The Prophet

Chapter Twenty

My night was filled with the strangest dreams and I awoke with a splitting headache. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn I suffered from a hangover, but I’d gone to bed early without so much as a sip of wine. I could barely even remember Devlin’s visit, let alone the incident in the garden. Both visits had joined the surreal parade of visions that had marched through my sleep.

As per Dr. Shaw’s wishes, Temple and I had arranged to meet at Oak Grove Cemetery that morning at nine, but I arrived early and was sorely tempted to remain in my locked vehicle until she got there. I didn’t relish entering that abandoned graveyard alone. My memories of Oak Grove were still too fresh.

This was my first trip back since the police had sealed the cemetery late last spring. After months of tedious and methodical excavating, all the bodies had been recovered, and the investigation had finally come to an end. But my nightmares would linger for years. I wasn’t yet sure how I would cope, but it was too late to back out now. I’d given Dr. Shaw my word.

I took my time lacing my boots, pulling on my jacket and checking my camera. Even after all that, Temple still hadn’t arrived. I got out of the car and glanced around, uneasy in spite of the sunshine. It was so very quiet out here. Quiet…and isolated. I’d forgotten the completeness of that silence, the profound stillness that settled heavily over the overgrown landscape.

Oak Grove had always been an unnerving place. Surrounded by woods and accessible only by foot, the cemetery was owned by the prestigious Emerson University, but for years it had been allowed to languish behind crumbling walls, with no visitors to speak of except for students looking to party and a killer anxious to bury young women’s bodies.

Being all too familiar with that recent history, I kept a watchful eye as I made my way through the tall grass toward the gates. Briars clutched at my jeans, and despite the cooler weather, I swatted a couple of annoying mosquitoes buzzing around my face.

At least I didn’t have to worry about ghosts, I told myself. Oak Grove was one of those cemeteries where even the dead feared to tarry. But I’d seen something far more disturbing than a restless spirit at the edge of the woods late one afternoon. From my description, Dr. Shaw had called the entity a shadow being, and he’d almost had me convinced that those periphery glimpses were nothing more than my imagination or tricks of light and shade. I knew better now. Shadow beings were real, but unlike ghosts that awaited twilight, they seemed to prefer the shifting light of pre-dusk.

I threw off that memory and lifted my face to the sun. The morning was bright and cool, perfect weather to begin a restoration. The prospect of getting back to work, of immersing myself in my own little world, excited me even if it did mean a return to Oak Grove.

But that budding anticipation withered the moment I walked through the gates. The cemetery’s dark past hung like a pall over the blackened headstones and moss-shrouded statues, and I stood there shivering as I glanced around.

Oak Grove had once been the site of a large plantation with underground slave quarters still echoing with misery. Aboveground, it was lush and Gothic, the once parklike setting typical of the Rural Cemetery Movement that had migrated here from England during the Victorian era. The gravestone symbolism was some of the finest I’d ever encountered—willow trees and urns signifying sorrow and the soul’s mortality, hourglasses depicting the fleeting passage of time, roses in various states of bloom that denoted age at time of death.

A dove marked a tiny grave near the gates, the bird of peace a symbol often found on the headstones of children. As I bent to pull back a tangle of weeds from the site, I thought of Shani’s little grave in Chedathy Cemetery, decorated with nothing more than a simple headstone and seashells shaped in a heart. Her visit, too, seemed a part of some half forgotten dream.

Her ghost had remained at my side last evening only until Devlin had been out of sight. Then she, too, had vanished, leaving nothing of her presence behind. No hearts on frosted glass. No jasmine. Nothing but the memory of that little ghostly hand in mine. Instinctively, I knew it was important that she’d drifted from Devlin to me. So significant, in fact, that I almost couldn’t bear to think about her motive. No matter how hard I tried to resist, her persistence chipped away at my resolve. With each manifestation, her determination became more obvious. She wasn’t going away until I found a way to help her move on.

Keeping to the cracked pavers, I worked my way to the back. Most of the graves in the front section of the cemetery ranged from mid-nineteenth to early twentieth century, hence the prevalence of weeping angels and grieving saints, but graves in the older area dated back to the early 1700s. Headstones from that era were adorned with more gruesome images of death: the grim reaper, winged skulls, skeletons in open coffins.

The deeper I walked into the cemetery, the thicker the canopy. Only a spangle of light shone through here and there, and the temperature dropped. I could see the spires of the Bedford Mausoleum peeking through a tangle of kudzu and, everywhere I looked, ivy. The ubiquitous vines curled around statues and monuments and snaked along the limbs of the old live oaks, snuffing the life from the centuries-old trees.

As I approached the first excavated grave, I became aware of a slight sound and cocked my head to listen. I heard what I thought was the crunch of dead leaves underfoot and assumed that Temple had arrived just after me. I started to call out to her, but something held me back. Cemetery etiquette precluded loud voices, and the need for caution had long become a habit. I didn’t exactly feel the urge to hide, but neither did I bother stepping out into the open. I had on dark clothing. Unless someone knew I was there, I blended seamlessly into the shadows of the monuments.

After a moment, a man emerged through the drapery of Spanish moss and grape vines and stood gazing around. He was average height, with an athletic build that had gone soft. I could see the outline of a paunch over his belt and, despite the distance between us, the telltale sag of his jaw line. Or maybe that was only my imagination because I could determine nothing of his other features. The brim of his hat was pulled too low over his eyes.

The man on King Street instantly came to mind. I told myself there was no way this could be the same person, and yet, I had a sinking feeling that he was. And since he’d been tailing me before I’d ever spoken a word about Darius Goodwine or gray dust to Dr. Shaw, I could only assume he was here because of Devlin. A connection had already been made, and now someone wanted to use me to get to him.

My first instinct was to ease the phone and a can of mace from my pocket. But I didn’t dare move for fear he would spot me. I stood there with suspended breath and pounding heart praying he’d move on so that I could call for help.

He lingered for what seemed an eternity. Then I heard my name shouted from the front of the cemetery. Temple had arrived, and thankfully she had no compunction about raising her voice. The man whirled and strode back along the path the way he had come. My relief was followed instantly by a dart of panic that had me bolting from my hiding place. If he kept on the path, he would run straight into Temple.

I cut through the graves hoping to head him off. Stumbling over roots and broken stones, I burst from the old section only to stop dead in my tracks. Temple and the stranger stood talking on the path. When they heard me approach, he turned nonchalantly, giving me the sleaziest grin I could ever imagine.

“There she is,” he drawled with a wink. “The infamous Graveyard Queen.”