by Mary Amato
MRS. STEELE: Everything is under control. There is nothing to see here. Go back to sleep! (At this, the remaining faces withdraw and doors to the graves and crypts close. She notices that the scroll is on the ground and scowls at Sam to pick it up.) All we need are two more strikes. Do not speak with the girl, Samuel. Ignoring her is the best option at present. Just continue with the routine. Leave her be and go back to sleep. I will take care of it. I’m returning to the catacombs. I haven’t found anything yet, but Mr. Chesterton and I are only halfway through.
The ancient-looking face of Hiram Chesterton, with just a wisp of white hair on his thin bald head, peers out of the catacomb entrance. He peels his stunned eyes off Lacy, nods at Sam, and retreats into the shadows.
With another swish of her skirts, Mrs. Steele is gone. Once again, it’s just Sam and Lacy. Sam stands by the stone bench, kneading his cap in his hands. Lacy has instinctively backed up against the gate. He can see the fear in her eyes and it’s breaking his heart. He wants to assure her that everything will be all right, but there is little hope of that and he does not dare address her directly. Not knowing what else to do, he begins walking to his grave.
The possibility of Sam’s departure rouses Lacy from her state of shock.
LACY: Wait! How do you know my name? Why are you telling me my ashes are here? Is this some kind of sick joke?
SAM (whispers): Please keep your voice down . . . for your own good.
The light in Sam’s eyes and the earnest ache in his voice touch Lacy. In his poorly fitting uniform, he looks like a lost soul, not a murderer. He does want to help her, she can see it in his eyes.
For Sam’s part, the gaze from Lacy is like a drink of ambrosia. It fills him and makes him want to pull out his journal and write a poem about the glint of moonlight on her face. He hasn’t felt this way since . . . Abigail.
[A bit of backstory, dear Reader. From the time Sam was six until long after the day he died, he had a crush on a quiet girl named Abigail who lived down the street from their house. One of the saddest aspects of the afterlife for him has been to feel that longing for Abigail fade. But now, as you can tell, a new interest and desire is springing up inside his soul.]
Lacy decides that the best thing she can do is calm down and think. She begins to pace, realizing that any theory involving mental patients is too far-fetched considering she just saw more people in historical dress hiding out among the tombstones. She thinks she can see some of them now, peering out again.
An explanation for him knowing her name pops into her brain. Perhaps the guy—Sam—found her phone on the ground. If so, all he had to do was swipe once and the name Lacy Brink would pop up. Her mom was always telling her to put a lock on her phone, which she still hadn’t done. Another idea comes to her regarding his outfit and demeanor. The perfect explanation. She quickly turns to Sam.
LACY: I get it! This is a role-playing game. The rules, the props, the costumes. I bet this is a new hyped-up zombie thing.
She is almost giddy as she realizes that this would explain everything, including why Sam and the others haven’t felt like a real threat. They aren’t. They’re just super serious gamers. She looks around. Yes, a few more of them are peering out, listening. She tries a smile and a compliment.
LACY: Your costumes look awesome, by the way. You guys all look totally authentic. And the fog! Did you rent a fog machine or did you just get lucky?
Sam looks at the catacomb entrance. He wants to answer her but is afraid that he’ll get caught. Perched on a tombstone behind the girl, Raven catches Sam’s eye and mimes writing with one wing. Sam’s eyes light up.
SAM: She said to “continue with the routine”! My routine isn’t to go back to sleep. My routine is to write!
Quickly Sam pulls out his journal, writes a message, and hands it to Lacy.
LACY (reading): “I don’t want to be rude. But for the time being, it is safer not to speak directly to you.” (She hands it back.) Wow. You’re taking this game seriously, Sam.
Sam writes more and hands it back.
LACY (reading): “It is not a game. It is serious, Miss Brink. Now that you’ve been welcomed, you can get more strikes. By the way, they aren’t costumes, miss. These are the clothes we were buried in. It’s common for new residents to be confused—especially ones who didn’t see death coming.” (She hands him the journal again.) I got to say, Sam, your ability to stay in character is amazing, and that’s obviously one of the rules. And your costumes and props are totally legit, but I think you guys are the ones who are confused about me. You obviously think I’m one of you—a new player or actor or zombie or “resident” or whatever you call yourselves—and maybe people you don’t know show up to play, but I didn’t come here to play. I’m here by accident.
