Saturday brings more clouds, a low-hanging gray gloom that reaches for the earth like phantom fingers.

Despite the ominous sky, Papa, Honor, and I make our weekly trek to the cemetery. Snowflakes cling to my eyelashes and add to the accumulation already suffocating the tombstones, some of their tops barely visible through the thick blanket of white.

Pulling a piece of cloth from his pocket, Papa brushes snow from the brown-speckled memorial to reveal words carved in the stone:

In memory of Rose Helene Alexander and her newborn daughter, Grace.
Together, they reside in our Lord's loving embrace.
January 23, 1849 — May 26, 1886

Papa steps aside and we share a moment of silence. Bare branches from nearby trees clack together as wind from the bay pushes through them. I block out the noise and focus on the inscription, until the familiar pang of guilt pokes at my chest.

A deep-seated sigh floats out of me like a ghost. If I could turn back time, I'd go back to that night and do things differently. I failed them. If it weren't for me, my mother and sister might still be alive.

"Faith?" Papa's voice jolts me from my thoughts. Dark half-moons shade the space beneath his eyes. "Are you all right?"

Do you blame me?

It's a question I've wanted to ask for so long, but haven't dared. Some days, a need for the truth burns inside me like an inferno. Other days, I'm terrified of the answer.

"Yes, Papa." I shift my attention past the gravestones, and stare out at the ocean. Yet the weight of his gaze lingers.

A flurry of thoughts spin through my head. Images of Mama and Grace. And what Mrs. Lloyd said yesterday about the Undead; how she forced me to rat out Agnes. Everyone knows the dead can't rise from their graves, but she kept on, trying to convince the townspeople that Andrew was...of the blood. The phrase turns my stomach.

A sharp pain suddenly stabs beneath my coat, like shards of glass drilling into my flesh.

I pull the material away and let the frigid air rush over my wrist. They're still there—the three red scratches—swollen and tender to the touch. I tend to them daily, keeping them clean and applying salve. Today, they look worse.

"Papa, why doesn't she come back for us?"

My eyes snap up as I yank down my sleeve. Honor's staring at Mama's gravestone, his face solemn and pale.

Papa and I exchange a look before turning back to him. "What do you mean?" Papa asks.

Honor's lower lip trembles. "If Andrew came back for his family, why doesn't Mama come for us?"

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bring him close. His body quivers against mine.

"He who goes down to the grave does not come up," Papa says, quoting the Bible. "Your mama and sister are at peace now. And one day, when God sees fit, he'll allow us to join them."

Honor's eyes lift to mine as he searches for confirmation. I nod, the marks along my wrist throbbing as they grind against my clothing.

There's a sudden twitch in the air. An anticipation I can't place. I glance up just as Mr. Baptiste exits the church and storms down the road, his inky black cape curling behind him like smoke.

My eyes follow him as he disappears into the freezing haze.

In the morning my stomach grumbles, but instead of devouring breakfast, I push the food around my plate as a wave of nausea rolls through me.

I slice through my boiled egg and stab my fork into the yoke, stuffing the crumbly yellow globe between my lips. Pressing it to the roof of my mouth, the bite disintegrates before sliding down my throat.

My insides instantly recoil.

"I'm not hungry." When Honor shoves his plate to the center of the table, the tin screeches against the wood.

Papa tucks a chunk of cornbread into his mouth, his closed lips moving in a half-circle as he chews. "Must we do this every morning?" His tone is gentle but firm. "It's unacceptable to waste food when there are families with little to eat. We work hard for what we have, and it's disrespectful to turn your nose on the offerings of the land."

Honor crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. A silent but measured rebellion.

A sigh seeps past my lips as I debate which tactic to use today. He's heard them all before, it's just a matter of finding one that will get us through breakfast.

"Boys need nourishment if they want to grow up big and strong. How are you going to help Papa on the farm if you're too weak to hunt for food or harvest crops?" I lean closer to him and lower my voice, pained by what I'm about to say. "Mama would be disappointed if she knew you weren't taking care of yourself."

The words are unexpected, and I sense the weight of Papa's glare. But they have their desired effect. Honor reaches for his plate. He scoops up a forkful of eggs and shovels it between his cracked lips.

The creases deepen in Papa's forehead. "All right. More eating, less talking. It's almost time for church."

After we finish breakfast, I clear the table, clean my teeth, and make two careful braids in my hair. I dress in my church outfit, a pretty brown frock with a white stripe of fabric cinched at the waist. I helped Mama sew it last year. It's one of my favorites, and I'm grateful it still fits.

