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people wanted to believe something badly enough, nothing could dissuade them. Therefore, until he was ready, Warren opted to leave the people of Walmsley Hackett in the dark.
    Very much a private man, Warren needed an outlet for his thoughts and fears that was completely his. He took advantage of his familiarity with the area and drove as close to the church as he could before completing the distance on foot. He’d found what the vicar called the gnat’s-knacker path. He visited early on Saturday mornings while people were generally tucked up in bed, and had taken to spending a little time talking to the person in the unmarked grave. Warren found it calming to speak out loud, even if it was to a box of bones or dust six feet under—it beat talking to a brick wall or fireplace. Whoever was down there didn’t answer, and that allowed him to talk sense or crap, or voice wild theories about future events. The activity gave him comfort. And, in a small way, he felt as though he gave companionship to someone whom he thought had been lonely for what was quite possibly centuries.
    Warren didn’t restrict conversation to
his
life. He asked questions about the person beneath the earth, too—not that he expected to receive verbal answers.
    “What’s your name?
    “Where did you live?
    “What was life like for you?
    “Why are you buried in a grave that acknowledges you lived, but nothing of who you were?”
    Warren never asked if the person was man or woman, because he felt in his bones that the body was male. He didn’t know for sure if the eyes in his dreams and those he saw behind the door were connected to the grave, but his gut said they were. And at no time did he ever get the feeling that either set belonged to a woman. Warren continued to dream of the church, though not as frequently since he regularly visited the place, and he hadn’t had any more weird throwbacks to historical times.
    The daydream he’d had of the fifteenth-century feast was most certainly out of the ordinary. Then again, Warren had an active imagination when it came to times of old. Once, during a holiday in Greece, while he stood in the middle of a ruin, his mind’s eye could see people milling around, buying and selling their wares. The scene felt real. He could smell spices and hear the merchants’ chatter. As a child he’d been chastised many times for his overactive thoughts. Occasionally, as an adult, he indulged his imagination because, if he was going mad, there were worse places his mind could go.
    He spoke as though the grave were the person, alive and seated next to him, instead of a pile of bones long forgotten. He felt that if he spoke too much in the past tense he would be acknowledging that he was talking to thin air with no one listening. As the situation stood, Warren didn’t feel lonely or spooked at being in a graveyard. The veil of holly surrounding him and his unknown companion kept them in a world of their own, sheltered from prying eyes.
    Never did Warren see the figure watch him retreat to civilization. Never did Warren see the entity look upon the headstone with sadness, and then spy the church before sinking into the background.
    LATE ONE Saturday night, when Argo was staying for the weekend, Warren was enjoying his ride so much he ended up riding the last half-hour home in the dark with only the moon to light the way. He found the experience exhilarating, especially as such a night ride was on his bucket list. Argo wasn’t nearly as spooked as Warren thought he’d be. The size of a horse’s eyes made it possible for them to see much better than humans in the dark—albeit they didn’t have true night vision.
    Since then, he’d been out several times for short nighttime hacks. There was little light pollution from Cheltenham, which made the stars brighter, and Argo avoided obstacles without tripping. It was as if they were on another planet. The wildlife Warren heard, too, was more profuse. Although he couldn’t