Yesterday, we left Darcy and Flora in Goshen Cemetery where they had made a grisly discovery. Today is a continuation of Chapter One of The Cemetery Club.
“Somebody cut off Ben’s finger,” Mom whispered.
As we stood, mesmerized by the horror in front of us, a strange silence descended on the graveyard. I raised my head to see what was happening. Dark clouds that had brooded above us now moved and churned. A small eddy of whirling air pointed downward. My heart stopped then thudded against my ribs.
“That’s a tornado!” I yelled. “If it drops, we are in trouble!”
As if in agreement, a low roar began over our heads. Wind, hail, and rain assaulted us, battling to whirl us into the seething heavens.
Mom and I linked arms and stumbled into the storm. Putting her mouth close to my ear, she shouted, “The chapel!”
We struggled toward a small, sandstone building at the edge of Goshen Cemetery. Rain blinded us. Hail pelted us. Tree branches flew past but at last we reached the little building. I tugged open the door and we fell inside, gulping blessedly dry air.
Mom sank into a pew and I leaned against the wall. The storm’s roar dimmed to a comparative quiet within this sanctuary. I was about to sit beside my mother when I heard a sharp click and felt a breeze eddy around me. A shiver traced its way down my spine. Had the back door of the chapel just opened and closed?
“Who’s there?” I called.
I don’t care who it was,” Mom said, her teeth chattering. “Maybe someone else wanted out of the storm. At the moment, I’d share space with Mick Monroney himself.”
While I doubted that it was Ventris County’s notorious outlaw from the 1930s who had gone out of the door, I could not see much in the dim room. I flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Evidently, the electric power was a victim of the storm.
Turning the lock in the front door, I felt my way through murky semi-darkness to the other end of the building. No shadowy figured lurked anywhere that I could see. Our arrival must have sent someone who had sheltered here into the storm. Groping for the bolt on the door, I slid it into place and fumbled my way back to the pew where Mom huddled.
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