Indian Burial Ground

I didn’t know how hurt I was until I slumped on my bed and fought off tears that would have traced tracks down my cheeks like scars that would evaporate, robbing me of evidence that would show the world my pain.

I sat there staring up at the moths, each futilely trying to feed by bashing against the glass globe surrounding the misleading light, each wanting but not receiving, a lot like me.

The vampire’s been with me—draining me—all these years. And not just as a bad memory. Some nightmares transform you. Some become a part of you. Some do both.

I think I know how you feel." "How's that?" "To live without a ma." "I have a ma." "No, Louie." Ern waggled his jowls. "You haven't had a ma since God knows when. Maybe you never did.

My grandmother had been like air to me, always around and essential for survival. She'd answered my every call as a kid, fulfilling every need, big and small.

Obliviousness swirled in her cycloptic gaze. For all I knew, she didn’t recognize me at all.

Evil never really goes away. It just searches for its next opportunity to spread and possess and steal all our light. It relocates.

While Ma may have been cuffed to the cans behind closed doors, they’d be cuffed to me for all to see. While they cut her down, they’d be the part of my warrior outfit that kept me from getting cut.

What happened in the cemetery causes us pain, not her. You understand that, don’t you?