September 22, Sunday

THE MORNING mist clung to the headstones as I made my way to the graveyard and unlocked the gate. As I swung it back, the crunch of gravel announced a visitor. My pulse spiked until I spotted Reverend Abernathy approaching, a silver flask in hand.

"Good morning, Ms. Vanguard," he called, his kind eyes crinkling in a smile. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

I shook my head. "Not at all, Reverend. More holy water?"

He nodded, uncapping the flask. "Can't be too careful these days."

As he began to sprinkle the blessed water, I found myself blurting out, "Reverend, do you believe in witches? In magic?"

He paused, considering me carefully. "What I believe in is the Holy Spirit, Ms. Vanguard. But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't seen things I can't explain in my time here."

"And do you believe in evil?" I pressed.

"Oh yes," he said solemnly. "Evil is very real. But," he added quickly, "I don't think everyone who calls themselves Wiccan is inherently evil. They just... believe in something else."

I nodded, thinking of Tilda and her coven. "Have you ever tried to... I don't know, convert them?"

Reverend Abernathy shook his head. "That's not my way. I just try to make myself available to those who might want to leave that path. It's a standing offer, no judgment."

As he continued his blessing, a thought occurred to me. "Do you do this at other cemeteries? Blessing with holy water?"

He hesitated before answering. "No, I don't. But the Whisper Graveyard... it's different. It's the center of much of the spiritual conflict in Irving. And it will continue to be, as long as it exists."

Something in his tone made me uneasy. "What do you mean by that?"

"Just that this place has a long history of strife," he said, but his eyes didn't quite meet mine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should finish up here."

As I watched him move among the graves, Tilda's words echoed in my mind. Could Reverend Abernathy know more about the vandalism than he was letting on? The thought seemed absurd—he was a man of God, after all. But then again, in Irving, nothing was quite as it seemed.

"Reverend," I called out as he was leaving. "One more thing. Have you noticed anything unusual about Rose Whisper's headstone?"

He glanced at the grave, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "No. Why do you ask?"

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "No reason. It just looks... different somehow."

The man nodded slowly. "Things often change when we're not looking, Ms. Vanguard. It's the nature of life—and death."

With that cryptic remark, he bid me goodbye and headed towards his car. I stood there for a long moment, my eyes darting between Rose's impossibly restored headstone and the Reverend's retreating figure.

The breeze picked up, sending fallen leaves skittering across the graves. For a moment, I could have sworn I heard whispers on the wind—secrets and warnings floating just beyond my understanding.

One thing was becoming clear: in Irving, the line between good and evil, between natural and supernatural, was more blurry than I'd ever imagined. And somehow, I'd found myself smack in the middle of it all.