The morning sky smells like rain, and she sets feverishly to work, knowing what the end will mean for both her and them. Shortly after noon the sky grows heavy with mist, then a steady drizzle that settles in as if it's always been. By the time she finishes the last scratch on the last headstone she is soaked and shivering. Her back hurts and her feet are numb, so she crawls through the mud and up into the shack where she collapses onto her damp bedding.
The small church is filled with bodies. Or rather, the memory of bodies that once were. Skins once black are grey with death. She stares at the stiff backs of men, women, and children sitting on the floor. Some of the bare backs are marked with scars, raised and puckered like giant earthworms.
Her lips rear back at the sight, as if in their rapid flight they might pull open her jaws and allow the scream inside to escape. But a lifetime of stoicism prevails, and the sound is buried within, trapped in a brittle nest of unexpressed emotions.
Something scuttles past her legs and she flinches. The creature stops and turns to look at her. A little girl, so thin that she can't tell if the bumps on her back are scars or bones jutting through. The girl moves again, crawling quickly on all fours, keeping her face impossibly turned backwards as she melts into the crowded congregation.
She feels a ripple pass through them all, then realizes she's seeing it too, watching as their bodies distort like each one is passing through a curtain of water. And she knows now she must be dreaming because she's too calm and there are no such things as ghosts and she's not on any medication that could explain this away.
In unison, the men, women, and children turn their heads to stare at her. The whites of their eyes glow like thin wafers, swallowed by the darkness of their pupils. She realizes she can still hear their voices, but their mouths are all closed.
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Christine had another thought. Maybe John wasn't trying to help her selflessly-
out of a sense of duty or the need to alter the functionality of her life.
Maybe John was trying to help her because of his own fear. His fear that
Christine knew what was really out there, waiting in the dark.
She felt nauseous and nervous; her hands had gone clammy. She took a deep
breath. For a moment, she felt a thousand times stronger than she had mere
moments before. She was tempted to explore this feeling, to find out why and
how she could feel these conflicting sensations. But John spoke.
"I think we really need this time alone, Christine."
He looked at her in a way she had nearly forgotten. She was ready to go to him
and let him hold her and comfort her and perform whatever head-shrinking voodoo
was necessary to make him look at her like that again, all of the time.
"I think we can work together to get you to some sort of breakthrough."
Just as suddenly, the magic vanished. Christine felt the familiar wave of
nausea and the prickling of goose bumps on her arms. At the same time,
somewhere deep inside and fighting its way rapidly to the surface, was the
realization she didn't need John's help.