Rindall Hunt leaned against the tallest tombstone in Browen Cemetery. Naturally the name carved across the base of the obelisk spelled BROWEN. Herbert John (born 1825, died 1899) slumbered on the south side of the plot. As far as Rindall knew, he’d never risen on Halloween, called or not. Neither had his second wife, Deborah Jane, RIPing on the opposite side of the stone. But his first love, Elizabeth Marie, who’d died in childbirth at the age of twenty-four, moved around so often that nothing grew on her grave but weeds.
Rindall slammed his hand against the monument, wincing at the clacking sound that reminded him his digits hadn’t quite fleshed out yet. He bellowed, “Rise and shine, Bets. We’ve got work to . . .
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