Page 7 of Wednesday

My second problem, and the more immediate one, was Morrow himself. The underground chamber confirmed his centuries of existence. And the fate of those who had crossed him. I was not going to be one of them.

I spent the remaining daylight hours preparing for my second night. I checked the cottage's locks, even knowing they were probably meaningless against a creature like Morrow. I found a kitchen knife and tucked it into my boot, equally aware it would provide little protection.

As sunset painted the sky, I pulled on my security jacket. I paused on the porch to brush the dried mud from my sleeve before I headed for the main path. My second patrol would begin soon, whether I was ready or not. My phone’s flashlight would have to do until I could afford to replace the one I lost.

The first stars appeared as I began to walk the perimeter, my senses alert to every sound, every shadow. The warm day had given way to a cool evening, mist beginning to gather in the low areas between graves. I passed a fresh mound of dirt that had not been there during the day. An emergency burial, according to the temporary marker. Helena Ross, aged seventy-nine, interred at 4 PM.

My stomach twisted. Morrow would feed on her tonight. This woman's remains would be his meal, her final rest disturbed by needle-like teeth and blackened claws. And I had agreed to it. I looked away and kept walking.

What choice did I have? Confront him and end up like Frank Tillman? Run and risk him finding me wherever I went? There was a gravity to his threats. A sense of the inevitable. I believed him when he said he would catch me if I ran.

I finished my patrol, circling back to Helena Ross's grave. Still undisturbed. I glanced around. The thought of Morrow lurking in the shadows made my skin crawl. I hurried away.

The temperature had dropped during my patrol, and I was looking forward to the thermos of coffee I had left on the counter. As the cottage came into view, I rubbed at my arms through the thin material of my work jacket.

I was stepping onto the porch when I noticed something on the welcome mat. A small object that gleamed dully in my flashlight beam. I leaned over to look at it.

A tarnished silver locket with an equally tarnished chain. The cover was engraved with flowers and ivy. I picked it up carefully, turning it over in my palm.

"Do you like it?"

I jerked upright, nearly dropping the locket. Morrow emerged from the darkness as if he were part of it. In the weak porch light, he looked even more unnatural than I remembered. His black eyes shone in the light.

"You left this?" I managed to ask.

"Payment," he said. "For your discretion."

I looked down at the locket again. "Where did you get it?"

"It belonged to Eliza Hargrove, buried here in 1872." Morrow tilted his head in that unnatural way of his. "She has no further need of adornment."

I should have been revolted. He had taken this from a grave, a personal item buried with its owner. But it was beautiful. It had been a long time since I had anything beautiful.

"You've been in my domain," Morrow said suddenly.

I froze. "What?"

"I smell my chamber on you." He took a step, then another, creeping closer. "You found the entrance."

I backed toward the door, the locket clutched in my fist. "I was looking for my flashlight."

"No. You were curious." Another step closer. "Most who make the bargain avoid knowing more than necessary. They blind themselves to my existence as much as possible." His head tilted, studying me. "But not you."

"What are you going to do?" I whispered.

Morrow paused only a few feet away. "Do? Nothing. Curiosity is not betrayal." His lipless mouth curved into that terrible smile. "In fact, I find it... refreshing."

I relaxed slightly, though I kept my back pressed to the front door. "I heard they want to relocate the cemetery."

Something flashed in those unnatural eyes. "Yes. The living always seek profit."

"What will you do if it happens?" I asked.

Morrow made a gesture that might have been a shrug. "I have relocated many times."

I frowned. Somehow I had imagined Morrow as a permanent fixture. The idea of him being free to leave when he pleased was uniquely terrifying.

"Would you like to see?" he asked suddenly.

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