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And
this
time
,
as
clear
as
the
words
of
a
speaking
parrot
or
a
crow
whose
tongue
had
been
split
,
the
words
were
unmistakable
:
"
It
's
not
the
real
cemetery
.
"
The
eyes
were
vacant
,
not-seeing
,
rimmed
with
blood
:
the
mouth
grinning
the
large
grin
of
a
dead
carp
.
Horror
rolled
through
Louis
,
gripping
his
warm
heart
in
its
cold
hands
,
squeezing
.
It
reduced
him
,
made
him
less
and
less
,
until
he
felt
like
taking
to
his
heels
and
running
from
this
bloody
,
twisted
,
speaking
head
on
the
floor
of
the
infirmary
waiting
room
.
He
was
a
man
with
no
deep
religious
training
,
no
bent
toward
the
superstitious
or
the
occult
.
He
was
illprepared
for
this
...
whatever
it
was
.
Fighting
the
urge
to
run
with
everything
in
him
,
he
forced
himself
to
lean
even
closer
.
"
What
did
you
say
?
"
he
asked
a
second
time
.
The
grin
.
That
was
bad
.
"
The
soil
of
a
man
's
heart
is
stonier
,
Louis
,
"
the
dying
man
whispered
.
"
A
man
grows
what
he
can
...
and
tends
it
.
"
Louis
,
he
thought
,
hearing
nothing
with
his
conscious
mind
after
his
own
name
.
Oh
my
God
he
called
me
by
my
name
.
"
Who
are
you
?
"
Louis
asked
in
a
trembling
,
papery
voice
.
"
Who
are
you
?
"
"
Injun
bring
my
fish
.
"
"
How
did
you
know
my
--
"
"
Keep
clear
,
us
.
Know
--
"
