“I can’t imagine what it was like to be hung like that and left on the tree, in full view of the town and the people you once loved.” Her mouth was dry. She swallowed to wet it. “Even after your life was taken, you were denied a proper grave. You were forgotten. No matter what you did during life, you deserved more than that. And I’m sorry for it.”

The pressure left her ankle entirely. The dead one stood, joints moving slowly, and took a step back from Margot.

She turned, carefully, to see the effigy behind her. Its skin was pulled taut by the threading, agonizing wires. The deer skull stared down at her, unmoving.

They had been hung as criminals. But Kant had said many of the crimes were as petty as stealing to put food on their table. They had not been perfect people. No one could be. But they deserved more than they had been given.

An apology isn’t enough, she realized. They need something sincere. Remorse. Respect. They want the dignity and humanity they weren’t afforded during their death.

She moved, carefully, to pick up her fallen phone. As she stood, both heads turned to watch her. Margot swallowed thickly.

“I wish I could do more to make this right.” She blinked. Her eyelashes were powdered with dust. “I don’t even know your names. I’m sorry.”

She took a tentative step along the hall. The dead ones made no effort to stop her. She squeezed as close to the wall as she could, but even then, she grazed against the dead man’s cold flesh as she passed him.

The bottle of holy water lay on the ground, nearly emptied. She placed it into her pocket. Then she glanced back. The two gray forms were still, silent, watching.

“Thank you for showing me more kindness than you were given,” she said, then faced forward again. Her ankle ached with each step. The darkness pressed in around her, excruciatingly heavy.

But she was alive.

44

The path ahead held a passageway to the left. As Margot neared it, she saw a dead one in the opening. She was a woman, old, her breasts sagging, her gray hair thin. She stood like a sentry, watching Margot as she passed.

“Thank you,” Margot murmured. “And I’m sorry.”

The image of the black threads running through the mouths hung in her mind as she moved still deeper into the passageways. Ray had said the townspeople sewed them shut as superstition. They believed the hanged would continue to plead for mercy even after death.

Maybe that’s the truth. Maybe they weren’t even pleading for an escape from death but for some small kindness. A proper grave. Their name to be recorded. Someone to remember them after they died. Respect.