A messenger arrives with the dawn. When Papa opens the door, Everett Winsley, a young fisherman from town, informs us of a mandatory meeting after church. Pastor Turner wants everyone there.

When we arrive, nearly every pew spills over with families and friends. Soon, there will only be room left to stand. People I've seen every day of my life, whispering about their neighbors, wondering who will be next. Even Eliza's family is here. They're sitting up front, the toes of their boots touching the altar.

My throat aches as I stare at the spot where my friend should be. Nestled in between her younger siblings, making sure they don't fidget too much or speak too loudly as the pastor leads us in prayer.

Behind me across the aisle, Thomas is with his parents. Before service begins, he tries to get my attention, but I pretend not to notice. I shouldn't be upset with him, especially after Papa explained himself last night. But I can't help feeling betrayed. Thomas held me back at the fire, preventing me from going to my friend. Even though he did it for my own good—who knows what trouble it might have caused if I'd intervened.

I'm still not sure how to feel about it.

My hand sags into my pocket and my fingers close around the compass. The brass is cool against my skin. I slept with it last night, as dreams of Mama danced inside my head. I awoke in the morning with my lips tucked into a smile. I tried to hold on to those memories; to her laugh and the sound of her voice when she sang, but they slipped away before I even rolled out of bed. Still, it's the first morning in a long while where I rose less tired than when I fell asleep.

I wish Mama were here now. She always had the answers I could never reach on my own.

A sudden pain slices across my wrist, sharp and hot, like needles stabbing through my flesh. My eyes close before I lift the sleeve of my dress. But this time it sticks, the fabric pulling at the edges of my skin.

A hiss sneaks between my teeth.

Carefully, I peel away the material and fight back a cringe. The scratches are still there, but they're oozing now and warm to the touch. Sending angry red streaks up my arm. I've made every effort to forget about them, ignoring them while I bathe or dress. Yet my refusal hasn't changed a thing.

Why aren't they healing?

From the corner of my eye, Papa turns and gives me a funny look. When he glances at my arm, I yank down the sleeve and stare straight ahead. Try not to appear flustered. But there are so many things to think about; too many worries inside my head.

As Pastor Turner reads from the Scriptures, the underarms of his shirt damp with sweat, the only thing I can focus on is the meeting. Thanks to Mrs. Lloyd, the townspeople already have a plan. And right or wrong, they've put it into action. What more is left to discuss?

When the service ends, a weighted silence hangs over us.

Finally, Pastor Turner closes his Bible and stares at us from behind the podium. His expression morphs into something I've never seen. No longer does it hold the spirit and liveliness he brings to his weekly sermons. Now, it's twisted. Hostile.

"As you're all aware, several weeks ago, Mrs. Lloyd received a letter from Rhode Island. It claimed the deceased are rising from their graves at night to feed on the blood of the living."

As his gaze sweeps over the congregation, it lands on Mrs. Lloyd in the second row. She gives him a nod and encourages him to continue. 

After a long beat, the pastor's chest rises with a heavy breath. "I admit, I didn't believe it at first—not until the unthinkable happened here, in South Harbor—our hardworking community that has long been a symbol of loving our neighbors as our ourselves. But when that child's corpse took a breath...well, it changed everything." His head shakes pitifully as candlelight from the altar gleams off his scalp. "For those of us who witnessed it, there was no denying the truth. Evil walks among us. And now, we're left with the decision of what to do next."

I squirm in my seat. What more can be done? The measures taken thus far have not improved our situation. Things have only gotten worse. Surely they see that? They're searching for solutions to a problem that doesn't exist, when what they need to do is focus on the person responsible.

The man in the mansion on top of the hill—the one who killed my best friend.

As the pastor carries on, my eyes drag over the churchgoers. Some hold onto one another's hands. Others fight back tears. And some are angry, brows slanted inward, their fear growing into a rage they're unable to contain.

Mr. Baptiste isn't here. Of course, he wouldn't be. He's not afraid—but then, he never comes to church. Every Sunday morning, the entire town fills these pews. Everyone, except for him. The only time Mr. Baptiste has been here was that Saturday in the cemetery, when I watched him stomp out the front door and stalk down the road. He wouldn't even accept the cross Papa made. If not the Lord, who does he pray to?

Unless...

"The Bible tells us to be watchful: because our adversary, the devil, prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour." Every eye follows as Pastor Turner steps away from the podium. When he speaks again, his voice is fiercer than before, his gestures sharper. His arms stretch wide as he looks us over. "Satan is everywhere. He's in our homes, he walks our streets. He whispers in our ears. His will is accomplished through trickery and deception. And in extreme cases, he's been known to inhabit the bodies of the innocent...much like what we're experiencing today."

