Hurricane County, and all those counties surrounding it, existed in a particularly soggy part of the nation.
This was a region where the land and sea met, not abruptly as they might at a beach or a seaside cliff, but gradually, insidiously, over many wet, low-lying miles, one morphing imperceptibly into the other. This was a place of elusive islands that might vanish for hours within the mist, or for months beneath the tide. This was a place of deltas and swamps, hurricanes and storm surges. This was a place where water reigned, and nothing could truly be called solid ground.
Any hole you might have cause to dig would certainly flood. And so it was, that those who died there were laid to rest above the ground, in boxy crypts of creamy stone.
The words had been unclear, but August was certain he had heard a voice.
“Hello?” he called out cautiously. “Is someone there?”
He heard it again. Whispering. It had an insubstantial quality, almost like he was hearing the echo of a sound, rather than the sound itself. But it was close by. Very close. For a second, August wondered if it might even be inside his own head. Was his mind addled by the heat?
He stepped into the tall grass.
“Hello?” August called again. “Where are you?”
The graveyard was forgotten and untended. The tombs sat all higgledy-piggledy, slumping dramatically this way and that into the soft, sodden ground. Many of them bore his own surname, DuPont. Many others contained the remains of deceased Malveaus.
Whisper, whisper.
It was a small voice, perhaps a child’s. It was so close. Right beside him, but muffled, as if a wall lay between them.
It was coming from inside a crypt.
This structure was not low and coffin-shaped like the others, but upright and roofed, like a mini Roman temple. There were square columns at the four corners, and perched on top, a precious stone cherub wept into its hands. A large slab was screwed into what would otherwise have been a doorway, engraved with an epitaph that read “Forever our angel, Claudette.”
August mounted the single step and pressed his ear to the cold marble. Could a child be somehow trapped in this place?
“Is someone in there?” he called. Nothing.
“Can I help you?” August raised his voice, although it was apprehensive, hoarse.
He sensed a presence. Someone was close by, August was certain, and in need of assistance. He heard a movement, a scraping. Maybe a grunt. Something heavy smashed to the floor.
“Are you all right?” yelled August with great concern. “Are you stuck?”
Were those footsteps? They sounded sluggish and dragging. Uneven.
Suddenly some powerful thing struck the slab from inside with such force that August was knocked to the ground, his helmet tumbling into the grass.
Another massive blow caused a large jagged crack to appear in the stone.
And then the pounding became continuous, violently smashing the marble again and again and again. More cracks scattered across the stone’s surface and it began to crumble around the bouncing screws, small chunks of stone landing at August’s feet.
Whatever was in there was about to get out.
And August felt confident that it wasn’t a child!