LAUREL HILL CEMETERY
Today marks one week since the discovery of the corpse of Frederick Weathers, son of City Councilman Thomas Weathers. Frederick, who had disappeared two days before, was discovered at the International Centennial Exhibition as a walking corpse. His murderer is presumed to be the same person responsible for raising the Dead.
Murder? Oh God—I was going to be sick.
“Eleanor? Let me in!”
I whipped my head up. Mama.
I crushed the newspaper in my fist and shoved it back into my pocket. “Let me in!” she commanded.
“Coming. Coming.” I climbed to my feet and scrambled across the room.
“Why is this locked?” Mama demanded once the door was opened. She didn’t wait for an answer but sailed past me into the room. “Well, where is he?”
I stared wide-eyed. The truth boiled in my throat. I wanted—needed—to tell her, but I knew better.
So I blinked.
“Do not just stand there, Eleanor. I asked you a question.” Mama’s figure was all shoulders and angles, with a mass of curling gray hair on top. And right now she stood puffed up like a triangle, tapering to the ground and demanding authority as if she were President Grant himself.
“The Dead came,” I mumbled.
A crease folded down her forehead. “What do you mean, ‘the Dead came’? What is that for an answer? What Dead?”
I shrank back, fighting the urge to run past her through the open door. “Th-the walking corpses,” I stammered. “The ones people have been talking about. One came to the train depot, so everyone was evacuated.”
“What?” She threw her hands in the air. “But this is cause for alarm, Eleanor! If you were in danger—”
“No!” I lunged at her, my head shaking to keep her calm. “No, I’m fine. Elijah wasn’t there anyway.”
“He... he was not there?” Her eyebrows drooped, and she lowered her hands.
“No, but he left a message.”
“Where?”
“At the telegraph office.”
“I mean, where is the message? Give it to me.”
I licked my lips. “I don’t have it. I must have dropped it when the Dead alarm rang.”
“Hmph.” She folded her arms over her ample chest. “What did the note say? Will he be on the afternoon train?”
“No.” I shook my head slowly as a story unfolded in my mind. “Not on the afternoon train. He ran into some friends in New York, so he’s going to stay. For a few days, or perhaps longer.”
She groaned and pressed her hands to her forehead. “Three years away with nary a letter, and now he changes his plans with no warning at all. We need him here—does he not realize this? You explained that in your last letter, did you not?”
“Of course, Mama.” I had written to Elijah of our financial problems long before she had nagged me to. In every letter I had begged Elijah to hurry home and resume our dead father’s work. But Elijah never responded to those passages.
“And what of our party tonight?” Mama insisted. “What am I to do?”
“We could cancel,” I said hopefully.
She snorted. “Of course we cannot cancel. The walking Dead must have addled your brain, Eleanor. This is our first party in years—our chance to impress the Wilcoxes. The guests have accepted our invitations, and I will not squander this opportunity.”
I cringed. Merciful heavens, a party was the last thing I wanted to endure. To babble in polite chatter and pretend all was well? It seemed impossible.
After Father died, my family stopped receiving invitations to parties. I’d thought it was Mama’s grief that kept our calling card bowl empty. I’d thought it was our year-long mourning that kept us tied to the house. But as I’d gotten older, I’d realized that it was society’s decision to ignore us—not my mother’s—and I could conjure only one reason for this isolation: the raving paranoia my father had suffered from before his death. His babbling cries of enemies, sabotage, and revenge had frightened my family and me. I could see how it would frighten other families as well.
“Consider the expense of our party,” Mama continued. She began to pace. “All that money for nothing! We cannot waste such food and preparation. Although... the entire affair was meant for Elijah, which means we must offer our guests some other form of entertainment.”
“We must?” I squeaked.
“Yes, yes.” She drummed her fingers against her lips. “There are too few guests for a ball and too many guests for cards, and literary debates are so dreadfully dull.”
She continued her steps, muttering more solutions to herself.
I squeezed my eyes shut and took the moment to calm my nerves. I had to keep this brittle control in front of Mama or else I would blurt out everything.
“I have it,” she said.
I snapped my eyes open. Mama was stopped midstride with a finger thrust in the air. “We shall have a séance.” Her face filled with pride.
I was not nearly so pleased with her solution. “Why?” I croaked.