Next to me, Papa stiffens. His arm grinds into mine as Honor grabs a hold of my hand, the nightmares he'll most likely have tonight already taking root in his brain. I press my free hand to my mouth to stop the tremble in my lips.

Pastor Turner continues. "Today, I am calling each and every one of you to—"

Just then, the doors behind us swing open, and a frigid gust surges down the aisle. It lashes against the back of my head, and makes the candles flickering along the altar bend sideways. Several of the flames blink out completely as ribbons of smoke rise from their wicks.

Everyone turns to stare. Mr. Baptiste enters, his black cloak beetling around his boots like an inky, black curtain.

The pastor's eyes widen like they want to pop out of his skull. After a tense beat, he straightens his shoulders. "Well, if it isn't our new neighbor. What brings you here today, Mr. Baptiste—in the house of our Lord?"

The sentence lingers in the air like a phantom.

Mr. Baptiste removes his hat and pins it between his arm and hip. He steps further into the aisle and runs a sleek, black glove, similar to ones he gave me, over his snow-white hair. "Pardonnez-moi. I don't mean to intrude, but I've been summoned for a meeting."

If his tardiness makes him uncomfortable, no one would be the wiser. He stands tall and proud, his unnatural pale eyes holding his audience as if he's used to many eyes. Watching his every movement; hanging onto every word.

As Pastor Turner's attention slides toward his messenger, Everett Winsley, the boy turns away to pick at a piece of lint from his coat.

The pastor's gaze returns to the stranger. "I'm just surprised to see you. After our last meeting, I didn't expect you'd come by again so soon." There's a hardness in his tone, as though he's addressing an enemy. "You see, my friends, Mr. Baptiste does not pray to our God. Nor does he believe in the teachings of the Bible."

A gasp rises from every pew, a chorus of voices muddling together before fading away.

And then...silence.

Blood rushes to my head, making me dizzy. Our new neighbor doesn't believe. This verifies what I'd been too afraid to think. Anyone capable of killing innocent people couldn't possibly share our faith.

Mr. Baptiste takes another step forward. "I am a man of science; a believer in matter and energy. I've been taught that religion is nothing more than the sanction of moral obligation. To govern the way we think, and how we choose to live." His accent is thick, but his voice steady. "Nevertheless, I respect your practices and am fortunate to now live in this fine country, where we have the fundamental right to pursue our individual beliefs without fear of persecution."

His statement sounds like a reminder.

Pastor Turner wavers slightly, a hint of defeat spreading across his face. He returns to the podium, his knuckles blanching as he grips the edges. "Yes, we're quite fortunate, aren't we?"

Without another word, Mr. Baptiste slips into the throng of people standing shoulder to shoulder along the back, his blue gaze gliding over the altar. He takes everything in, as if he's burning it to his memory. The arrangement of candles. The box where the Bible is placed after every service. The large cross watching over us from high atop the wall, its wooden panels engraved with age-old text.

After being inside his home, with its stained glass windows and costly fabrics, our collection of relics is feeble at best. Yet his eyes hold no arrogance. Merely...curiosity.

"As I was saying." Pastor Turner clears his throat and redirects his attention, his ruddy face shining with sweat. He's unnerved by our new arrival. "Satan's will is accomplished through trickery and deceit. He preys upon the weak. And when we make poor choices, we are forced to reap the consequences of our actions."

An influx of whispers rumble throughout the room.

"Are you suggesting our deceased neighbors lead immoral lives?" someone near the alter asks.

"What about the children?" a woman calls out. "Were they made to suffer because of sin, too?"

The congregation jumps up from their seats, their questions growing louder and more insistent. In an effort to calm them, Pastor Turner raises his hands, but no one acknowledges the gesture. Their queries press on, their tones angrier with each passing breath.

"Why do these demons only come out after dark?" a man demands from the back pew. "Are they too cowardly to face us during the day?"

Mrs. Lloyd addresses the question first. "My sister said the Undead only feed at night because the sunlight will kill them."

"But Kitty, the sun hasn't been out in weeks!" Miss Clumb shouts above the outrage rising from every pew. "How will we ever be safe—even if we're not sinners?"

"We are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord. That's why He sent His only son to save us." Pastor Turner's words slice through the confusion and fear. The conversations come to a halt. He wipes his sleeve across his glistening forehead. "The devil preys upon everyone. And now he has minions to help with his bidding."

Anger zips along my veins. The only one interested in Satan's bidding lurks at the back of the church. Only he's not turning innocent people into the Undead—he's murdering them in cold blood.

Whatever the risk, am I not obligated to stand up and share what I know? To save our town from the horrors that await us? To save my family. And to save that girl held captive in the mansion?

