And she’d remembered Alvin Miner’s whispered tale of a moving, staring corpse, of the wife who couldn’t bear to leave the side of her resurrected mother, and wondered if the man had ever really been insane at all, or if he’d been too sane all those years. Somehow, the latter seemed all the more awful. Anna found herself wishing that the old, old man she’d so briefly seen, so briefly touched in reassurance, had been a little quicker, a little freer as he swung his ax in that copper-smelling house, and killed Lucy before she had a chance to continue with her childish, conscienceless, petty games of discovery and death, before the amulet allowed her to escape that red-sheened swinging blade.
What makes you think you can catch her? Old Alvin Miner was armed, all pumped up with fear and anger.
