Charles L. Grant
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Your presence is requested at the dark edge of the city of the dead.
Your place is prepared deep in the dank tombs, under night’s cover.
Your name is being called by the wind that cries between gravestones.
I passed the church yard I could see a shadow moving around and hear a sort of muttering. Thinking it might be youngsters cooking up mischief, I went inside. But it was just old Hattie. She had a spoon and was scooping up dirt from her sister’s grave, putting it in a bottle. “Here, now, what do you think you’re doing?” I says, going over and helping her to her feet. “You trying to dig her up, Hattie? Your sister’s dead. Won’t do no good to dig her up.” Hattie turned on me and I swear that in
how he had been chosen quarterback for his midget football team, and about the games they had won. And grudgingly admitted to having lost just a few. He talked for what seemed like hours, cramming the weeks and months into each sentence. Losing them. Finally he quieted. A puzzled expression filled his face as he tried to remember something. He scanned his parents’ faces, first one, then the other, as if it might have something to do with them, but it didn’t help. The memory only faded farther
the clouds, not for anything. Including Donnie. Finally, it was over. They had lost the game, too. 35-6. They were all silent in the car on the way back to the house. Greg drove the old station wagon and Marilyn sat close beside him, as close as Ant leaned against his father in the back seat. His mother followed in her own car. As they emerged from the cars before the cedar-shingled structure, Jonathan Walker slid a comforting hand down his son’s arm. Ant had been fighting tears all the way
them, he said, “Well, what the hell? Who’d believe me anyway?” Then stood aside and let Franciscus carry Mr. Lorpicar into his cabin. “How’d that fire get started in the first place—that’s what I want to know!” Ranger Backus demanded as he and four volunteers from the Lost Saints Lodge guests stood around the smoking ruin of cabin 33. “I don’t know,” Mr. Rogers said. “I thought that Mr. Lorpicar had been out of the cabin for two days.” “You mean this is the fellow you had us looking for?” The
silence. Franciscus followed her down the steps. “Harriet, you have nothing to fear. This isn’t rabies, you know. One touch doesn’t … condemn you to …” She stopped and turned to him. “And the dreams? What about the dreams?” Her eyes were sad, and though the questions were meant as accusations, they sounded more like pleas. “Do you know Spanish?” He saw her baffled nod. “Y los todos están sueños; Y los suehos sueño son. I think that’s right.” “‘And everything is dreams; and the dreams are a