Convinced she is correctly piecing it all together, Lacy starts to pace, searching her memory.
LACY: I was at home getting dressed. I remember that. I was excited because there was another open mic at Tenuto’s and I was trying to get up the courage to perform. I had gone twice in the summer to hear the other poets and it was amazing. The show was going to start at nine o’clock. I must have walked. Or maybe Olivia drove me? No, I must have walked. I must have decided to stop in here on my way to write a new poem and—
At the mention of the word poem, Sam is ecstatic. He knew she was a kindred spirit. He looks at Raven and mouths: “She writes poetry!” Lacy is too caught up to notice. She looks around the familiar old cemetery, as if seeing it for the first time. Then she continues talking, more to herself than to Sam.
LACY: Of course I would stop here! It’s Westminster! But it was probably dark, and I’m only used to the cemetery in the day. I must have come in here and I must have tripped on something. (She looks around at the crumbling brick pathway and the jumble of protruding headstones.) Of course! I tripped and hit my head. I must have blacked out.
She turns to Sam, sure that this explanation will be understood by him, too. By all of them. She can tell some of them are still spying. They’ll have to realize that she isn’t a part of the game they’re playing.
LACY: This has been my hangout ever since seventh grade. (She walks over to Poe’s monument and pats it affectionately, beginning to relax and loosen up now that a plausible explanation is taking shape.) After my teacher brought us here on a field trip, I got all excited because I realized that it was closer to our house than I thought. I started stopping in here at least once a week after school to sit by myself and write poems. I thought it was cool and goth. I was kind of goth, but not really. I was too sweet to be really goth. (She walks around the monument.) Anyway, I’ve been coming ever since. It’s a nice place, in a creepy way. I mean, it’s quiet and it definitely has a poetic vibe, and Liv—that’s my sister—and her friends are always at our house. It’s easier to write here than there. I can see why you guys have chosen this place. It’s great.
Sam has been listening in wonder. He doesn’t know the meaning of “open mic” or “goth,” but to think that this amazing girl haunted his very own cemetery during the day . . . writing poems, no less . . . is wonderful! Sam wants to tear open the locked door of his heart and confess his own desire to write poetry, but he does not have the nerve.
A few other residents have dared to peer out again. It is impossible to know how many are listening. From a crypt marked Hosler, a door creaks all the way open and a distinguished gentleman steps out wearing a black suit, black tie, white shirt, and top hat. Meet Dr. Hosler. Since his medical students affectionately buried his black leather medical bag with him, he carries it now, still at the ready. Dr. Hosler nods at Sam. They whisper.
SAM: Dr. Hosler!
DR. HOSLER: What do we have here, Samuel?
SAM: A new resident. Miss Brink. A Modern.
DR. HOSLER (tipping his hat to Lacy): Miss Brink. Quite extraordinary. Medical cause of expiration?
SAM: She can’t seem to remember that. She doesn’t quite understand yet that she’s dead. I tried
to explain.
LACY: Very funny. Ha ha. You don’t have to keep the charade going. I get it.
DR. HOSLER (to Sam): It’s been a while since we’ve had a new resident, but I do recall that proof helped to speed the psychological adjustment process for quite a few. I thought I’d hop out and give her the treatment and then hop back in. Mrs. Steele needn’t be the wiser. Could help.
SAM: Thank you, Doctor.
Before Lacy can respond, the old doctor pulls a long surgical knife out of his bag and plunges it into her heart.
DR. HOSLER: There!
They both turn and look at Lacy. She is standing, shocked, the knife sticking out of her chest, realizing that she feels no pain. There is a long pause.
Raven whistles a funeral march.
DR. HOSLER: See, Sam, reality is sinking in. Remember, it always takes a few moments.
Sam and Dr. Hosler sit on the bench and watch with interest. Knife protruding from her chest, Lacy walks to Poe’s monument and puts one hand on it to steady herself. With the other hand, she removes the knife, feeling nothing. She examines her chest for blood but there is none. She checks to see if the blade is designed to collapse or play a trick. It is not. It is as sturdy and sharp as can be.
