ABOUT FIVE MINUTES later, it occurs to Hadley that he just might be lost.
This is, of course, terrifying for a great number of reasons. If it was anywhere else—like a mall, or maybe a little resort on some remote but well populated island—and if it was any other time—preferably when the sun wasn't just a memory of a memory—then Hadley probably wouldn't have been half as scared as he is now. But this is a graveyard, and the sun is a memory of a memory, and it is nearly midnight, and Hadley is lost.
Apart from fear, the other emotion Hadley's experiencing is anger. How can a graveyard, as huge and sprawling and magnificent as this one, not have any signs? Who designed this place? Why do all the fucking tombstones look the goddamn same? Would it have killed David to give him directions?
"Fucking piss and shit bitch fuck," Hadley mutters, as he circles what might be the same spot for the eighth time. "Motherfucking Christ and his disciples on a boat. Fuck."
I want you to get back to the car. Sure, sure, easiest thing in the world. Completely doable.
Hadley glances at his watch. 11:48 PM. He can't see himself getting out of this labyrinth of stone in twelve minutes. Hell, he doesn't even see himself leaving in an hour.
He looks around despairingly, as if doing so will show him a way out of here. There's nothing different about this place than the one he was in a few minutes ago—this is because he's in the exact same spot, but he doesn't know that—and his stomach sinks. There's a cluster of trees in front of him, a little far off, offering a few graves shade from the cold light of the moon. And there, standing by one of the graves, is a person, their back turned towards him.
A ghost, he thinks, his heart in his mouth.
The person turns their head to look at him.
He doesn't move. He's not sure if he can.
They step out of the dark shade of the trees, and Hadley sees that there's no ghost. Only a woman—more girl than woman really—who can't possibly be much older than Hadley. She has a lovely face, but there is something distinctly colorless and washed out about her. A watercolor impression of a person. There are flower petals clinging to her coat. Her hair is so pale that it is almost white, and it's tied up in a way that brings forth images of Hadley's long-dead great aunts in family portraits.
"Hello," she says, and it startles Hadley. Her voice is—he doesn't know how to explain it—it's full bodied. Too heavy to belong to a ghost.
"Hey," he greets back. "I'm lost."
"I know," she says. "It is written all over your face."
She is a slight woman. Her huge coat does nothing to help that fact, the hem hanging well past her knees, making her seem smaller than she already is. She moves a little more towards Hadley, leaving behind a trail of petals. Her boots crunch the snow beneath. Ghosts don't make sounds. They don't leave footprints.
"I can show you the way out of here," she says, "if you want."
"Can I trust you not to kill me?" he asks.
She smiles, and her teeth are small and white and charmingly crooked. "Look at me," she says, gesturing at herself. "I am small. You are big. If I tried to kill you, all you would have to do is lift your arm and you would have stopped me."
