clothes, who’d perhaps died drunk behind the wheel of a car or at the prick of a needle; and, worst of all, there were babies, the small ones, slowly crawling up through the dirt that had lain upon their fragile bodies for so long. Behind them came the descendants, the settlers, the founding citizens of Cedar Hill, all of them only bones now, only bones, clicking, clacking, shuddering. She wondered if the remains of Josiah Comstock were walking amongst them.