Page 5 of Grave Expectations

“Who said that?” she asked.

Several beats passed.

“You…can hear me?” the voice asked. Roz couldn’t place the voice or the accent. Pumpkin Hollow wasn’t small, but she knew pretty much everyone here. She didn’t recognize the voice, nor the strange lilt of the words.

“Why wouldn’t I be able to?” she asked, turning in a circle.

“Because I’m dead,” the voice answered, closer now.

Roz held very, very still. Because I’m dead.

“Well, I’m a necromancer,” she replied, her voice catching. Had she found a spirit at last? One that wanted to communicate, and decided to come to her instead of her family? Had the breeze blown him in? Or had her attempt earlier been fruitful, just delayed?

Oh goddess, she did it!

“I know,” the voice replied slowly. “But you’ve never heard me before.”

“You’ve…tried?” she asked, wincing. Her first spirit already knew of her shortcomings. Well, everyone had a first time, right? Right?

“For a long time, yes. I believe your family has, as well,” he said. Roz tried not to let that get to her head, though she wanted to sprint to her aunt’s house and throw open the door and yell, “GUESS WHAT I DID, SUCKERS?”

Instead, she nervously picked at the edge of her dress, her entire body vibrating with excitement.

“Well, then. I suppose it’s a good thing I was here. What message do you have to deliver?” Roz asked. She wished she could see him; it was strange to talk to the air. Her aunts and mother could all see the spirits they communed with. It’s your first time, give yourself some grace, she reminded herself.

“Message..?” he trailed off. “I haven’t one.”

“Oh,” Roz said. “Then...is there something you need?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why are you here, then?” she asked, then winced again. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“I’ve always been here,” the voice said. “For centuries I’ve watched, unable to touch the necromancers who reached for me, nor interact with the town. I’ve yelled and raged, and no one answered. Until…now,” he added wistfully.

“Centuries?” Roz asked, her blood running cold. There was only one centuries-old grave that her family would have tried to communicate with time and time again. Her gaze slid to the statue of Alaric Blackwood, from her blood that covered his nameplate, to the handsome, weathered face.

“Centuries,” the voice agreed, closer now. She shivered, goosebumps erupting across her flesh. “Unable to leave this town, anchored to it by a curse I didn’t understand at the time.”

Curse. Roz hadn’t heard that. Maybe she was wrong, and this wasn’t Alaric, and it was someone else. Or something else. It’s not as though witches were the only paranormal creatures in Pumpkin Hollow.

“Forced to witness and never intervene,” the voice continued.

“By who?” Roz breathed. The voice was so close now, she swore she felt it like a puff of air on her ear.

“The reverend who caught me, hanged me, quartered and burned my body. He said I’d remain to watch as he destroyed the town I helped save.” A piece of her hair moved, as though someone tried to push it behind her ear and failed. “But it endured, and he died, and I remained.”

“Alaric?” Roz asked, her voice so quiet she barely heard it.

“Yes, Rosalin Graves. You are no useless necromancer, as you’ve often called yourself. You succeeded where everyone else failed, and I believe you will be the one that sets me free.”

CHAPTER THREE

Time moves strangely when you’re dead.

At first it crawled—minutes stretching into hours, hours into days—as Alaric kept silent watch over the town he helped build. A town he once believed would give him peace.

Instead, he was executed and cursed.