When we arrive at church, every pew is filled, and the woodsy scent of incense fills the air. Candles flicker along the altar, their flames casting a warm glow over Pastor Turner. As he reads from the old testament, I'm too preoccupied to pay attention. My eyes travel around the parish, tracing over stained glass windows and timbers crisscrossing the arched ceiling above our heads.

Across the aisle, Thomas catches my eye and smiles. I smile back then turn a way as a pleasant tingle shoots through my chest.

When the sermon ends, the congregation lingers, same as we do every week. Men huddle together at the back of the building while women gather along the pews, sharing recipes and stories of their children. The kids break off into groups, but I'm not feeling particularly social. I dawdle in my seat before finally migrating toward the aisle to join my friends. Victor's already in the middle of a story.

His gaze sweeps over the crowd of eager faces. "The noises came from outside," he says. "They woke me from a dead sleep. I tried to ignore them but they wouldn't go away."

A boy standing next to me screws his face into a frown. "What did they sound like?"

Victor shoves his hands into his pockets. "It's hard to explain." His dark eyes harden, and his voice takes on a serious edge. "Have you ever heard a rabbit scream? That high-pitched howl that comes right before they die?"

Despite myself, a wave of goosebumps roll over my flesh. I heard that cry once. Last summer when a hawk attacked a rabbit's nest near our barn. The wails were loud and human-like as the poor bunny squealed for its life. I covered my ears and ran toward it, but by the time I reached the barn, it was gone. All that remained were long, brown feathers and an unwanted memory etched into my brain. Sometimes, when I'm trying to fall asleep, I can still hear it screaming.

"That's what I heard," Victor continues, yanking me from my thoughts. "I felt a presence too, like someone—or something—was watching me."

Thomas scowls, but his face is drained of color. "Spit it out already. What did you see?"

"Something was glowing in the yard." Victor pauses. "And when I peeked out the window, that's when I saw it."

Eliza's eyes grow wide. "It?"

Victor nods. "Andrew Milton. He was standing between his house and mine. I couldn't believe it at first—it felt like a dream. But it wasn't because I pinched myself. Look..." He rolls up his sleeve. "The mark is still there."

Everyone leans closer to squint at his pale stretch of forearm.

Thomas' gaze lifts. "I don't see anything."

But Victor carries on as though he didn't even hear him. "He was so still—as still as death. Didn't move a muscle. He just stared at me with his ghostly pale eyes. And there was something funny about his skin. It was illuminated—like the flash a lightning bolt leaves across the sky. Do you know what I mean?" He bounces on his tiptoes, excited by his own story. "I'm not sure if it was the moon shining behind him, or if the glow somehow came from within, but his entire body emitted this strange, unearthly light. And when I looked closer," he leans forward and narrows his eyes, "there was blood dripping from his chin onto his suit—the one he was buried in. As if he'd just finished...feeding."

His words trigger a memory and my gaze goes out of focus. The night Ms. White came out of the woods, there was blood on her lips too. Right before she licked it away.

A knot twists in my stomach.

"Every time I blinked," Victor goes on, "he seemed to grow closer—only I never once saw him move. And then..." His voice lowers to an eerie whisper. "He smiled at me."

Honor's teeth pull at his bottom lip. "Was it a happy smile?"

Victor shakes his head. "It was evil. Hungry. As if he was a spider and I his prey."

Irritation bubbles in my chest. "And yet here you are, alive and well, spinning yet another one of your ridiculous stories. If Andrew really were a spider, you would have never made it out alive."

Victor turns to me with a shrug. "Believe whatever you want. But what do I have to gain by sharing this with you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Thomas chimes in. "More attention—like what you're getting now."

Thomas and I exchange a look. I hold my breath, willing Victor to confess it's a joke. But he doesn't.

Victor shuffles from one foot to the next. "There's more, but I'll stop talking if you really don't want to hear—"

Just as Victor turns away, Honor grabs his arm. He shoots a glance in my direction, a silent plead for me not to stop him. I don't. "What else happened?" he asks.

Victor's bushy eyebrows arch. "Are you certain you want me to continue? I'd hate for anyone to think I'm lying."

One of the girls shakes her head. "Go on, Victor! No one thinks you're lying."

"Well—if you insist." A long pause settles between us. Once Victor's certain he has our full attention, he continues. "So, Andrew was smiling at me, unblinking, knowing I couldn't get away. And then I heard him speak—only his lips never moved. I heard his voice inside my head."

