by Kelly Creagh
More than anything, it felt as if she’d been delivering a final speech. Her last words to herself. For herself. For the girl she’d once been but could never again resurrect, the girl her father had been so afraid of losing and had lost anyway.
But, Isobel thought with a bleak and sad smile, what better place to bury what was dead than in a cemetery?
27
The Most Lovely Dead
A soft scraping noise made Isobel open her eyes.
She scanned the outline of tombs but saw no movement within their ranks. Listening, she heard only the high, keening whistle of the wind as it whipped along the sides of the church.
Isobel rubbed one eye with the back of her hand. She turned her head to see if Gwen was still asleep, only to find her gone.
“Gwen?” she called into the darkness, which seemed to eat the syllable right out of her mouth.
There was no answer.
Hands fumbling, Isobel groped in the dirt for the knot of Gwen’s keys. She found the flashlight amid the tangle of metal and plastic and, squeezing it, aimed the glowing bulb toward her backpack. The key-chain watch, still clipped to the front zipper, gave off a sharp glint. Isobel pulled the bag into her lap and flipped open the butterfly’s silver wings.
The tiny clock’s three thin black hands did not show the time, but spun chaotically, chasing one another in fast loops.
A dream? Impossible. She couldn’t have fallen asleep. She’d only shut her eyes for a moment.
The sudden sound of soft humming caused Isobel to drop both the watch and the flashlight. She scrambled to her feet and squinted through the gloom toward where the door leading to the rear of the cemetery now stood ajar.
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A dim blue glow emanated from the slight gap, lighting a path through the obstacle course of broken stones, low-lying crypts, and uneven ground.
“G-Gwen?” Isobel called, louder than before. Again, she received no response.
The melody, as though drifting up from the depths of some fathomless well, continued to echo through the catacombs.
It was the same song that had filtered through the stereo in Varen’s car in the dream where he’d taken her to the rose garden. The same collection of notes that had squeezed past the static of her bedroom radio the evening she’d found his jacket. It was the lullaby she’d heard playing through the living room TV that night with Pinfeathers, and over the crackling hush of the gramophone in the dreamworld bookshop. The very same one she’d heard only minutes before in this very cemetery.
Isobel began to move in the direction of the humming. She stopped as soon as the toes of her boots met with the edge of the slanted porcelain-blue shaft of light that spilled from the door. Hesitating, held in place by her own indecision, she wondered if she dared look inside.
Did she even have a choice?
Maybe, she thought, she should do something to try and wake herself. If she cried out, would Gwen hear her and be able to rouse her?
While Isobel deliberated, the humming beyond the door grew stronger, the melody rising and falling in its familiarly haunting and melancholy pattern.
Curiosity overriding her trepidation, Isobel took her first step into the blue light, where the coldness of the catacombs seemed to intensify. A draft rose up around her, sending a chill through to her bones, as though every spirit trapped within had decided to come out and watch her approach.
But toward what? Or whom?
One tenuous step after another brought Isobel closer and closer to the door until she stood just beside it.
The door swung inward at her slightest touch, making no sound as it moved.
Where she knew she should have found the cold night and the back of the cemetery, Isobel instead discovered another chamber in the catacombs.
Immediately her focus settled on the source of the humming, a shrouded figure who lay faceup on the lid of a horizontal tomb.
Positioned in the center of the room, the coffin-shaped crypt sat atop a set of stairs stationed directly below a blue stained-glass skylight embedded in the stone ceiling.
Moonlight, sheer and diaphanous, poured through the sapphire panes. It bathed the slender body that lay concealed beneath a snow-white sheet in dappled patterns.
The melody drew Isobel farther, beckoning her like a siren’s song into the room.
Something crunched under her foot, but she ignored it, too distracted by the array of broken and empty-eyed Noc faces that seemed to watch her from their perches on the rows of shelves lining the narrow chamber’s four walls.
Suddenly realizing where she stood, Isobel froze.
She was back. Back in the dreamworld. Back in the blue marble crypt that held the sarcophagus with the stone woman lying on top.
But unlike before, the lid of the tomb was no longer ominously shifted open.
While the shrouded figure kept on humming, Isobel glanced to the far corner of the room, to the place where she had first encountered the blue-haired Noc who had called himself Scrimshaw—the same Noc she had seen in the vision of Poe’s death.
The space he had once occupied was empty, cleared away to reveal the stone floor. Like Pinfeathers, Scrimshaw must have managed to piece himself back together. And now he was out somewhere, roaming the woodlands.
Lifting a hand to her collar, grasping the hamsa, Isobel drew nearer to the tomb. She mounted the steps, and as she edged closer to the shrouded form, the woman’s humming began to slow.
She reached out a quivering hand and grabbed a portion of the stiff fabric close to the woman’s face. Keeping her other hand firmly clamped around the hamsa, she began to draw the sheet slowly away.
The figure beneath stopped humming.
Inch by inch, the sheet slipped free to reveal a girl dressed in a pink party dress, the same one Isobel had worn to the Grim Facade.
