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Once the sunlight goes to bed, that's when darkness wakes the dead.
When a series of grisly deaths devastate 19th-century New England, sixteen-year-old farm girl Faith must outsmart the Undead to ke...
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As the trees whip back and forth in the night wind, the memory of gaping chests, cracked ribs, and scorched hearts echo behind my lids.
Judging from Honor's muffled sniffs across the room, he's awake, too. I pull the covers over my head and try to sleep, but it's no use. My brain won't shut off. When the first signs of daybreak creep past the windows, it's a relief.
The thought of Andrew and Agnes rising from their graves goes against everything we've been taught to believe. About God watching over His children, and His promise to protect. Bad things happen to good people, and sometimes, good things happen to bad. But He's supposed to take care of those who love Him. Isn't He?
When the Milton's were alive, they were as devoted to Him as anyone. Always sitting in the front pew at church, and faithfully serving our community. The Bible says those who sleep in the dust of the earth will one day awaken—some to everlasting life and others to the fires of Hell. If the dead are truly rising, does that mean the devil lives among us and South Harbor is Hell?
After breakfast and our morning chores, Honor and I dress for school, bundling ourselves against the bitter cold. We bid Papa farewell and make our way outdoors, the burlap pouch Mama made to hold our books and lunch pails looped across my torso.
Blinding sheets of white stretch along both sides of us, the farmland frozen-over and shimmering like glass. As we walk, our boots punch through the top layer of icy crust.
Honor's scarf lay slack over each shoulder, not even knotted to ward off the wind. I stop mid-stride and turn him to face me, my gloved fingers working quickly to close the gap around his collar.
"You'll catch your death out here if you don't protect yourself from the weather." I wrap the knitted material around his neck and tuck the fringe inside his coat. "What were you thinking, coming outside half-dressed?"
He doesn't answer. He just nibbles on his bottom lip, splitting the skin open like a scrap of parched firewood. Blood glistens along the new crack.
His habit is getting worse. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and press it against his mouth, trying to find the right words. This is a problem that can no longer be ignored, no matter what Papa says.
"You have to stop doing that, do you hear me? You're going to peel away all the skin and then what will you do?"
He doesn't answer.
My patience wears thin. I shove the hanky back into my pocket and loop my arm through his, tugging him into a slow walk. He's barely spoken since the nightmare at the cemetery. Mama always said people deal with grief in their own way. Far be it from me to interfere with his process, but I hate to see my brother this out of sorts. It makes me feel helpless.
I turn away from Honor and squint up ahead. Thomas waits for us on his porch as he does every morning before school. When he sees us, he hurdles the steps and jaunts closer, his boots sliding across the expanse of ice. Once he steadies himself, he gives me a crooked grin.
