The Awakening Read online

  I saw nothing, heard nothing amiss, but I had a very strong sense that someone was there, watching and waiting, this time a human protector of the stone crib. I could feel wary eyes on me, tracking my every move.

  Striking a conversational tone, I said, “When I saw your footprints at the gate, I got worried. It’s so early and the cemetery isn’t the safest place. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Still no response. Nothing but the chattering leaves and the soft tinkle of the wind chimes. And yet I knew I wasn’t alone. The feeling of being watched deepened, lifting the hair at my nape.

  “Hello?”

  A sparrow flew down from a tree branch and lit on the hood of the crib, looking so much like the one from my front porch that I gasped and took a step back. The sudden movement should have frightened the bird away, but instead the sparrow merely resettled its ruffled feathers, staring at me so intently that I felt utterly entranced.

  It couldn’t be the same bird. My house and the cemetery were miles apart. The notion that the sparrow had followed me was too insane to even consider. And yet there that tiny creature perched, eyes gleaming, head cocked, daring me to defy logic.

  “Are you following me?” I murmured even as I acknowledged to myself the madness of such a question.

  Thankfully, the bird didn’t answer.

  I lifted my arm. “Shoo!”

  The sparrow never moved. The eyes didn’t blink. For a crazy moment, I wondered if the bird was even alive.

  “What are you?” I muttered. “Why are you here?”

  The wind picked up, jangling the chimes. The sparrow’s head swiveled as if tracking the sound. I started to do the same, but before I could turn, a dark blur at the corner of my eye diverted my attention. Then something hit the ground beside me with a thud.

  I spun as another bird fell from the sky and then another and another until a dozen or more dead starlings formed a nearly perfect circle around me. Instinctively, I covered my head with my arms as I stood in the center, frozen in shock. What on earth...?

  None of the birds moved, not so much as the blink of an eye or the twitch of a wing. I stepped from that gruesome ring, staring down at the ground in horror as I wondered what could have caused the mass death.

  Out in the cemetery someone coughed, a human sound that should have reassured me, but instead goaded my fear. My voice rose in alarm. “Who’s there?”

  “Who wants to know?” came the surly reply.

  I recognized the voice of the caretaker and I had visions of Prosper Lamb storming through the willow trees wielding his weapon, perhaps shooting first and asking questions later.

  I called out quickly, “Mr. Lamb, is that you? It’s Amelia Gray.”

  He paused as if trying to sort my name. “The cemetery restorer?”

  “Yes!” My heart continued to thud as we conversed through the trees. “You’ve no idea how glad I am you happened along just now!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” He sounded closer now, just outside the copse. “You didn’t fall again, did you? I warned you about the vines.”

  “No, I’m fine. But something odd has happened. I’m just through the willow trees where we talked last time. Can you come back here?”

  A moment later, he charged into the enclave, stopping cold when he saw the dead starlings at my feet. He gave a low whistle. “What happened?”

  “I’ve no idea. I was just standing here watching a sparrow when all these birds fell from the sky—”

  “A sparrow?”

  I blinked at his emphasis. “Yes, it lit on the hood of the crib. I know this sounds crazy, but it seemed to be looking at me as if...” I trailed off, waiting for his reaction.

  “As if what?”

  I shrugged.

  “A sparrow was looking at you? Looked you right in the eyes, did it?”

  “Does that mean something?”

  He didn’t answer, just stood there gazing down at that ghastly death ring. It was only then that I noticed the burlap bag he carried in one hand as if he had already been out collecting trash from the cemetery. Or other dead birds.

  “These starlings fell in a circle like this?” he asked.

  “Yes. I didn’t move them. I never even touched them.”

  I could have sworn I saw a shudder go through him before he crouched and put a finger to the nearest corpse. “Still warm.”

  Wrapping my arms around my middle, I watched as he moved from bird to bird. “What could have happened? Why would so many die all at once like that? Disease? Disorientation?” I spoke half to myself.

  He continued his examination without glancing up. “I saw something similar when I was a boy. A whole flock of starlings raining down from the sky like the end of days.”

  “The end of days,” I repeated numbly.

  “But these birds...” He glanced at me over his shoulder, his gaze dark and avid. “Their necks were wrung just like the crow we found the other day.”

  “No disease caused that.”

  “No, ma’am, it did not.”

  I thought about the odd angle of the ghost child’s neck in my visions. Had the bad seed entity somehow caused the death of these birds? It was a terrible thought, but I couldn’t dispel the image of the bloody and battered crow she’d clutched to her chest.

  “Isn’t it possible their necks were broken when they hit the ground?” I asked.

  “All of them?”

  “It’s the only logical explanation,” I insisted.

  He rose without comment, his gaze moving past me to the stone crib. I turned, thinking the sparrow or perhaps the teddy bear had caught his interest, but his eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if his thoughts had traveled a million miles away from the enclave.

  “Mr. Lamb? Are you all right?”

  His head rotated slowly back to me and he blinked, as if reorienting himself to the here and now. “There’s another explanation for these dead birds, but you won’t like it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s not a logical explanation.”