She uttered a clipped cry.
Blond hair lay in a halo of loose ringlets around the girl’s head. Soft curls framed an all-too-familiar face—her face.
Isobel let go of the sheet. The covering continued to slide off the sarcophagus, the cloth pooling onto the stairs and tumbling over Isobel’s shoes.
Inky splotches began to seep through the material of the pink dress, the layers of skirts and bodice transforming to pure ebony.
Isobel watched with mounting horror, unable to look away.
The girl lay prone on the slab, her still lips painted a false pink, her eyes closed. A slanted needle-thin scratch marred her right cheek, the cut a deep purple against her ashen skin.
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Bound to her stiff and pale hands by a pink ribbon, the same pink ribbon Isobel had given Varen, the corpse held a bouquet of pristine white lilies. Their stifling perfume, now unleashed, filled the tomb, lacing the stagnant air with their choking fragrance.
A twin version of Isobel’s hamsa circled her double’s sallow neck. It gleamed in the frosted moonlight until a blanket of cloud cover passed over the skylight, turning the opal in the center of the charm dim and milky.
Isobel took a step backward and stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling.
She whirled for the door but it was gone now, replaced by flat stone.
“No!” she shouted, the word reverberating around her.
Rushing to the wall, she beat her palms against the place where the door had stood wide open only moments before.
Trapped, she spun to face the interior of the tomb again, but the sudden motion caused the room to reel and tilt. Tossed off her feet, Isobel slammed onto cold stone that pressed into her back and shoulder blades like a slab of ice.
Reaching out, kicking her legs and thrashing, she found herself boxed in by close narrow walls of smooth marble.
Isobel screamed. Contained within the narrow coffin-shape space, the sound of her cries, she knew, would pierce only her own ears.
The sarcophagus—Somehow, she’d become sealed within.
28
Unraveled
Isobel woke with a sharp gasp.
The outline of long tombs and graves swam into her focus. Hunched in the gloom of the catacombs, they looked like shadow creatures waiting to attack.
Beside her, Gwen sat propped against the tomb of J. Meredith, her head lolled onto one shoulder, her mouth slightly agape, emitting soft snores.
Isobel twisted where she sat, whipping her head to look in the direction of the door that had taken her into the separate chamber of the marble crypt. It was closed, and the light filtering in through the opaque grime-stained sheet of glass no longer shone ethereal blue, but a dull bone yellow.
She’d been dreaming after all. Or was she still?
Isobel grabbed the flashlight once more and felt a funny sense of déjà vu as she reached for the butterfly watch next. She unclipped it from her backpack and clicked it open to see if the hands were still spinning, but they remained still, except for the second hand, which twitched along at its normal rate.
The moment her brain registered the time, a strange prickling sensation spread through her, causing the metal casing of the tiny watch to turn ice-cold in her palm.
The hour hand and the minute hand were almost aligned; both aimed a full notch past twelve.
It was five after one. More than an entire hour past midnight.
Isobel shot to her feet and dropped the keys. They landed on her backpack with a muffled clank. Shoving the watch into one pocket of Varen’s jacket, she launched into a run, leaving Gwen behind as she scuttled around tombs and hopped over broken stones. Blindly, not caring if she fell, she made her way to the door that she hoped would, this time, take her out of the catacombs and into the graveyard, to the site of Poe’s original burial.
But what if she found that the roses had already been placed? What would she do if she’d missed him? If Reynolds had already come and gone?
Pushing all thought aside, Isobel pulled the iron handle of the door, yanking it open. The rusted hinges shrieked, their cries echoing through the catacombs. A gust of frozen air laden with a cascade of powdery snow whirled in over the threshold, sweeping between her feet to mingle with the dust, creating ghostly swirls.
Isobel paused to give one last backward glance toward Gwen, who still lay sound asleep, bundled to her chin in her coat, and the scarf Isobel had given her, looking like someone’s lost doll.
Before she could change her mind, call out to Gwen and wake her, she ducked through the door and out into the darkened cemetery.
Snow sifted from the sky in downy flakes, giving the tops of the tombs thin, fleecy blankets. It collected on the walls and gathered in the crooked elbows and outstretched fingers of the withered trees. Flecks of white caught in Isobel’s lashes, blurring her vision. She blinked them away. Then, from somewhere close by, she heard the echo of voices.
The sound of people chatting and laughing arose from beyond the far wall. A woman’s high-pitched laugh ricocheted through the cemetery, bouncing off silent headstones and tombs, their slate faces impervious to her glee.
Isobel set her footsteps down carefully as she ascended a small set of brick stairs that led from the catacombs. She glanced from side to side, only to find her view blocked by several tall crypts, and entered into a narrow space between two garage-size tombs. She put her hands against the walls on either side of her to help guide her as she pressed forward through the tight passageway.
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She stopped when she reached the end. From where she now stood, Isobel could just make out the silhouette of Poe’s old grave, recognizing its shape from the grainy photo of the Poe Toaster. Thick and heavy-looking, like a milestone marker, the solemn stone stood between two squat, snowcapped shrubs.
