Page 21 of Petrify

Every time I look, I am alone.

The ghost is walking next to me, invisible,stalkingme.

And there is no reprieve.

“Can we go to the cemetery?”

It’s an hour or so before dinner and the sun is still high enough amid thick gray clouds.

“The cemetery?”

Henri looks up at me, waiting for my decision.

“Alright. We can get a walk in before dinner.”

Because of the freezing winter, I haven’t made any effort to explore the grounds of the manor. Despite the house’s creepiness, it’s warm and cozy in most rooms. I can easily find a quiet corner to read in, a luxury I’ve not taken for granted.

Henri has to get bundled up, so I help him pull his coat and boots on once we’re in the foyer. I have the fleece-lined leather jacket I bought a few weeks ago and my scarf.

I’m not sure if I need to report our whereabouts to anyone, but Desmond passes us in the foyer, and I decide that’s good enough, telling him to let Ms. Byrne or Ms. Wilder know, if he sees them. His only response is a raised brow. I’ve hardly seen him around since my first day, but when I do, he’s silent and brooding, almost like he’s avoiding speaking toanyonein the house.

Outside is the type of wind chill that seeps to your bones. The air stills often enough to trick me into thinking the temperature’s not too bad. I wound my scarf around my neck, and I’m thankful that I did, tucking the lower half of my face and my nose into the thick wool. Henri’s ears and cheeks are pink but he doesn’t complain. I swear I feel the faintest drops of sleet landing on my lashes as we trudge down the drive.

I let him lead the way, and he talks the whole time about his lessons this morning with Ms. Wilder: showing off his multiplication skills by listing the multiples of eleven, telling me about the passage he read inThrough the Looking Glass. The Henri before me today is an entirely different boy from the shy, quiet thing I met on my first day.

The cemetery is tucked away behind a hill, between the house and the woods on the north side of the grounds. Surrounded by a wrought iron gate with stone pillars, I had just assumed these were the gardens, with how the path leading up was paved with angular, flat cut stones and gravel, lined with barren shrubs and benches.

At first, I see no indication we’ve entered a resting place for the past Beauchenes, only half-dead hedges, twigs sparse in the wintery air. But peeking from behind tree trunks, from under bare rose bushes, are large white marble headstones. Once I seethe headstones, I realize just how many surround us—just how many bodies are buried around us. Generations of this family, interred six feet under, rotting in the earth.

Henri keeps talking, and before I know it, we’re standing before a tomb, at the very center of the cemetery, overlooking the dozens of graves. Veined green marble columns, stained glass windows, and the family’s name etched into the stone above the iron door. It’s too pristine, unmarred by dirt and moss.

A strong gust whips loose leaves around our legs, tugging at our clothes.

Henri only hesitates a moment before he reaches for the door. There’s a set determination to his small shoulders, and it’s clearly heavy for him, but I get the sense that he wants to do this alone.

I tell myself it’s the frigid wind that has me seeking shelter, not my curiosity propelling me into the dark room behind the boy.

He stands at the far wall, looking upward. The tomb is empty, each of its crypts unsealed and open, save for one, the stone flat and sealed tight.

It’s etched at eye level—Bastien Arnaud Beauchene.

Arnie.

Just on the other side of the slab is his corpse, brittle bone and remnants of flesh, locked inside to decay alone.

He doesn’t know he’s dead.

When my duties are done for the day, Henri is being readied for bed, and no one else is looking for me, I find myself back in the practice room.

I have an hour until “quiet hours” begin.

I can’t get the song out of my head. This uncanny feeling that Iknowit. Not some refrain from a song centuries old, a chord progression used time and time before. No, it’s new. And so familiar I think I’m losing my mind.

I sit at the Steinway, sinking onto the bench with hesitant limbs, fingers already shaking. All day I mulled over the song, replaying the bit of melody in my head, wishing I had photographic memory and could recall the entire thing. The sheet of music was tucked away under one of the scale books. Irrationally, I worry if I don’t hide it while I’m gone, it’ll go missing.

The first few measures come slowly, the music clunky under my fingers, the timing not quite right. As I play through the few lines of music, it engrains itself into my mind, note by note.

I play through the thirty measures once.