Free The Witch's Grave by Phillip Depoy Page A

other side of those rocks is the far edge of the cemetery, where Hek saw his ghost.”
    â€œTruvy Deveroe.”
    â€œI believe so, yes.”
    We made our way over the boulders and the slipping gravel. A barbed wire fence ran the ridge, a worn path the other side of it. I moved the flashlight slowly over the undulating land: more boulders, moss, brown sticks once wildflowers. A corner of fencing bent where the property ended, cradled a number of grave markers, green in gray, the most we’d seen.

    Unknown Vagrant, died of hunger, 1858
    Â 
    Eloise and Davy Deveroe, together once more
    Â 
    My wife Sarah, gone to angels without me, 1803
    Â 
    Russell Pike, good patriot, better father, killed a wild boar and seven Britash [sic] who meant to ruin this country. Died in bed, 1793
    Â 
    Sally Pike, seven, lost 1818

    None had known care in the current century, possibly in the previous. Many were toppled and unreadable. In spring, under a certain sun, it might have been a pleasant spot, picking blackberries, looking down the mountain, smelling pine and cedar. After dark in the older part of the year, only melancholy existed, recollections of lives forgotten, thorns without fruit.
    â€œWho were they?” Andrews whispered. “What was it like to be them?”
    â€œI know,” I answered. “Gives you an intimation of what’s in store.”
    He swigged from his bottle. “Not to worry. I won’t forget you when you’re buried here.”
    â€œI see.” I switched off the flashlight; our eyes adjusted to the moonlight. “And what happens to my good name when you go?”
    â€œNot in my plans.”
    â€œYou’re not dying.”
    â€œDon’t think so,” he said, offering me the bottle. “What’s your idea here? Wander about hoping to catch a glimpse of a girl who’s so adept at hiding that even her own brothers can’t find her?”
    â€œGood point,” I admitted, refusing the brandy. “But I thought we might find evidence of her.”
    â€œA rag, a bone,” he drawled, “a hank of hair.”

    â€œShut up.”
    â€œWould you like to know what I think of your little excursion to this place tonight?” He waved his drink grandly.
    â€œNot even a little bit.”
    â€œI think,” he forged on, “that you are trying to give me what is commonly called the willies .”
    â€œWhy would that be of the slightest interest to me?”
    â€œBecause you’re bored, you have nothing to do up here, you long for your little mysteries so you can feel useful. Also, you have a genetic need to feel superior and you think I’m easily frightened, so it’s a bit of fun for you in the bargain.”
    â€œAside from the fact that you look a little like Icabod Crane,” I began, “why would I imagine you’re easily frightened?”
    He was prevented from answering by a scream.
    It came from the woods beyond the fence. I snapped the flashlight back on, stabbed it in the direction of the sound.
    There was a blur of motion in the trees, a frantic rash of leaves, more shouting.
    â€œHelp me!” Then a muffled groan.
    â€œThat’s not a woman,” Andrews said, heading toward the noise without thinking.
    â€œWho’s there?” another voice shouted from inside the chaos.
    â€œCome on, then,” I told Andrews, headed for the fence.
    I used one of the posts to vault over the wire; Andrews got a better head of steam and cleared it with a light hurdle. We ran in the direction of the voices, now clearly several, flashlight leading the way as if it might protect us.
    A shot rang out, hit a tree yards away from us. Andrews splayed on the ground. I stopped running and turned off the light.
    â€œSh,” I told him.
    We froze.
    â€œThey’re over yonder, ignor’nt.” It was the voice of Donny Deveroe, I was certain.
    â€œBoys?” I called out. “Is that the