Even though she could not make out the writing on the face of the stone, the tiny figure of a raven engraved into the top curved portion left her with no doubt that it was the one she sought.
Unable to see the base of the grave due to the shrubs, Isobel could not tell if the roses had been left. But she could still hear the nearby jumble of voices as the talking and laughing continued to grow in volume.
Crouching low, she poked her head out slightly and peered around the side of the tomb, leaning forward just enough to catch sight of the crowd that watched from beyond the Greene Street gates.
They stood huddled together in a tight cluster, gloved hands wrapped around the iron bars.
Most of the onlookers wore heavy coats, hoods, and ski caps, but there were several decked out in long Victorian-style cloaks as well. At least one of the men sported an old-fashioned top hat. Thick scarves wrapped their throats, while plumes of white breath accompanied their loud talking.
Isobel saw that some of the watchers held cameras; the lenses glinted silver in the glow of the streetlamps, and the red dots of power lights pierced the darkness like demon eyes.
She sank slowly back into her hiding place, aware that one wrong move on her part would no doubt unleash a flurry of flashes. She knew the observers had to be combing the spaces between tombs and scanning the landscape for even the slightest hint of movement among the gravestones. And that fact alone was enough to allow her a small measure of relief.
Reynold’s fan club wouldn’t still be here if he’d already come and gone, right? If he’d already paid tribute, the crowd would have dispersed by now for sure.
Then again, Isobel thought, maybe not.
Taking a brief glance back to the place where Poe’s marker stood, Isobel saw that the view from the Greene Street gates to Poe’s old grave was completely blocked by another aboveground tomb. No one watching from the street could ever get a clear shot, just like Mr. Swanson had said. And that had to be why so few pictures of the Poe Toaster existed.
Still, something told her the group wouldn’t be waiting, watching with an almost palpable, nervous excitement, if they weren’t expecting something to happen at any moment.
Isobel’s ears perked up when one of the voices emanating from Greene Street, a man’s sturdy baritone, lifted above all the others and began to recite lines from “The Raven. ”
“Nothing farther then he uttered—not a
feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, ‘Other
friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my
Hopes have flown before. ’
Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore. ’”
She wrapped her arms around herself, tucking them in close in an effort to fight off the cold. Willing Reynolds to appear, she kept her eyes on Poe’s grave, and as she listened to the poem, it occurred to her that some of the watchers might have come to the graveyard in previous years. It was possible they knew something she didn’t since they congregated at the side gates of the cemetery rather than the front where she and Gwen had first entered. Maybe they were hoping to catch a glimpse of Reynolds as he wove his way through the cemetery grounds.
It made her wonder if she should try to get closer now. Or was it better to wait here, at a distance?
In the end, she knew making a move sooner rather than later wasn’t worth the risk of being spotted. Besides that, there was no telling from which direction Reynolds would enter the cemetery, if he hadn’t already. How could she know when she had witnessed Reynolds creating an entry between his realm and hers only once before.
He had done so from the midst of the woodlands on that first occasion Isobel had found herself within the dreamworld. He’d fixed one gloved hand around an imaginary knob, and the door had appeared at his silent behest. And then he’d opened it to reveal the interior of Isobel’s very own bedroom.
Though she knew that he could pass from one reality into the other, how he did it still baffled her. If what he had said about the worlds becoming separate when she’d broken the l
ink was true—if the dimensions once again became parted, untraversable from either side, then what allowed him the ability to pass back and forth at will? Furthermore, what prevented her? Or Varen?
Isobel frowned at that question.
Apparently, there was not much that could prevent Varen. Hadn’t he and Pinfeathers already proven on more than one occasion that there were other ways of reemerging into this world?
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A harsh wind blew through the graveyard, whistling over the tops of the tombs. It moaned above her as it coursed through the passageway of her hiding place, bringing with it a surge of snow flurries.
Isobel shuddered against the rush of frozen wind. She took in a deep breath, drawing the cold into her lungs. Exhaling again, she reminded herself that her questions would have to wait. Right now, she needed to keep her mind clear.
Whenever and however Reynolds chose to appear, she would have to be ready.
There was no sign of him yet, however, just the audience of the dead, and that of the living, too. The Greene Street crowd continued to chirp and chortle from their barrier point, a few of them inserting comments as the reader within their ranks bore onward with Poe’s poem, his resonant voice rising above the rest.
“‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there— is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore. ’”
Leaning out again, Isobel saw a set of metal steps a few feet away to her right. They extended down from the back door of Westminster Hall and led out into the yard. At the top of the stairs, a tall and slender set of double doors made entirely of glass revealed another small gathering of people she hadn’t noticed before. Unlike those huddling in the cold outside the gates, this group stood within the warmth of the hall, sharing an unobstructed view of Poe’s original burial site.
These, Isobel thought, must be the Poe scholars Mr. Swanson had told her about—the ones who gathered every year to oversee the ritual and to protect the Poe Toaster.
Seeing them there made her doubly glad she’d decided to stay put.