  “I’d still like to hear it.”

  “Remember I told you the other day that the crow we found was a corpse bird.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “I remember.”

  He lifted his gaze skyward, but whether to search for storm clouds or a flock of birds, I didn’t know. “My mama used to say that right before someone died, a door to the other side opened so that the soul could pass through. If the dying lingered too long or the door opened too soon, things could come through from the other side.”

  I said with a shiver, “Like ghosts, you mean.”

  “Like bad, bad things.”

  “What kind of bad things?”

  “Things that don’t belong here. Things that look normal but aren’t. Their presence in the living world throws off the natural order. Strange occurrences start to happen...” He trailed away, his gaze dropping to the dead birds. “People, animals...they don’t act like they’re supposed to.”

  I thought about the sparrow on my front porch looking into my window and then later on the hood of the crib staring into my eyes. “You mean like the sparrow watching me? Like these starlings falling from the sky without rhyme or reason?”

  “There’s always a reason if you know how to read the signs.” His gaze was still on the circle. “Mama told me a story about an owl she saw once. White as snow with an uncommonly wide wingspan. She was out in the backyard bringing in the laundry when it swooped down out of nowhere and lit on a fence post. It just sat there and stared at her. Like it knew her, she said. Like it had some kind of message for her. Owls are common in the country, but something about that one scared her half to death. She wanted to run into the house and lock all the doors, but she was afraid to turn her back on it. So she stoo
d there and watched it for hours, until darkness fell and the moon came up. Then the owl took flight over a nearby field, but before it got to the woods, it up and vanished, just like it had gone through a doorway. The next day, my mama learned that her mama had been in a bad accident. She’d been crushed by a tractor, but she was a fighter and had lingered far longer than she was meant to.”

  “That’s quite a story,” I said, thinking about all the strange things I’d seen come through from the other side. The ghosts and the malcontents. The Others and the in-betweens. And now a strange sparrow with humanlike behavior. It likely means someone else is about to pass.

  He looked up slowly. “You wearing your good-luck charm?”

  My fingers lifted to Rose’s key. “Yes. Always.”

  He nodded. “Birds are messengers. The sparrow, these starlings, even that dead crow...they’re coming to you for a reason.”

  “What reason would that be?”

  His gaze darkened. “Just don’t take off that charm. Especially when you’re here in the cemetery. This is where they’re gathering.” He opened the burlap sack. “You go on about your business now. I’ll take care of the birds.”

  I gazed down at the forlorn circle. “Before you dispose of them...please make sure they’re dead. I wouldn’t want them to suffer.”

  “Oh, they’re dead all right. Good and gone. I can smell them already.”

  Twelve

  I left Prosper Lamb to dispose of the birds and I got right to work, throwing myself into the tasks at hand so as not to dwell on the dead starlings and especially on my conversation with Jonathan Devlin. That he knew about my family legacy was a potentially life-changing revelation, but what could I do except carry on? I would warn Papa, of course, and I would continue to be cautious, but I wouldn’t run away and I wouldn’t hide in fear. I would get on with the restoration of Woodbine Cemetery just as I had been hired to do.

  To that end, I spent the rest of the morning staking the cemetery with colored flags that corresponded with the grid I’d carefully laid out on the official map. Once the grid was completed, I walked the squares, checking off the graves on the map, making note of any historical monuments or topographical anomalies and starring the unnamed sites for further research.

  Before moving on to the next section, I photographed the headstones from various angles using a mirror when needed to project light upon a blackened or weatherworn stone so that the inscriptions could be read. The map, the images and all my research materials would be included in the postrestoration package presented to the client upon completion of the project. It was tedious and time-consuming work and I enjoyed every minute of it.

  I worked steadily all morning and then come noon, I gathered my belongings and headed for my vehicle. Normally, I wouldn’t have taken any time off after losing two days to inclement weather, but my mother was in town for a doctor’s appointment and I’d promised her and my aunt Lynrose over a week ago that I would make time for a visit.

  Truth be told, I looked forward to seeing them in a normal setting instead of sipping tea beside an open grave. Those dreams still bothered me because I couldn’t figure out what they meant. Old memories had been brought to the forefront, but how did that conversation between my mother and aunt tie in with the other happenings?

  The puzzle was getting larger and more complicated by the moment. Obviously, my arrival in Woodbine Cemetery had awakened more than a ghost.

  The questions continued to swirl in my head as I drove home for a quick shower and change of clothing. I dressed in jeans and a comfortable jacket because I would be returning to Woodbine after my visit, and by now, my mother and aunt were used to my casual attire. Despite the example they set, I took little time with hair and makeup, settling for a tightened ponytail and a thin layer of sunscreen on my already sunburned nose.

  They were in the backyard soaking up the autumn sun when I arrived. It was a warm day and a little steamy after all the rain, but a light breeze made the outdoors pleasant. I could hear the silken rustle of the palmettos and banana trees that grew in profusion inside my aunt’s garden. The scent of her tea olives drew me through the gate and I paused just inside to enjoy the tropical paradise she’d created.

