Page 4 of Wednesday
"I could offer an alternative," Morrow said. "An arrangement that has served others before you."
"What kind of arrangement?" I asked warily.
Morrow gestured to the partially consumed corpse. "I have dwelt in this cemetery for centuries. I will dwell here for centuries more. I require sustenance. The newly buried provide what I need."
He approached me slowly, his bare feet silent on the stone floor. "You guard the cemetery by night. You maintain its appearance. You ensure the humans respect their dead." He stopped directly in front of me. "And you allow me to feed in peace."
"You want me to... help you eat corpses?" I choked.
"Not help. Merely allow." Morrow picked up a piece of stone that had crumbled from the mausoleum wall. With a casual gesture, he crushed it to powder, letting the dust sift through his long fingers. "In return, I allow you to live."
The implication was unmistakable. I glanced toward the half-eaten remains of Lawrence Emmett. That could be me.
"This bargain has worked before?" I asked.
"With those sensible enough to accept it," Morrow replied. "I have no interest in causing undue suffering. The dead suffice for my needs, provided I am left in peace."
"And if I say no?"
Morrow's mouth stretched in that terrible approximation of a smile. "Then I will feed twice tonight."
Dawn light crept under the door, and Morrow edged back into the deeper shadows of the mausoleum.
"Choose," he said.
What choice did I have? Die here, or accept his offer and live. At least for now. Maybe later I could find another job, save some money, and escape this nightmare.
"I accept," I said, the words sticking in my dry throat.
"Wise," Morrow replied. "Return to your cottage, Carmen Ruiz. Rest. I will find you again when darkness falls."
I did not ask how he knew my name. Maybe he'd overheard Winters say it, or maybe he'd been watching me since I arrived. Neither possibility was comforting.
"Go," he said when I hesitated.
I did not need to be told twice. I backed toward the door, unwilling to turn my back on him. When my hand found the cold metal handle, I yanked it open and stumbled out into the cemetery.
The pale dawn light transformed the landscape. The night’s fog was burning away, leaving lush green lawns. Birds had begun their morning songs, the sound jarringly normal after the horror I had witnessed.
I ran without looking back. I staggered through the cemetery, constantly glancing over my shoulder. Every shadow seemed to move. Every rustling leaf made me flinch.
By the time I reached the cottage, morning had broken fully over Oakwood Cemetery. The cheerful sunlight felt like a mockery of what I had experienced in the darkness.
My hands shook so badly that I dropped the keys twice before managing to unlock the door. Once inside, I slammed it shut and engaged the deadbolt, then wedged a chair under the knob for good measure. As if that would stop something like Morrow.
I sagged against the wall, finally allowing my legs to give way as I slid to the floor. My clothes smelled like blood and decay. Like him. The smell clung to my hair, my skin.
I staggered to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. Steam filled the small space as I peeled off my clothes and stepped under the scalding spray. I scrubbed until my skin was raw, but the memory of those needle teeth and hollow eyes would not wash away. I had not even managed to unholster my taser, I realized hysterically.
Wrapped in a towel, I collapsed onto the bed. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting the room in a soft glow that felt surreal. I scanned the room. I should run. Pack my meager belongings and flee this place before nightfall.
But to where? With what money? And would distance even matter to a creature like Morrow? If he had existed for centuries, what was to stop him from following me if he chose?
My gaze drifted to the small bookshelf beside the bed. A leather-bound book was tucked between two dozen tattered western novels. I reached for it, eyeing the cracked spine and faded gilt lettering: "Folklore of the Macabre."
The book fell open naturally to a well-worn page as if it had been consulted many times before. The heading read "Grave-Eaters" in ornate script. Below it was a black and white sketch of a hunched figure crouched over an open grave.
My eyes skimmed the text: "...these demons, sometimes called ghouls, consume the flesh of the recently deceased... intelligent and possessed of cunning beyond mere beasts... known to strike bargains with the living when such arrangements suit their purposes..."