My neck stiffens and a creeping sensation crawls over my skin. Someone's watching me, the weight of their stare like an unwanted grip on the back of my neck. When I turn around, Mr. Baptiste's narrowed eyes are on me as though he sees the notions swirling in my head. He can't get away with this.

A renewed sense of courage swells in my chest.

But just as I open my mouth to speak out, a movement across the aisle grabs my attention. I turn to it, my pulse thumping at the base of my throat.

Thomas watches me too with fear in his eyes. He knows what I'm about to do, and he's afraid of what will happen if I tell them what we saw. With the slightest shake of his head, he smothers any hope I have of announcing our discovery.

He's right.

Defeated, my eyes once again connect with Mr. Baptiste's. He's still observing me, his confident demeanor churning my stomach. I sink into my seat and push the secret back from the tip of my tongue.

"My sister said the Undead have an innate aversion to garlic," Mrs. Lloyd goes on. "For the safety of us all, I have been hard at work making necklaces from the dried cloves left over after summer. There's enough for everyone—for a minimum price."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lloyd, for  your generous contribution." When Pastor Turner nods in her direction, the woman beams, obviously proud of how she's handled the situation. He turns back to the audience. "If we want to keep our families safe, we must outsmart the devil. Here to help us is someone who's recently had evil visit his home."

Something like lightning blasts through me, making my limbs tingle with alarm.

Eliza's father rises from his pew and ascends the altar. The pastor guides him to the podium then settles into a seat near the aisle. For an excruciatingly long moment, the constable says nothing. He just stands behind the lectern with a vacant stare, his shoulders slouching forward.

Grief washes over me, leaving behind a nagging ache.

When he finally speaks, his voice is heavy with fatigue. Every pew goes silent. "Yesterday, my wife and I lost our eldest child, and today we're left with making sure the same doesn't happen to our youngest. The deaths in Rhode Island have been confirmed: the recently deceased are, indeed, rising in the night. When the bodies of those inflicted were exhumed, they were not in the states of decay they should have been. They had fresh blood in their hearts...and on their lips. The same as Andrew and Agnes Milton."

Another gasp rises from the crowd.

A tear slides from the corner of his eye and rolls down his cheek. He wipes it away, his face growing red and agitated. "Every night after I tucked my child into bed, those monsters snuck in and drained the life from her body. She wasted away right before our eyes and we didn't know enough to stop it. But we do now." His shoulders square and he takes a deep breath. "Until further notice, there will be a curfew in South Harbor. No one is to leave their home after dark, and they are to stay put until daybreak. Once dusk has fallen, your doors and windows must be bolted closed. And if anyone—anyone," he spits out, "is found acting suspicious or out of line, they will be shot on the spot. This nightmare ends today. It ends right now. I will not lose another child."

As the weight of what he's said sinks in, panic bristles beneath my skin. The words explode from my mouth before I can stop them. "That's not fair! My family owns a farm. Some of our chores begin before sunrise, while others last into the night. Do you mean to say that if we're caught tending to them, we'll be shot?"

Papa lays a hand on my shoulder but I nudge him away.

"Would you rather fall victim to the Undead?" Mrs. Lloyd glares in my direction. "No one is safe from this evil. As we've seen, even children are capable of savagery."

White-hot tingles race across my scalp. "The Miltons were not monsters. Eliza was not a monster. They're not responsible for what's happening!"

There's so much more I want to say, but the constable interrupts. The corners of his mouth sag. "The curfew applies to everyone. Young and old alike."

An image of Honor milking his goat before school flickers through my head. And once spring arrives, Papa's work will keep him busy from dawn until dusk. How will we survive if we're forced to follow a curfew?

Rage pulses through me. I can't stand here and listen any longer.

Sliding past Honor into the aisle, I shoulder my way through the mob and race outside, pushing against the dull ache in my ankle. Snow is falling again, clumps of wet flakes pelting my face. I'm not sure where to go so I let my boots lead the way, past the tombstones and charred embers, through the pine trees weighted with ice. And I don't stop until I come to the ocean, its white caps stretching out farther than I can see.

A frigid breeze glides across the water, stinging my cheeks. But I don't care. I tip my head back, close my eyes, and gulp in the salty air.

The crashing tide usually calms me. Today, it only adds to the tightness in my chest, as if it's pounding in a message I don't want to hear. Wind pulls the hair from my braids, the strands whipping my face. I open my eyes and stare out at the Atlantic, and its continuous attack of waves against the shore. 

My hands tremble, my palms sweating. A curfew isn't going to fix this. The only thing I can do now is watch...and wait.

I had lots of fun with the artwork for this chapter, if you can't tell! The quality of the MidJourney program I'm using has improved tremendously over the past couple of weeks, I had to go through and remake all of my images. Feel free to scroll back and check them out—they're amazing! ❤️