September 11, Wednesday

THE GRAVEYARD felt different today. A cool breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the first hint of autumn. Leaves, touched by an early frost, drifted down around me, their colors a stark contrast to the weathered grey of the headstones.

I sat on the concrete bench, now sporting a jagged crack down its center, my notebook open on my lap. But the words wouldn't come. Every time I tried to focus on my novel, thoughts of Curtis and his lies crept in, poisoning my creativity.

A crow cawed overhead, the sound echoing ominously through the graveyard. I shivered, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. Had it always been this eerie here, or was my newfound knowledge of Irving's secrets coloring my perception?

"Mornin', Graveyard Girl."

I nearly jumped out of my skin at Muriel's gravelly voice. The old forager seemed to have materialized out of thin air, her gnarled hands clutching her ever-present sling bag.

"Muriel," I said, trying to calm my racing heart. "You startled me."

She cackled, revealing her toothless gums. "Best be on your toes in a place like this. Never know who or what might be lurking."

I forced a smile, reaching for the basket at my feet. "I hoped you'd be by. I brought eggs."

Muriel accepted the basket. "Thank you, child. Now, what can old Muriel do for you in return? I see that look in your eye."

I hesitated, then pulled out Tilda's list. "I'm looking for a few things and I thought you might be able to help."

Muriel squinted at the paper, then rummaged in her bag. To my surprise, she pulled out a lump of golden beeswax and a tied bundle of leaves with jagged edges.

"Picked these nettles just yesterday," she said, handing them over. "Careful now, they still sting."

I handled the items carefully. "What about coneflowers?"

"They're in season, but I've never seen any on this land. You might find 'em somewhere else, though."

"What do they look like?"

"Pink petals all droopy-like, and a spiky center that looks like a little cone."

A memory flashed in my mind – the dried bouquet I'd found in the bicycle basket when I first arrived. Could those have been coneflowers?

"I think I might have some," I murmured.

Muriel's eyes narrowed. "What's a nice girl like you want with all this, hm?"

I averted my gaze, suddenly feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Oh, you know. Just... curious about local plants and such."

"Uh-huh." Muriel leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Listen here, Graveyard Girl. You shouldn't be playing around with spells and such. Dangerous business, that."

With that cryptic warning, she turned and shuffled away, disappearing among the headstones as silently as she'd arrived.

I sat there for a long moment, the beeswax and nettles clutched in my hand. The graveyard suddenly felt oppressive, as if the very air was heavy with secrets and unspoken warnings.

A gust of wind whipped through the cemetery, scattering dead leaves across my feet. I shivered but told myself it was just the chill in the air.

As I gathered my things to head back to the house, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. The headstones seemed to loom larger, their shadows stretching towards me like grasping fingers.

For the first time since I'd arrived in Irving, I felt truly afraid.