  She and my mother were seated side by side on a glider, swaying to and fro as they spoke in low tones. They hadn’t seen me come in yet and I stood there wondering how, after all this time, I could still know so little about the two most important women in my life. My mother had always been a gentle, timid caregiver who had held me at arm’s length even when she embraced me.

  My aunt was much more demonstrative, but looking back now I realized that in her own way, she’d remained just as guarded as my mother. Her gregarious nature had made her seem more open and approachable, but I didn’t know a single intimate thing about her. She’d never shared any of her secrets, never confided any of her hopes and dreams. The only thing I really knew about her was her profession. She was retired now but for most of her life she’d been a teacher and headmistress at a private school not far from where I lived on Rutledge.

  Why had she never married? I wondered. Why had she not wanted a family of her own? I had never spoken to her in any detail about these issues, not from lack of interest or self-absorption, but because in my family, personal questions were not always welcomed.

  Since my early childhood, Aunt Lynrose had lavished upon me intriguing gifts and unconditional affection, and it pained me now that I could see the distance between us so clearly. She’d always remained just a little enigmatic, but my mother’s reserve and my father’s withdrawal had made me cling to her easy hugs like a lifeline.

  I’d grown up with so many secrets, apparently in all branches of my family, and I’d carried every last one of them into my relationship with Devlin. Was it any wonder that things hadn’t worked out for us? Was it any wonder that my first instinct in times of turmoil or trouble was still to retreat behind the sanctuary of my cemetery walls?

  The gate swung closed behind me and my mother and aunt glanced around with a start. For a moment they appeared bewildered by my presence, as if they had forgotten all about our plans. Or all about me, I thought uncomfortably. And then they rose to greet me, smothering me in lovely fresh-scented embraces and showering me with praise and admonishments until I felt a little ashamed of my earlier assessments. They truly did love me in their own way. Of that I had no doubt.

  We stood in a patch of sunlight while my mother fussed about the dark circles under my eyes and my aunt clucked her tongue at my sunburned nose. She examined my hands and nails and shook her head in resignation, but with a fleeting smile to let me know that, for all her scolding, she found my carelessness endearing.

  The two of them looked as elegant as ever in sweater sets and slacks, makeup perfectly applied, hair perfectly coiffed. They were both in their sixties but could have easily passed for ten years younger.

  After the preliminaries were done and I’d asked about Papa and inquired about my mother’s checkup, I sank down on the porch steps while my mother resettled in the glider and my aunt brought out a tray of frosted glasses.

  “Are you sure I can’t make you some lunch?” she asked for the third time.

  “No, thank you. I had something to eat when I went home to change. The tea hits the spot, though.” I took another sip of the iced brew. I preferred hot tea even in warm weather, but like most Charlestonians, my mother and aunt had been brought up on sweet tea.

  “If we can’t interest you in lunch, why don’t you stay for an early dinner?” Mama said. “We could all go out before I drive back to Trinity.”

  “I’d love to but I have to get back to the cemetery in a bit.”

  Mama sighed. “You work too hard. Just like your papa. It wouldn’t hurt either of you to take a day off now and then.”

  “I just had two days off due to rain,” I said
. “I don’t like to fall too far behind. You never know when something else could come up. At least I’m working in town for a while. It’s nice to sleep in my own bed at night.”

  “I’m sure Angus is happy to be home, too,” she said. “Although that mutt is so devoted to you, he’d happily sleep in a ditch so long as it was next to you.”

  “He is a wonderful companion,” I agreed.

  “Will he go with you to the cemetery? I always worry about you alone in some of those old graveyards you take on.”

  “I can’t have him with me this time. The cemetery is too near traffic and the gates are always kept open. And Angus likes to chase squirrels too much. He’s very good at holding down the fort while I’m at work, though.”

  My aunt had been uncharacteristically silent during the exchange. Maybe it was my imagination or a lingering suspicion aroused by my dreams, but she seemed nervous to the point of fretful. I thought about Dr. Shaw’s odd behavior and Temple’s preoccupation and then I thought about Prosper Lamb’s claim that when a door opened too soon, people and animals didn’t act as they should. That was an improbable explanation for the unusual behavior of three such disparate people, but they all had one thing in common—me.

  “Where did you say this cemetery is located?” Mama asked as she folded her hands in her lap. By contrast, she looked restful and elegant, an understated foil for my aunt’s unusual disquiet.

  “I didn’t say, but it’s near the river, about a half mile or so from Magnolia Cemetery. It’s called—”

  “Oh, must we talk about cemeteries on such a beautiful day?” Aunt Lynrose broke in.

  Her outburst took my mother and me by surprise and we stared at her for a moment as though an alien had been dropped into her backyard.

  “I—no, of course not,” I stammered. “I’m sorry. Mama seemed interested so I just thought—”

  “Don’t pay her any mind, Amelia. Lyn has been in a persnickety mood ever since I arrived.” My mother turned to her sister. “What’s gotten into you? We’ve seen so little of Amelia lately and I want to hear about her work.”