Wolfwraith by John Bushore Page B

piece of stone, knowing exactly how to work each unique piece of raw rock. If carved true to the stone’s inner soul, its energy would guide it to skewer a fat goose or a deer. Young Shadow had somehow known, when setting a rabbit snare, which trees would cooperate when bent over to provide the spring for the trap.
    It had been the same when he was inside the Baptist Church, though. Viewing the statues he encountered there, he glimpsed another world beyond the plaster and stone, sensing the power of the icons. He became aware of the embodiment of the worship flowing through the building, especially during services. Shadow no longer went to church, but the church was still within him.
    What he felt now, in this grove where the old Methodist church had stood, was also a manifestation of the true nature of some life force, living or dead—but it wasn’t Christian.
    He turned to the remains of the church graveyard nearby, looking for a clue as to what haunted this place. He noted nearly a dozen grave markers, set haphazardly. None of the tombstones stood straight after all these years, yet there were signs of recent care. A white picket fence, which appeared to be fairly new, surrounded one grouping of graves, perhaps a family plot that was still occasionally tended. Other markers lay hidden by underbrush, deeper in the woods. Shadow wondered if some of the graves had been dug for victims of the many shipwrecks along the cape. There was a story about an entire shipload of children who had once drowned here, their cries still keening on the night winds.
    These graves were the resting places of white men, women and children, though, and he got the impression they had nothing to do with the aura of malice.
    A faint whooshing noise penetrated the silence beneath the trees, interrupting his thoughts. He stood quietly and listened. The sound grew louder, and then stopped with a scraping hiss. He recognized the scraping of tires sliding to a stop on a sandy surface. A bicycle. Someone was coming.
    Shadow stepped back over the brick foundation, the sensation of evil fading as he cleared the wall. He walked in the other direction as quietly as possible. Twenty yards away, he stepped behind some bushes and crouched down to observe.
    A tall man appeared, walking down the trail toward the graveyard. He looked old, his leathery face creased, his hair and beard white. His quick pace and straight back belied the appearance of age, however. Shadow was unsure if he was viewing an old man or a younger individual whose face and hair had been treated harshly by the outdoors. His scarecrow-skinny frame was clad in a long-sleeved red shirt and too-short khaki pants, revealing scrawny lower legs. Hiking boots covered his feet, a floppy olive-drab hat perched on his head, and he carried a pack on his back.
    This must be ‘False Cape Frank,’ a regular in the park. Shadow had seen him occasionally at a distance, looking like an ungainly, stilt-legged heron riding a bicycle. Jonesy had mentioned Frank once or twice, saying he was probably an ardent naturalist. Frank would go on at length about the state of the cape’s ecology and how the park was destroying it. This old man looked the part, with a small binocular case and a sheathed knife on his belt. None of the rangers knew much about him, not even if Frank was his real name, but rumor had it that he had lived on the cape in the days before the park.
    The newcomer walked directly to the bricks surrounding the church steeple, as though he would step over the wall. Suddenly, he stopped and scanned the surrounding woods with his deep brown eyes. Shadow crouched lower. The old man’s gaze passed over him, apparently without noticing anything.
    The oldster turned and stepped away from the old church site. He walked to the irregular cluster of tombstones nearby and Shadow thought the man would stop there but he went on. Twenty yards further on, outside the graveyard proper, sat an old, pitted tombstone