Eliza's trembling fingers press against her lip. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'It's dark down there.'"

A visible swallow moves down Honor's throat. "Down where?"

"In his grave, of course." Victor blinks. "He wanted to come inside. 'We want to see you,' he said."

A terrified gasp moves through the crowd of kids.

"We?" someone asks. "What did he mean by we?"

The knot in my stomach tightens.

Victor doesn't answer right away. Then, he lowers his voice and leans in even closer. "I saved the creepiest part for last."

Despite myself, I move forward, barely breathing, and wait.

"Agnes was with him," he finally says. "And she was staring at me with those same dead eyes."

I jerk back as though I've been slapped, each hair tingling along my arms. "That's not true!" I shout, unable to control my mounting anger.

The parishioners turn and stare.

Rage simmers in my chest. I lower my voice and speak through gritted teeth. "You didn't see either one of them. Take it back."

A slow smirk sneaks across Victor's face. Our eyes lock and I hold his gaze, refusing to turn away.

It's Eliza who interrupts our showdown. "What did you do?" Her eyes shine with tears. She believes him. Every word he's said.

Victor returns his attention to the audience. "I prayed as if my life depended on it—because I believe it did. First to myself and then out loud, until Andrew and Agnes went away. But they didn't walk like humans do." He shudders as if he has a chill, and hugs his arms around his middle. "They were floating."

Honor takes a shaky breath. "On the air?"

"Of course, on the air. Where else would they be?" he snaps back. "I'd say they were a good foot off the ground."

"How could you tell?" Eliza's face is pale, much paler than usual. And there's a crease between her eyes, the one she gets when she's upset.

"Because the moon reflected off the snow beneath their feet." Victor's eyes travel around the group before landing on me. "I guess it's true after all. Even the dead get hungry."

Nausea churns in my stomach and refuses to let go.

"Where did they go?" someone asks, but I don't know who. Their voice is muffled, far away. Too faint to make out.

"Eventually, they vanished into thin air. One moment they were there and the next—gone." Victor snaps his fingers.

We're silent for a long moment as his story sinks in.

It's Thomas who finally breaks it. "Did you tell your mother what you saw?"

Victor whips his head toward him and scowls. "No, you fool! Do you think I'm insane?"

Honor's brows crinkle. "But why don't you want her to know? She's your mother. It's her job to keep you safe."

"Because I didn't want to scare her, that's why. Especially with my father out of town." Victor pokes a finger into Honor's chest. "And you'd better not tell her either, unless you want to give her a heart attack."

A giant, wooden cross gazes down on us from the altar. I take a deep breath and stare up at it, fighting to calm my nerves. But it's no use. My heart pounds way too fast, the sound thumping in my ears.

Thomas eyes a crowd of adults near the entrance of the church. "If you're telling the truth, your mother needs to know. I'm going to tell her."

The smug expression melts from Victor's face. He pulls on Thomas's sleeve. "Don't you dare. Promise you won't say anything!"

But Thomas is already halfway across the church. We follow after him, including Victor, who's still tugging on Thomas's arm.

We head straight for Kitty Lloyd. She's in the middle of her own story, standing front and center with a group of women milling around her. "I never did trust that Milton boy," she says with a shiver. Their heads bob in agreement, though they never had a problem with him before. Andrew was a nice boy. Polite. Easy to get along with. "He would always look at me with those eyes, like he could see right into my soul. Why, I'll bet—"

Thomas cuts her off. "Victor said Andrew and Agnes came to see him last night."

Mrs. Lloyd turns to him, her mouth paused mid-sentence, and stares.

"He said they were floating above the ground outside his bedroom window. They wanted to come inside."

Mrs. Lloyd glances at her son. "Victor, is this true?"

Victor's gaze drops before meeting hers. He nods.

Her eyes dart around the group of onlookers. Then, her head tilts toward her son until it hangs at an odd angle. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of it, young man?"

"I—I was afraid to tell you," he stammers. "After what Aunt Tilly said in her letter, I didn't want to frighten you."

Sadie Clumb elbows her way through the crowd, her skirts swishing above her ankles. "What are we going to do?" Her brows draw together, and she presses a hand to her ample chest. "What if they come back for the rest of us?"

Everyone is silent.

"I'll tell you what we do," Mrs. Lloyd finally says. "It's what my sister said they're doing in Rhode Island." She takes a shallow breath. "We have to find a way to dig them up."