DR. HOSLER (stands and holds out his arms): Go ahead. Stab me.
SAM: Remember, we’re not supposed to fraternize with her, sir.
DR. HOSLER: I’m not fraternizing. I’m proving a point. This is science.
Lacy hesitates and Dr. Hosler takes her hand with the knife and plunges it into his own chest.
DR. HOSLER: See?
Lacy steps back.
DR. HOSLER (pulling out the knife and returning it to his bag): There you have it, Miss Brink. You’re one of us. We can’t be killed because we’re already as dead as a bucket of nails. Now, quite naturally, you’ll begin to psychologically adjust to your new situation. It’s remarkable, really, how adaptable we are.
Satisfied, Dr. Hosler sits back down next to Sam. Lacy looks at Sam. Just as the doctor predicted, reality is sinking in. She walks around slowly, extending her arms to look at them. She still feels the flexing of her muscles. She still feels the pounding of her heart, the rush of blood to her face, the lump in her throat when she swallows, the tears threatening to gather and rise. But she is different. It’s a sensation she has been aware of and subconsciously trying to deny ever since she found herself in the cemetery, a sensation that something fundamental about her body has changed, a sensation like nothing she has ever experienced: an absence, on the cellular level, of need. Now she takes off her coat and drops it on the ground. Standing only in her T-shirt, short skirt, and boots, she touches the skin of her arms and then her thighs. It feels like skin to her and yet her body is not reacting to the October cold. She takes a deep breath and blows. She feels the air expel, but no puff is visible. She puts her hand over her heart and closes her eyes. It feels like it’s racing, but there’s not a single thump. She stops and turns to face Sam.
LACY: I feel different, but I still feel alive.
SAM: Soldiers who have lost a limb in battle often continue to feel that limb after it’s gone. It’s a bit like that.
DR. HOSLER: We aren’t physiologically alive, but our psyches create a simulacrum of that state.
She pinches herself hard. And then harder.
LACY: I’m dead?
SAM: Yes.
She is quiet for a moment, and then a huge blast of rage releases in a scream.
LACY: Fuck!
Sam jumps up in a panic, and Dr. Hosler hurries back to his crypt. Just as his door shuts, Mrs. Steele marches out from the catacombs.
MRS. STEELE (thrilled): Strike two!
Lacy’s mind is reeling.
LACY: Go to he—
SAM (jumps forward): Helsinki!
Scene 3: The Tea
Fogs come and go, most often gradually. The fog that has been infiltrating the nooks and crannies of Westminster Cemetery lifts suddenly and wafts away, as if called to eavesdrop on some other souls, and a sharp, dark chill seems to be left in its wake.
Surrounded by graves, standing tall in her stiff black dress with her hands clasped together just under her bosom and her stern face cemented above it, Mrs. Steele looks to Lacy like one of those old-fashioned paintings in haunted houses whose eyes follow you wherever you go.
Never in her young life did Lacy feel the kind of revulsion for someone that she is feeling for this judgmental, intolerant brick of a woman standing in front of her, and she knows the woman can tell.
Mrs. Steele takes two steps toward Lacy and lifts her chin.
MRS. STEELE: Go ahead, Miss Brink. Say whatever you want to me.
Mrs. Steele’s eyes flare with confidence. She’ll break the girl. She has made grown men sob.
Behind Mrs. Steele, Sam waves silently to Lacy and begins a desperate charade of buttoning his lips tight as a warning. It’s such a kind act on Sam’s part, and one that he believes is clearly necessary.
But here’s the thing: that sustained penetrating glare from Mrs. Steele is having a paradoxical effect on Lacy; it’s igniting the girl’s inner core, a red-hot ember of strength. It’s the part of Lacy that—in life—responded to adversity by leaping into flame, giving her the fuel to move and act and survive. It ignited when she was three weeks old, fighting a virulent bacterial infection; it burned at five years of age when a strange man discovered she had become separated from her family at an amusement park and tried to take her by the hand to his car; it raged when fourth-grade bullies ambushed her after school to steal her new shoes. It grew even stronger in middle school, when cruelty oozed through the hallways every day like toxic sludge and when being allowed to ride city buses by herself meant that she would come up against challenging moments: the rants of mentally ill homeless people, the creepy guys who would unzip their pants, and once even the stabbing of a man by a woman impaired by opiate consumption. When the fire inside Lacy burned, it said: You are strong, girl. Something is happening right now that is not good; the sooner that you accept what is happening, the sooner you can figure out how to survive it.
