Creepers by Joanne Dahme Read Free Book Online Page A

the furniture, really—reminded me of mountain houses we had rented on summer vacations.
    â€œIt’s a rental cabin,” Margaret affirmed, as if she could read my mind. “Come sit with me at the table,” she instructed, pulling out a chair. “I want to show you what we have found about Prudence so far.”

    I nodded enthusiastically and plopped myself in the chair beside Margaret. I was eager to see what they had discovered.
    â€œGirls!” Mr. Geyer called from the door. “Such energy! Let’s just be thankful that it’s always cool in here.” He paused at the table to survey the materials spread on its surface.
    â€œDo you mind if I show Courtney now, Dad?” Her eyes suddenly softened as if she were pleading with him. Her smile remained.
    â€œNo, of course not, honey. You go ahead and I’ll get some refreshments.” We both watched as he retreated into the kitchen.
    â€œLook at this, Courtney.” Her hands were trembling as she held up a yellowed newspaper clipping, which was all that was needed to release a torrent of stories. The article was about the sale of the section of the cemetery where the cornfield is now.There was a picture of the farmer and his three daughters. They each held a basket with flowers and were smiling shyly. The farmer wore overalls and a straw hat and was leaning toward the camera as if he did not trust its eyesight.
    There was no stopping Margaret as she dove into the pile of papers. There were more tattered clippings, photocopies of clippings, and photographs of people all more
than one hundred years old. Margaret showed me old maps that divided Murmur into parcels of land with people’s names on each parcel. One map had the cemetery as it appeared before it was divided and sold. It must have been thousands of acres wide and it ran all the way to the creek that still runs through downtown Murmur. Our house was even on the map, titled “Cemetery House”. I frowned uncomfortably at it.
    â€œHow about this, Courtney?” Margaret thrust some black-and-white photos that showed men in long coats carrying coffins to a horse-drawn wagon. Someone had written 1897 in their corners. “See, we do have some proof that they were moved, but we haven’t been able to find the document that says where each was moved to.”
    â€œThose are from reproductions of glass negatives, Courtney,” Mr. Geyer called from the kitchen. Obviously he was standing in there and listening to us.
    â€œDad, quit interrupting,” Margaret ordered. “I must read you this, Courtney. Dad copied it from a page of Christian’s journal.”
    I was suddenly so anxious to know its contents. I wanted to reach out and snatch the paper from Margaret’s hand, but instead I sat and politely listened.
    Margaret’s voice dropped to signify Christian. I felt the goose bumps spring up all over my arms.

    The witch stood before my Prudence’s grave. She wore a black shawl against the bitter wind. Her hair was black as a crow’s wing and was blowing freely about her. Her skin was pale and flawless. Her eyes green as ivy. I told her as much.
    â€œIvy?” she repeated, grabbing my hands in her own . Her grip was fierce. She bent to trace the ivy I had carved on Prudence’s stone.

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    â€œThis is beautiful,” she whispered . “Touch it as I am.”
    She gently forced me to kneel in the wet grass.
    When I placed my hand on the carvings, she sprinkled it with a clear, cool liquid. And then she began the incantation .
    I couldn’t make out many of the words but I did recognize a few—DEATH and GOD and SATAN. She said something about the roots of life, fertility, and salvation . Her final word was PRUDENCE.
    She had tears in her eyes as she pulled her shawl tightly about her.
    â€œGod bless your love,” she said, before turning away from me to walk to the horse she had tied at the gate. I stayed