Or rather, the girl was undead, for there she stood, blinking and twitching entirely of her own accord.

August had no time to even consider a reaction before the child bent over, grabbed the back of his jacket, and yanked him to his feet, as if he weighed no more than a kitten.

She was strong. Insanely strong.

The insanely strong, undead, blinky, twitchy girl threw her arms around August, pinning his biceps to his torso. The musty smell of cold stone, mold, and mildew enveloped him. The boy screamed, certain he was about to be crushed to death. But while she held him tightly, the child did August no harm.

Instead, she gazed up at him; well, sort of. Her clouded eyes sought August’s face but had a tendency to swivel loosely away, in random directions, independent of one another. Her bubbling mouth formed a lopsided grin, more akin to a leer. But it seemed well intended. If August were forced to interpret the girl’s expression, he would have guessed it was one of…adoration?

August liberated himself from this clammy embrace with considerable difficulty. This child was possessed of the strength, after all, to punch her way out of a solid stone tomb. He raised his palms and took a couple of steps backward, slowly, for fear of startling her.

The blue lips moved slightly, and August heard a thin, gurgling whisper—the same whisper he’d heard from inside the mausoleum.

Then suddenly, without invitation, the girl reached up to her face and, with a revolting squelch, removed her left eyeball and offered it to August, as if it were an everyday gumball. The slimy gift was accompanied by an encouraging grin.

August, staring with horrified awe at the cavity in her skull, shook his head.

“Um…thank you,” he said, mouth very dry. “But I’m good.” He waved a finger at his own face. “I already have my own.” He backed up a little more. “I should be heading home. It’s late.”

He turned in the direction of Locust Hole and took a few steps, glancing nervously behind him. The child followed, eyeball outheld.

“I said no thank you,” called August. “You should stay here.”

Still she followed.

August stopped and turned.

“Go away!” he said firmly. The eye remained obstinately offered forth.

Not wishing to lead her home, or back to Château Malveau, August headed into the cemetery. He sped up. She sped up. He swerved right. She swerved right. He lunged left. She lunged left.

August made a dash for it. He sprinted as fast as he could, zigzagging between the tombs, the sound of thrashing grass and weeds all around him. He went deep into the graveyard, almost to the river, then doubled back toward the road, finally smashing through a hedge of buttonbush and hurling himself behind a large tree.

He collapsed onto his behind, panting, then listening. No sounds of pursuit. Cautiously he peered around the trunk. Nothing but the silent coffers. He heaved a sigh of relief; he’d lost her.

But on turning back, August screamed again (and, I’m afraid to say, again), finding the glistening eyeball merely inches from his nose, and beyond it the delighted face of his unusual new admirer.

She retreated a little, with a regretful expression, as if she hadn’t meant to scare him. August pulled himself together and stood, dusting off his pants. He contemplated the girl, wondering what to do next, and realized there was something pitiful about her. She had the air not of some violent monster, but of a lost puppy. August felt a wave of sympathy for this strange creature.

“Your name,” he said, “is Claudette, right?”

The girl nodded enthusiastically, clods of dirt dropping from her hair, and again she emitted that wet, whispering sound. It was almost as if she was attempting to communicate.

Curiously, the noise seemed to come only partly from the child. Some—other—layer of her voice came from a different place, the same place as the half-remembered echo he’d “heard” on his first foray into the cemetery. It was as if the sound came, August realized, from somewhere inside himself.

It was an unsettling sensation.

“Look, Claudette,” August explained as kindly as he could under the circumstances. “You can’t come with me. My aunt Hydrangea is a highly nervous person. One little butterfly sends her into a shrieking panic. So I’m pretty sure she would not react well to an unexpected visit from some little dead girl.”

Claudette blinked.

“I think it’s best,” said August, wincing sympathetically, “if you return to…um…wherever it is you came from.”

The girl moved forward with a hopeful look. The eyeball was pressed against August’s chest.

The boy grimaced and sighed. He took the eyeball. Now, you’ve probably never handled another person’s eyeball. I certainly haven’t. But I’m sure we can both imagine how they might feel…perfectly awful!

“I’m sorry about this, Claudette,” said August with a resigned sigh.

He swung back his arm and hurled the thing with all his might—plunk!—into the dark, swirling river.