Now, as Lacy feels this familiar inner core wake up, her soul expands so that there’s space to take in this strange new reality. This is no game, no hoax, no dream. She is dead among the Dead and the rules of behavior in this afterworld can’t be ignored. As bad luck would have it, she has an enemy. But she also has an ally in Sam, who is right now, in his own adorable way, reminding her to watch her mouth; and having a friend, even a frightened one, is energizing. Lacy Brink is not going to let this woman take her down. She takes a step forward and returns Mrs. Steele’s gaze.
A flicker of shock at Lacy’s fearlessness passes through Mrs. Steele, visible only in a brief fluttering of her eyelids. Determined not to acknowledge it, the old woman raises her chin, squares her shoulders, and wills herself not to blink.
The seconds tick by.
A breathless grin of admiration for Lacy is spreading on Sam’s face, and Raven gives a similarly approving nod.
After a few more tense seconds, it’s Mrs. Steele who breaks off the stare-down. With a huff, she turns to address Sam, who immediately wipes the grin off.
MRS. STEELE: I’m not worried. Not in the slightest. However, to ensure safety and tranquility in the community, I believe the less contact with the girl the better, which means that tea service should be suspended.
At this, gasps and rustlings underground are heard. It sounds to Lacy as if people are turning in their graves. Lacy looks to Sam for an explanation, but he doesn’t dare say a word.
The Hosler crypt door opens and again the good doctor emerges. He tips his top hat to the women.
DR. HOSLER: Good evening, Mrs. Steele, and pardon the interruption, but I couldn’t help overhearing. As President of the Committee for Safety and Tranquility, I feel as if it is my duty to respectfully suggest moving forward with our customary tea. As you said earlier—I apologize, but again I couldn’t help overhear
ing—we should retain our usual routine. (He steps in and whispers.) It is only a handful of residents who rise for tea, but for those residents it is the one and only thing they look forward to. Suspending the service may result in a bit of . . . well . . . unrest. I believe you’ve also said, “There’s nothing that a cup of tea can’t put to right.” Your words of wisdom, Mrs. Steele.
Dr. Hosler’s speech acts as a kind of tranquilizer to Mrs. Steele. Her face doesn’t exactly soften, but she isn’t biting back.
Lacy, feeling victorious over the stare-down, is gathering more strength, telling herself to pay attention, to take this strike thing seriously, to make every observation count, to figure out quickly who here is friend and who is foe.
Before another word is spoken, the door on the north-facing side of Poe’s monument, the one marked Maria Clemm, opens and a tall woman steps out of the shadows. It is a curious moment for Lacy because she recognizes the woman from old photographs she saw online when she did research as a seventh-grader for a report on Poe. Why she should be able to remember that and not a single detail about how her own death is one of memory’s many mysteries.
At any rate, you should know that the woman marching over to join the little club is none other than Maria Clemm, Poe’s mother-in-law and the mother of the young Virginia. At eighty-one, she is wearing the same thing she wore in all the photographs that Lacy saw online, the same thing she wore for too many years while she was alive: an often-mended black dress and starched white bonnet. She’s all-business, the type of woman who would not wait around for a man to pull her mule out of the mud. But Lacy catches something friendly in her eye—a dormant impish spark.
MARIA: Good evening, everyone. Like Dr. Hosler, I couldn’t help overhearing. Mrs. Steele, I hope you’ll agree to tea. We do look forward to it.
MRS. STEELE: Good evening, Mrs. Clemm. I can see the point. Samuel, fetch Sarah.
Lacy watches Sam walk over to a plot of four modest headstones, two tall and two tiny. He knocks on the tall headstone marked Sarah Brown and a neat door of earth opens. A young woman hesitantly emerges. This is nineteen-year-old Sarah, a bashful young woman with the kindest of hearts who died in 1782. She wears the plain brown dress of a fish seller’s wife with her only nice thing—a white lace shawl—tied around her shoulders. Her hair is tucked into a plain white cap.
