Page 10 of Wednesday

I did not breathe until he looked away. We walked in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the sound of my boots scuffing the ground. I should take his offer. The less I had to see the better.

Instead, I heard myself ask, "Can I watch?"

He stopped walking. "You wish to witness my feeding?” he asked. When I did not immediately reply, he turned to face me. “Why?"

I did not have a good answer. Only a morbid curiosity that seemed to grow stronger the more time I spent in Morrow's presence.

He studied me for a long moment. "Very well." He turned away, continuing up the passage. "Few have voluntarily observed. Fewer still have survived the experience."

The tunnel eventually opened into a small chamber with a stone ceiling. Morrow placed his palm against it, pushing it upward before shoving it aside. Moonlight filled the space as Morrow easily leapt out of the ground. He reached down to offer me a hand.

I hesitated before accepting. His skin felt cool and dry against mine, the bones beneath prominent. With surprising strength, he pulled me up into the night air.

We emerged directly beside Helena Ross's fresh grave. The temporary marker gleamed dully in the moonlight, her name and dates stark against the white plastic. I turned to squint at the stone that had covered the tunnel entrance. It was a large, flat companion headstone carved to look like a flowerbed. Good camouflage in a cemetery.

Morrow moved to the foot of the grave and began to dig, creating a narrowing tunnel that angled downward to the coffin. I watched, completely transfixed. It was not what I had expected. There was nothing frenzied or savage, only the untiring determination to reach his goal.

Within minutes, he had created an opening large enough for his narrow form. He paused at the edge, those unnatural eyes finding me in the darkness.

"Last chance to turn away," he said.

I shook my head, my throat too dry for words.

Morrow slipped into the hole, disappearing from view. I crept closer, peering down into the darkness. I could not see him, but I heard him. The crunch of the coffin lid giving way, the whisper of fabric being moved aside.

Then silence, broken only by my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

"Come closer," Morrow's voice called. "If you truly wish to see."

I was torn. I wanted to run, to forget everything I had seen and heard, and slink back to the cottage with my tail between my legs. I wanted to pretend Morrow was the nightmare he appeared to be and I would wake up at any moment. Instead, I knelt at the edge of the hole and shone my light into the darkness.

In the darkness below, Morrow crouched over the hole he had punched in the coffin. In his hands, he held a human thigh. The skin was gray and wrinkled and still partly covered by blue, gauzy fabric. There was only a ragged stump where the lower leg should have been as if he had ripped the limb out of the coffin and snapped it in half like a person would a crab leg.

"The flesh is already cold," Morrow said. "But her essence lingers. Would you know something of Helena Ross before she fades completely?" His black eyes met mine.

Before I could answer, Morrow's jaw unhinged with a wet sound, exposing rows of needle-like teeth. He raised the severed limb to his mouth and tore into it. I flinched backward, nearly dropping my phone. I was shocked. Revolted. But I could not look away.

Instead, I watched with horrified fascination as he fed, ripping chunks of flesh from the bone before swallowing them whole. The sounds were almost more gruesome than the sight. Tearing flesh and chewing and Morrow’s low rumbling, growls. When he lifted his head, dark fluid stained his lipless mouth. He extended one long-fingered hand toward me.

"Take it," he said. "If you want to see."

I only hesitated for a moment before I reached down. His fingers interlaced with mine, leaving behind smears of congealed blood that began to tingle against my skin. Suddenly, images flooded my mind.

A young woman in 1950s clothing laughing as she ran across a beach. The same woman, older, holding a newborn. Helena at her husband's deathbed, clutching his hand. Helena alone in a garden, watching butterflies with arthritic hands folded in her lap. I jerked back, falling into the grass as the images faded.

"What was that?" I gasped.

"Helena," Morrow said simply. "Or fragments of her, at least." He resumed his feeding.

I lay in the grass, trying to process what had just happened. Somehow, Morrow had shared Helena's memories with me. Proof of his claim that he consumed more than just flesh. It was amazing even if the way he did it was horrible. I stared up at the stars, trying to tune out his noises.

By the time he emerged from the grave, the eastern sky had begun to lighten. He moved with the same fluid grace, though his frame seemed somehow fuller, the hollow cavities of his chest less pronounced. Dark fluid stained his mouth and hands, but he made no move to wipe it away.

"You will help restore the grave?" he asked, gesturing to the disturbed dirt.

I nodded mutely, still feeling a little dazed.

Together, we refilled the tunnel he had created, careful to pack the soil firmly. When we finished, the only evidence of disturbance was a slight depression that could easily be attributed to natural settling.

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