Free Garden of Darkness by Anne Frasier

around dressed in what looked like a human skin.
    That sobered him up.
    He disconnected and immediately got another call from his deputy and assistant, Brian Finn. “Got a report from the museum. The Pale Immortal moved.” There was laughter in the man’s voice, but also a hint of doubt.
    This was Tuonela.
    “Moved? What does that mean?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    Alastair got out of bed, drank some strong coffee that had been sitting in the pot for who knew how long, gargled with Listerine, slapped on some aftershave, popped gum in his mouth, and headed downtown.
    His attempts at covering up the stink had probably helped, but he could still smell alcohol on himself, seeping out of his pores.
    When he arrived at the museum, the sun wasn’t up yet. Two cop cars were parked near the door, and a smiling young officer let him inside, looking sheepish and saying something about a wild-goose chase.
    The Pale Immortal was in the Plexiglas case, where it was supposed to be, looking like it was supposed to look.
    “Sorry to get you down here for nothing,” the custodian said.
    Matthew Torrance was a good guy, but he had a drug habit everybody in town knew about and pretended didn’t exist, since he kept it to himself and wasn’t dealing. You did what you had to do to get by. To get through life. But in this case, drugs made Matthew an unreliable witness.
    “I could have sworn . . . ” Matthew’s words trailed off, and he hung his head in embarrassment.
    “Lot of weirdness going on tonight,” Alastair said in an attempt to make light of the situation. “Something in the air.” He was just talking, making noise to reassure the guy, but he also knew there was some truth to what he said.
    Matthew nodded. “It’s a hum. A buzz. Like a bun-cha people talking. Ever go to sleep at night, and just as you’re drifting off you hear them? Like a huge auditorium full of people? I used to think I was hearing other people’s thoughts, you know? Like the collective unconscious. You get to that place, that door between sleeping and waking, and you can hear them. That’s when you connect. But now I’m not so sure. Now I wonder . . .” He glanced at the mummy.
    They were all related. The people of Tuonela. Like some strange dynasty of horror, most of them could trace their ancestry back to Old Tuonela.
    And those reports of the Pale Immortal walking through town . . .
    Mass hysteria.
    Occasionally Alastair thought of time as liquid, the past reaching into the future and vice versa. Were the residents of Tuonela seeing imprints of the past? Reenactments of past events? Were uneasy spirits wandering through town, searching for answers to their own unanswered questions?
    Alastair looked down at the floor inside the case. Was that disturbed dust?
    He didn’t point it out. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he left the museum and drove to Old Tuonela.
    The sun was up, but it hadn’t yet reached the shrouded, overhanging lane that led to Evan’s house. Steam curled from the wet ground and lay heavily in dips and valleys, clinging to low vegetation.
    Once again, Evan’s car wasn’t there. Alastair suddenly remembered Graham stopping by his place last night. A fresh wave of shame washed over him.
    A lantern and a dirt-encrusted shovel had been left by the front door—signs of Evan’s excavating.
    Alastair walked toward the stand of timber that marked the edge of Old Tuonela. He climbed the gate and headed down the worn path that led into the woods, the heavy dew soaking into his pant legs.
    Towering pines and cottonwoods that hadn’t lost their leaves blocked the sunlight. The air smelled of damp earth, crushed plants, and compost.
    Decay and fermentation. Life and death.
    Alastair had been jerked from a drunken sleep, and he realized he hadn’t been completely sober at the museum. In fact, he’d been pretty lit. Now he was crashing, his body beginning to ache. His head hurt like hell, and he felt a little queasy. The shameful