The Monstrumologist by Rick Yancey Page A

Henry,” the old man said with a touch of sadness in his voice. He switched our hats, giving mine a sharp tug once it was on my head, then gently lifting my chin to look me in the eye.

    “You watch my back and I’ll watch yours, Will Henry. Right, then? Do we have a bargain?”

    He offered his hand, which I grasped and pumped quickly before hopping to the ground. The doctor had called, and of course I would go. I reached into the cart and pulled a torch and the bundle of stakes from the stack of supplies. When I joined him at the foot of Eliza Bunton’s grave, Warthrop was on his hands and knees, his nose two inches from the freshly turned earth, sniffing like a bloodhound after an elusive quarry. A bit out of breath, I stood before him, unacknowledged, torch in one hand, stakes in the other, awaiting further instruction, while he drew breath to the bottom ofhis lungs, eyes closed, forehead knotted in concentration.

    “I am a fool, Will Henry,” he said at last, without lifting his head or opening his eyes. “For a fool takes for granted what a wise man leaves for fools.”

    He cocked his head toward me without rising an inch, and his eye popped open.

    “A
lighted
torch, Will Henry.”

    Abashed, I turned on my heel, only to turn again upon his barking, “Leave the stakes, light the torch, and bring it back to me.
Snap to, William Henry!”

    Old Erasmus Gray had disembarked and was leaning against the side of the cart upon my breathless return, his Winchester rifle cradled in his arms. Expressionlessly he watched as I fumbled through the supply sack for the box of matches. He drew a pipe and pouch from his pocket and commenced to packing his bowl with tobacco as I with rising panic clawed through the contents of the sack, my memory of picking up the box from the fireplace mantel painfully distinct.
But did I drop the box into the bag, or did I leave it by the back door?

    “What is it you’re after, boy?” inquired Erasmus, fishing a match from his pocket and striking it upon the sole of his old boot. I glanced up at him and shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. Of all things to leave behind—the matches! The old man touched the flame to his bowl, and the sweet aroma of his leaf suffused the air.

    “Will Henry!” the doctor called.

    No more than two seconds passed before I
saw
what I was seeing, and immediately I begged a match from the old man. With shaking hand I lit the torch and trotted back to the doctor, his lecture on panic and fear brought fully home to me: Losing my wits had blinded me to the obvious.

    He took the torch from my shaking hand, saying, “Who is our enemy, Will Henry?”

    He did not wait for an answer, but turned upon his heel abruptly and repeated his circuit around the grave site.

    “The stakes, Will Henry!” he called. “And stay close!”

    With the bundle of stakes in hand, I followed him. As he walked, the doctor held low the torch to cast the light upon the ground. He would stop, call for a stake, reaching behind him with outstretched hand, into which I would press a piece of wood. He stabbed it into the earth and then continued, until five were thus planted, one on either side of the headstone and three more in places all roughly two feet from the freshly-turned earth of the grave. I could not tell why he was marking these spots; the ground left unmarked looked identical to that which received a stake. After two more circuits, each several paces farther from the grave, he stopped, holding the torch high and surveying his handiwork.

    “Most curious,” he muttered. “Will Henry, go and press the stakes.”

    “Press the stakes, sir?”

    “Try to push them deeper into the ground.”

    I could push none more than half an inch farther intothe rocky soil. When I rejoined him, he was shaking his head in consternation.

    “Mr. Gray!” he called.

    The old man shuffled over, rifle resting in the crook of his arm. The doctor turned to him, holding the torch high.