Her throat ached. Even hundreds of years later, they had been unable to find peace. Each of them would have had lives that were likely fuller and more difficult than anything Margot had experienced. They had eked out an existence on harsh land. They had laughed, shared stories, made friends. They had been fully realized people, as real and varied and fascinating as anyone Margot knew. All of that was taken from them. Now, they only existed as shadows of themselves. Robbed of names, of identities, of their sense of selves.

She passed through an abandoned cellar. The path split. Another of the dead stood at the right-hand turn, blocking the passage. Margot murmured her thanks as she turned left.

Her father had loved humor. She could picture her parents, late in their lives, making jokes about the dead in the comfort of their kitchen. That was human nature, in the face of fear. Defang it by mocking it. Make light of a threat. Rob it of its power over you.

She could imagine every generation had done that eventually. Live on the hill for long enough, see the dead ones trailing outside the house on enough nights, and it would be easy to grow cavalier about it.

Until the dead finally caught up to them. And then they would stitch their victim’s mouths closed, just as theirs had been. Never again allowed to laugh at their suffering. Never again allowed to argue their own relative virtue. Death made an equal out of everyone.

Steep stairs led her down. She reached one hand out to steady herself on the wall, and that was when she realized she’d lost her shovel. It would be with the effigy and the man from the wall. She glanced back. The path behind her was blocked. Three of the dead filled the space, their bodies caked in soil, their white eyes silently observing her. She shivered, then continued on.

Another split in the path appeared ahead. Once again, one of the passages was blocked by a dead sentry. It solidified the thought in Margot’s mind that she was being shepherded toward a destination.

Witchety’s blessings had worked because she treated the hill with reverence, Margot realized. She both feared and respected the dead. And it had been enough to calm the ones who lived under the earth, at least a little.

The passage turned at a sharp angle. It felt older than the others Margot had passed through. Roots trailed through the ceiling, scraping over her shoulders and tangling in her hair as she pushed through. She raised her light on the other side and felt herself grow cold.

Her path was blocked. The passage had collapsed, a tumble of rocks and soil and broken wooden supports thoroughly sealing the way ahead.