In the present day, Clark Estman lay in a grave, they had managed to get most of his mangled body in the coffin. Harland looked at the man, they were burying him on the other side of town, nobody goes up to the graveyard anymore. James sat and stared into the grave, beside them were unfilled graves for Peter, Eric, Daverick and Marin. The townspeople gathered around the solemn scene and MacKinney took on the role of Preacher, nobody wanted anything to do with Benito, the old priest at this point. The air was hardened with the weight of the past day. The many organs and bones that the monster had torn from Clark were in jars of formaldehyde in James Walz’s office in the basement of the inn. Botezatu sat on the bed in Harland’s room, his forearm rested on a perched knee as the second leg was outstretched, his face lacked emotion as he stared outside at the five gravestones being erected below with all the people of Deepgrove watching, crying or blaming one another. Botezatu’s face was illuminated by the white stripes of light which came through the half-closed blinds, there was still nothing. Two days passed and not a breath of the incident was spoken. Nobody knew what to say. Susan was adopted by Ms. Ferguson as she had nowhere to go.

  “Louisa,” She said one brisk morning, “I’m going to kill every monster. Without a doubt, by the time I pass on, there won’t be a single one of those hideous abominations left on this planet.”

  “No. You won’t. You are all that I have left.”

  “Miss Ferguson… you are all I have left either.” Sue’s voice broke and she looked up at the elderly woman.

  Louisa smiled through tears and hugged the young girl, holding her tight to her chest. The two stood in an embrace for a while, and eventually parted their ways to continue cleaning and cutting firewood to push deeper into the biting cold of the winter which couldn’t end.

  That same afternoon, yelling and banging could be heard from outside the inn. Harland grabbed his gun and slowly made his way around the corner to behind the inn but there was nothing but the wind. “Hello?” He called out. There was more muffled screaming and banging coming from outside the wooden walls which stood three meters high. Harland inhaled deeply and moved carefully with his shotgun, not noticing Alexandru Botezatu watching him from the roof of the inn. Harland turned the corner and pointed the gun forward but saw nothing but the graves in a row of five solemn crosses. The crosses had wolf eyes painted at the center and were made of Silver.

  Botezatu jumped down from his new perch on the wall behind Harland who spun his shotgun around instinctively. Botezatu caught the barrel, pulled it from him and turned on the safety, handing it back.

  “You?” Asked Harland.

  “Yes, me.” Botezatu looked at Harland, “Come back with a shovel. Then we talk.”

  Harland turned and left, the man pulled the burial cross from the ground and threw it aside.

  “He’s really the one? He’s too old for plan A, but it’ll be fine.” Botezatu muttered.

  Harland came back out of breath and began digging at Clark’s grave, hoping. Harland knew not what he was hoping for, so much that he failed to notice Alexandru was gone. In that cold afternoon, Harland discovered that Clark Estman was strong enough to survive dying.

  When the soil was only an inch or two thick at the top, the screaming was louder, the coffin’s lid cracked from endless punching and pushing the lid was opened, he stumbled to his feet and to the edge of the grave, in perfect health.

  “Fucking Christ,” Muttered Harland, falling back, “You aren’t— you are—”

  “I’m going to be honest,” Started Clark stood in his own coffin, looking out of the hole to see the face of Harland above him, “I’m here to find my godfather.”

  “No, why are you alive?” Asks Harland.

  “Because I am a mutant. My mom was— I don’t like talking about it.” Clark glanced at the ducks flying past in the sky.

  “You, you’re alive and that’s important. And I understand the gist.” Harland reached down and Clark grabbed his hand as he climbed out of the grave.

  “You didn’t bury me in a graveyard, I expected more of you.” Clark asked.

  “I don’t think you want to meet the freaks that live up there.”

  “No, my godfather is one of them.” Clark responded.

  “Who?” Harland asked as the two began walking along the path back to the town entrance.

  “The priest. The only priest who matters. The priest that helped King Walz of Arizona create his cure to death. The one that went all wrong.”

  “Benito. Don’t trust him, we all run short on family, but just do me one thing and don’t die again, I can’t bury you again.”

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  “I can’t die.” Said Clark, “And it’s been forever, I thought if someone can cure me, it would be him.”

  “Good… luck.”

  In the midafternoon, the grave was filled again, the cross replaced at the head of the broken coffin. Harland carried on hoping that whatever Clark sought, he could find. Whatever he was, Clark just hoped Clark Estman found peace.

