All right, it wasn’t the wind. It was definitely a voice, but not one he recognized.
It wasn’t his mother’s, that was for sure. It wasn’t a woman’s voice at all,
and he wondered for a crazy moment if his dad had somehow made a surprise trip from America
and arrived too late to phone and– Conor. No. Not his dad.
This voice had a quality to it, a monstrous quality, wild and untamed.
Then he heard a heavy creak of wood outside, as if something gigantic was stepping across a timber floor.
He didn’t want to go and look. But at the same time, a part of him wanted to look more than anything.
Wide awake now, he pushed back the covers, got out of bed, and went over to the window.
In the pale half-light of the moon, he could clearly see the church tower up on the small hill behind his house,
the one with the train tracks curving beside it, two hard steel lines glowing dully in the night.
The moon shone, too, on the graveyard attached to the church, filled with tombstones you could hardly read any more.
Conor could also see the great yew tree that rose from the centre of the graveyard,
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