This preview shows page 1. Sign up to view the full content.
Unformatted text preview: e, nothing like the rectan- gular graves of horror films and modern funerals. And he slipped the body down into it. And then the blood-soaked bundle of shirt which contained the head. In the moist heat of the coming summer this thing would rot in no time at all. The rain had already begun. Blessed rain. He looked down into the dark hole. He really couldn't see anything of the body but one limp white hand. It didn't look like a person's hand. Fingers too long. Knuckles too big. More like some- thing of wax. He looked up into the dark branches of the trees. The rain was coming all right, but only a few drops had broken through the thick canopy above. The garden was cold and quiet, and empty. No lights in the back guest house. Not a sound from the neighbors beyond the wall. 561 Once again, he looked down into the crumbling shapeless grave. The hand was smaller, thinner. It seemed to have become less substan- tial, fingers tumbling together and fusing so they lost their distinct shape. Hardly a hand at all. Something else gleamed in the dark-a tiny firefly of green light. He dropped down to his knees. H...
View Full Document
- Spring '10