But what appeared came from below, a fine haze rising from the grassy floor like an evaporating mist, suffused with light. Out of the headstones arose a different vapor, thicker, violet-hued, forming roughly human shapes. With the imagination of a man seized by terror, Solomon made out the upper torsos, heads, and outstretched arms of rising, gaseous specters.

Beyond the graves, standing at the far edge of the tree line, stood a figure in a hooded white robe, sleeves drooping from its outstretched hands in the shape of open, moaning mouths. Shadows thrown by the flame gave the illusion of more figures moving behind it, a league of black-robed officiants performing ministrations over the burial site…but there was only one.

Solomon froze at the sight of this ungodly rite. His mind had no accounting for it. The distress rang like alarm bells in his head.

The robed figure was immediately aware of their intrusion. Its unseen head turned toward Blackwood, and suddenly it withdrew into the trees, obscured by the frenetic shadows.

Blackwood ran after it. Solomon could hear nothing, not even his own voice as he called after Blackwood, not knowing what to do. Blackwood rushed past the circle of flame, the low mist swirling at his legs as though grabbing after him. He hurried between two violet apparitions, their hazy forms rippling in his wake as they seemed to turn and reach out to him.

Blackwood entered the tree line where the robed figure had disappeared, and vanished himself.

Before Solomon’s eyes, everything in the slave graveyard started to collapse. The flames dipped as though controlled by a dial. The ground mist faded like smoke. And the gaseous grave figures—the half-risen spirits of long-dead Negro slaves—died a second death, limbs and torsos dissipating, their pained faces the last to go.

The boy, Vernon, turned slowly, head first, his small, skinny body following. He was emaciated, his small ribs plain against his midsection, arms and legs thin. His eyes were silver moons with a small black dot in the center, eyes more animal than human. His lips were curled back to reveal his teeth, though not in the form of a smile.

At once, a gust of wind came up and grabbed the black smoke off the dying flames, whipping it toward Solomon. He covered his eyes as the oily emission washed over him, choking the oxygen where he stood. It lasted no more than a second, and was gone. But when Solomon opened his eyes, Vernon was standing before him, having crossed a distance of ten yards with the speed of one step.

The boy leapt at him, ferally, one hand on Solomon’s throat, the other scratching at his eyes. Solomon tried to grasp the boy’s frail body, but whether from sweat or moisture or some more diabolical balm he was slippery to the touch. With a cry, Solomon fell backward to the ground.