The Kingdom. Amanda Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ front of the entrance, the flutelike trill of the wood thrushes filled the air.

       Armed with cell phone, camera and sketch pad, I got out of the SUV. There was a gate, but it wasn’t locked. Luna had told me the day before that the cemetery used to close after dark, but no one bothered with it anymore. However, she’d supplied me with copies of permits and other pertinent paperwork just in case anyone challenged my presence. I wondered if she knew of any specific objections to the restoration. Thane Asher had hinted at trouble.

       I closed the gate behind me and then glanced around. Thorngate was smallish for a public cemetery but large for a family burial site. It was easy to spot the delineation between the two. The terrain nearest the gate had been flattened and the markers placed flush to the ground to accommodate lawn mowers. There were no fences or walls to separate the plots, no excessive adornment on the stones, though I did spot personal mementoes on some of the mounded graves. It was a modern, space-saving cemetery that did little to inspire the self-reflection and tranquility of my favorite old graveyards. By contrast, the original family site was lush and Gothic, clearly influenced by Victorian perceptions of romance, death and melancholy.

       The first order of business was to walk the grounds, recording any special features and anomalies that would be included on the new site map. As I wandered through the public area, I spotted a couple of markers with familiar names—Birch and Kemper. I also saw a fresh grave near the fence. The dirt was mounded and covered with dying flowers.

       As I passed through the old arched lych-gate into the Asher section, the sparse landscaping gave way to mossy stepping-stones, curling ivy and the remnants of what I thought might be a white garden inside a circle of magnificent stone angels. The heads tilted eastward, toward the rising sun, and the hanging branches of a cedar dappled the early-morning light that fell upon their faces. But the expressions were neither serene nor forlorn as I’d come to expect from cemetery angels. Instead, I found them arrogant. Maybe even defiant. And these statues marked the resting places of the lesser Ashers. The remains of the immediate family were interred in a large mausoleum decorated with elaborate reliefs and stained-glass portals.

       The door was unlocked, and I shoved it open to peer inside, noting at once the absence of wall crypts. The mausoleum was a façade for an underground tomb, but I would save that inspection for later when I was better equipped to deal with any snakes that might be looking for a place to hibernate. Burial chambers were notorious lairs—not to mention a breeding ground for spiders. A childhood encounter with a black widow had left me with a nasty infection and lingering arachnophobia, an inconvenient anxiety for someone in my field, but I’d learned to cope.

       Backing out of the mausoleum, I closed the door and turned as I brushed imaginary cobwebs from my hair. Then I froze. A man stood just inside the fence, staring across the headstones at me. He reminded me of the old man’s ghost that haunted Rosehill Cemetery. From a distance, he had a similar appearance—tall, withered, dressed in black. But this man’s hair was gray and fell in limp hanks past the shoulders of a heavy wool overcoat. I’d already shed my lightweight jacket, so I thought his choice of outerwear on such a warm day a bit peculiar.

       I didn’t think him a ghost, but the rules had changed since I met Devlin. This man’s lack of an aura didn’t make him human any more than his strange appearance or statuelike stillness made him a specter.

       As I hovered indecisively on the mausoleum steps, he did something that was neither human nor ghostlike. He dropped to the ground and slithered underneath the fence where he rose on hands and feet to scurry like a spider into the thicket.

       I stared after him in astonishment, my skin crawling in distaste. How bizarre and utterly unnerving that he should mimic my thoughts about snakes and spiders. I shuddered. A coincidence, surely. But coming on the heels of the ghost I’d seen on the pier last night, I was thoroughly shaken and couldn’t get the man’s grotesque behavior out of my mind. It left me with a terrible feeling, as if a message had been sent, but I didn’t know how to interpret it.

       The premonition lingered as I finished my walk. All the while, I kept a constant vigil and a can of mace handy, just in case. I was always careful in isolated cemeteries, but more so now than ever. My experience with a killer a few months earlier had left me wary and cautious. And now the appearance of that strange man. I couldn’t help shivering every time I thought of him.

       Working well into the afternoon, I used colored flags to stake a grid that would help me keep track of the graves once I started to photograph. Hunger finally drove me back to my car. After a bite to eat, I decided to head into town to do a little research at the library. I also thought now might be a good time to drop in at the police station and make my presence known. Apart from my own safety, an introduction was common courtesy. In these small communities, people often became apprehensive when they saw a stranger poking about in a graveyard, and suspicion could often be averted by developing a cordial relationship with local law enforcement.

       As I drove down the hill, I saw the gray-haired man again. He walked along the side of the road, pulling a rusted toy wagon behind him. His coat was so long it dragged the ground, and the tail billowed in the slight breeze. He turned to stare at me as I drove past, and though I didn’t return his scrutiny, I had the impression of pale eyes, jutting cheekbones and a hawklike nose. My window was down, and I caught the scent of rotting flesh a split second before I saw the animal carcass in his wagon. I couldn’t tell what it was, but the body looked to be the size of a possum or raccoon.

       Quickly, I raised the window, trapping a fly that pestered me all the way into town.

      * * *

       As I entered the town proper, I noticed yet again the empty streets. A few cars were parked around the square, but I didn’t see anyone as I crossed over to the library. Inside, silence enveloped me. It wasn’t the usual library hush, but the deep stillness of an abandoned place. Which was crazy because I’d met Sidra and Luna in there yesterday. I assumed Sidra was still in school and Luna was probably next door at the real estate office. I told myself there was nothing sinister about their absence, but I found myself wincing at those creaking floors.

       I had no idea where to look for the cemetery records, but I decided to do a little browsing. The color-coded signs tacked to the end of the bookshelves led me past fiction, nonfiction and biographies to the religion and history aisles where I scanned titles searching for something local. Alongside copies of The South Carolina Travel Guide and Wildflowers of the Blue Ridge Mountains were more esoteric titles: Mountain Magic, Folklore of the Appalachians and Frazer’s The Golden Bough, which I’d read in one of my anthropology classes for extra credit. As I pulled it from the shelf to skim the introduction, I heard someone laugh—a low, throaty female chortle that gave me goose bumps.

       Turning, I glanced behind me. Nothing. I walked around to the next aisle. No one.

       Then I glanced up. The gray tabby I’d seen in Luna’s office blinked down at me from the top shelf.

       I went back to my reading, and now I heard a man’s voice, taunting and furtive. The library was empty, but I wasn’t alone. I walked along the wall, gazing down each row of bookshelves. When I got to the end, the voices grew louder, and my gaze dropped to an ornate grill that covered an old vent. Someone was in another room, and the air shaft carried their sound straight to me. Had I been standing in another part of the library, I probably wouldn’t have heard them at all.

       Should I say something? I wondered. Or at least clear my throat to alert them of my presence?

       As I stood there contemplating the proper etiquette, the murmurs turned to moans. Husky, sexual and extremely aggressive.

       I backed away from the vent, but the sound followed me. Quickly, I shelved The Golden Bough only to dislodge another СКАЧАТЬ