Free Creepers by Joanne Dahme

placed it gently in front of me. I opened it, treating the cover and the yellowed papers between it as fragile as butterfly wings. It smelled like dust as I squinted at the scratchy writing that blackened the pages.The script seemed foreign at first with its alien characters, but if I concentrated I could begin to make out the words. I nearly cried out when I recognized Prudence’s name.
    â€œCourtney, I’m sorry, but you can’t look at that.” I hadn’t heard Margaret enter from the kitchen. She smiled apologetically as she picked up the book and placed it back on the pile of papers. “Dad is really fussy about anyone handling Christian’s journal. I’m not even allowed to look at it unless Dad is in the room.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Margaret. I didn’t mean to be rude.” I could almost see my mother looking over Margaret’s shoulder, mortified by my lack of manners.
    â€œCourtney, it’s no big deal. Really. It’s my fault. I’m the one who’s been reading the journal pages to you.” Margaret sat down and slid the glass of ice water to me. The cubes floated like a slowly spinning nebula. “It’s just that Dad gets really nervous about its age.That’s not the original binding,” she noted, nodding toward the book. “But the pages are
authentic and they’re obviously falling apart a little more every time the book is opened.”
    â€œCan’t your dad take them to somebody who knows how to protect old books?” I asked, appalled at the idea of Christian’s life crumbling beneath Mr. Geyer’s fingers.
    Margaret almost rolled her eyes. “Maybe when he is finished with the transcribing. In the meantime, he won’t let that journal out of this house.”
    I understood. I probably would not want to let it go, either. We spread out the collection of tombstone photos. There must have been at least one hundred of them, and Margaret and I were to choose the ones with the most interesting art and names. These would make for a really depressing photo album, I thought, except for maybe on Halloween.
    At least two hours had passed while we whittled our selection down to twenty photos to cover the two posters. We had tombstones with hourglasses, skulls, bats, angels, suns, and moons—but no ivy. We chose stones that belonged to little children—one stone had four different babies’ names crammed onto it, each one dying one year after another. Stones that belonged to mothers who died young or young men drowned at sea. We tried to pick the tombstones that would bring tears to your eyes as you imagined the lives of these people. It suddenly struck me
that cemeteries were jam-packed with life.
    â€œI never looked at cemeteries that way,” Margaret replied pensively. I had not realized that I said it aloud. She looked up, her green eyes clear, despite the images of death splayed beneath her hands. Her appreciative smile softened the determination that usually sharpened her features. “I think we’ve picked the best photos. Could you get the poster boards, Courtney? They’re in the living room, by the front door window.”
    â€œSure,” I replied. “We’re going to stop this development, Margaret,” I announced as I stood. This afternoon, I could be fighting for Margaret—fighting to keep her in Murmur.
    I was forcing myself to be hopeful about our media event. It had to work. Besides, we had lots of real fascinating information to share, and with Mr. Geyer telling the story in that dramatic way of his, people would be hooked. I looked out the window as I grabbed the boards, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the many feral cats that the Geyers kept well fed, but what I saw running toward the line of trees was not a cat but a woman.
    I was speechless as I watched her dart across the yard toward the woods. She may have been standing outside this very window until I