Александра Адорнетто - Halo

Molly. I understand if you don’t want to be a part of this. . . .”

Xavier made a sharp turn at the next corner and drove in silence. Ahead of us was an uninterrupted stretch of road. I noticed the houses growing sparser.

“Wherever you go, I go,” he said.

The cemetery was located at the end of a long, wide road just out of town. Alongside it ran an abandoned railroad line, with neglected train cars weathered by the elements. The only buildings nearby were a row of derelict town houses, their balconies choked with vegetation and their windows boarded up.

The cemetery dated back to the town’s first settlement but had expanded since then to reflect the waves of migration. The newest section contained shiny marble monuments and shrines, all meticulously maintained. In many of the shrines were photographs of the deceased surrounded by glowing votive lights in frosted glass. There were small altars, crucifixes, and statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary, her hands folded in prayer.

Xavier parked his car across the street, a little way from the main gates so we wouldn’t draw attention. At this time of day the gates were open so we crossed the road and walked straight in. At first glance the place seemed peaceful. We saw a lone mourner, an elderly woman in black, tending one of the newer graves. She was cleaning its glass front and replacing the flowers that had shriveled with a new bunch of chrysanthemums, cutting them to size with a pair of scissors. She was so absorbed in her task that she barely noticed us. The rest of the place seemed deserted apart from the occasional raven circling overhead and the soft droning of bees that hovered around the lilac bushes. While there was no earthly disturbance, I sensed the presence of several lost souls who haunted their place of burial. I would have liked to stop and help them on their journey, but I had more pressing matters on my mind.

“I know where we might find them,” said Xavier, and he steered me to the original section of the cemetery.

There, a very different scene greeted us. The graves were old and abandoned, their castiron railings rusted. Over time, a tangle of ivy had smothered all other vegetation and now ruled unchallenged, threading its tenacious tendrils through the iron railings like rope. These graves were more humble and at ground level; some had nothing more than a plaque to identify the occupant. I saw a patch of turf littered with small windmills and soft toys that had long lost their sheen and realized this was a section for infants. I stopped to read one of the tiny tablets: LUCY

ROSE, 1949-1949, AGE 5 DAYS. Thinking about this little soul who had graced the earth for a mere five days filled me with an unspeakable sadness.

Xavier and I picked our way around the crumbling headstones. Very few were still intact.

Most had sunk into the grass, their inscriptions faded and barely legible. Others were nothing more than a jumble of broken stone and tangled weeds. Every so often we came across a statue of an angel, some towering and some small, but all grim faced with arms outstretched as if in welcome.

As we walked, I was aware of the bodies of the dead under the blankets of cracked stone.

My skin prickled. It wasn’t the sleepers beneath our feet that troubled me, but what we might discover around the next corner. I could sense Xavier’s regret over the decision to come here.

But he showed no signs of fear.

We stopped suddenly when we heard the sound of voices. They seemed to be chanting some kind of dirge. We crept forward until the voices became louder, and we took refuge behind a towering birch. Peering between its boughs, we could make out a small gathering of people. I thought there must have been about two dozen or so in total. Jake stood on a mossy grave facing them, his legs apart and his back arrow straight. He wore a black leather jacket and the inverted pentagram hung from a cord around his neck. On his head was a gray fedora. I paused—I recognized that hat from somewhere. The sight of it stirred a memory in the back of my mind.

And then it hit me—the strange, solitary figure at the rugby game. He’d appeared at the sidelines, his face shrouded from view, and after Xavier had been hurt, he’d vanished into thin air. So Jake had orchestrated the whole thing! The thought that he’d tried to injure Xavier sent a burning anger pulsing through me, but I tried to stifle it. I needed to keep my wits about me now more than ever.

Rearing up behind Jake was a ten-foot angel made of stone. It had to be one of the most chilling earthly things I’d ever seen. Despite looking like an angel, there was something sinister about it. It had narrow eyes, huge black wings that reared majestically behind it, and a powerful body that looked as though it could crush anyone and anything. A long stone sword was melded to its muscular waist. Jake stood under its shadow as though it was protecting him.

The group were gathered in a semicircle around him. They were dressed strangely, some in hooded garments that shrouded their entire faces and others in tattered black lace and chains, their cheeks powdered chalk white and their lips stained bloodred. They didn’t seem to be interacting with one another, but they approached Jake in turn, each bowing in deference before removing some object from a drawstring pouch and depositing the offering at his feet. They made a woeful spectacle that afternoon, standing in the watery sunlight. I wondered by what means and through what promises Jake had lured these young people from their regular pursuits to join him here and disturb the departed.

And I wondered why I didn’t see Molly.

Jake held up his hands and the group stilled. He threw off his hat, and I saw that his long, dark hair was uncombed and tangled. He looked almost wild. When he spoke his voice seemed to reverberate from the stone angel itself.

“Welcome to the dark side,” he said, and laughed coldly. “Although I prefer to think of it as the fun side.” There were murmurs of appreciation from his followers. “I can promise you that nothing feels better than sin. Why not turn to pleasure when life treats us with such indifference? We are here, all of us, because we want to feel alive!”

He ran a slender hand over the coarse stone of the angel’s thigh and spoke again, his voice dripping like syrup. “Pain, suffering, destruction, death, these things are like music to our ears, sweet as honey on our tongues. We thrive on them. They are food for our souls. You must all learn to reject a society that promises everything and delivers nothing. I am here to show you how to create your own meaning, thereby freeing yourselves from this prison in which you are all chained like animals. Man was created to rule, but you have become simpering and soft. Let us reclaim our power over the earth!”

He looked around the group, and his voice became suddenly cajoling, like a parent coaxing a child. His hand gripped the hilt of the angel’s stone sword. “You have done well so far, and I am pleased with your progress. But it’s time to take more than baby steps. I urge you to do more, to be more, and to throw off those shackles that bind you to polite society. Let us invoke the twisted spirits of the night to assist us.”

His words seem to incite a kind of fever in his followers, as if by mass hypnosis. They threw back their heads and cried incoherently into the air, some whispering, some screaming. It was a sound full of pain and vengeance.

Jake smiled approvingly then glanced at his gold watch. “We don’t have much time. Let’s get down to business.” He peered into the crowd. “Where are they? Bring them to me.”

Two figures were thrust forward so they fell at Jake’s feet. Both were wearing hooded cloaks. Jake took hold of the figure closest to him and pulled back the hood, revealing an ordinary-looking boy whom I recognized from school, a fairly unassuming student who kept a low profile and was a member of the chess club. There were no shadows under his eyes, and his eyes themselves were not black like the others’ but a pale green. Despite his fresh-faced appearance, he looked shaken.