  Alexandru kicked Harland in the back, having arrived from the branches of the forest in an instant. Clark pressed his boot into Harland’s sternum, “You were supposed to convince him to not go up there, not let the old man go fulfill his death wish. Winston Horton Harland the Third.” Botezatu sneered and stood off of Harland, “Now go and get him back. My people have work here to do. There’s three of us living in your little village. Oh, and I don’t specialize in hunting humans, but I make a few exceptions.” Harland stood backed away, dusting himself off, running with his gun. Botezatu deeply exhaled and leaned against the wall, “I hate playing villains.”

  Harland caught up to Clark, “Man there’s a fucking crazy guy in the woods back there. He told me you were buried, killed the monster, told me I have to stop you from going to the church.”

  “Yeah,” Clark kept walking briskly, “And if he did?

  “He’s going to kill me if you die.”

  “Then I’d find a way to not be dead and kill him back for you; then die.”

  “Then we are all dead,” Harland reasoned.

  “It was a joke,” Clark knocked on the church doors, “It’s meant to be funny.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “Look, we made it to the church.”

  The ancient brick cathedral looked over the entire town, the old stones had worn from so much time that they were blackened like charcoal on some points. Clark knocked again, again no answer. Botezatu was behind Harland again. Harland fell back against the door, “Hey.” Smiled Botezatu.

  “You are weird as hell man.”

  “I’m trying to make a portal there so I can beat the shit out of satan.”

  “Now,” Alexandru pulled on both ends of the chain which held the mirrored wooden doors shut at the center. It snapped with a metallic pop.

  “You saved me when I was fighting the monster.” Said Clark.

  “It’s a professional courtesy. If you weren’t so important, I don’t think I’d have the time to do so.”

  “Yes?” Asked Clark, “Thanks pal.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “Oh fuck you,” Clark pushed the doors and the groaned as they strained to pull themselves apart. The room was coated in dust and old pews. The altar at the head of the church was empty.

  Harland made his way to the front of the chapel to wipe the dirt from the tabernacle.

  Alexandru entered the priest’s quarters first and locked the door. Clark ran over and pulled at the door, “Open up, buttercup.” The door shook but the attempts were futile.

  “Benito Mariella, where are you?” Asked Botezatu walking through the dusty room which smelled of rot and saliva. He walked past old bibles, broken vases, wilted flowers and a painting of a man being sacrificed to a flying horned man before reaching the room where the priest’s bedquarters were to be.

  “Greetings from Transylvania,” Grinned Botezatu, opening the door.

  The priest lay with a sheepish grin etched across his face, his mouth was full of a black fluid which stained his teeth and ran down his face.

  “They call me the basilisk. I’m the man around here. And death fears me, just like you should be.”

  “I don’t have time for riddles, you old fuck, sit down and tell me why you did it; how can you fix it?”

  “I’m just a priest.”

  “You are nothing. I have a warrant to kill you.”

  “Not even just arrest?”

  “Signed by the king, look here,” Botezatu produced a paper from the pocket of his shirt.

  A gunshot echoes around the church hall and Harland followed by Clark entering the room, “I had to shoot the door off the hinges.” Harland pats the shotgun.

  Clark closes his eyes and leans his hat forward, “Hello, uncle, long time no see.”

  “Oh, my Clark, you have grown so much. You were so small when I last saw you.”

  “I don’t care how small I was. I want you to fix me. My best guess is I look about forty. It’s been that way for twenty years now. If you fix me, I can live another forty or whatever years and have a life of a hundred, it’s long for my taste but not beyond mortal.”

  “My gift?” Asks the priest, more liquid, the color of oil running from his mouth, “It is not right to return gifts so rudely.”

  Harland backed into the doorway, having no merit in the conversation. Alexandru stood opposite him now knowing that the death that that Clark sought wouldn’t be immediate but at a relatively normal age, this was no longer his game either, he lingered for the sake of the discussion.

  “You are cured.” Said Benito.

  “You’re sick in the head.” Clark leaned on the desk, staring into the man’s eyes.

  A young woman wearing the clothes of a nun came into the room with a tray of tea, Harland let her pass, confused but not threatened.

  “Hello Francesa,” Says Benito, nodding, “And thanks for the kettle, Francesa is my compatriot.”

  “Shut up, old timer.” Clark swung his arm and the tea kettle exploded across Botezatu who stood stoic as the scalding tea ran down his skin.

  “Ew,” Said Benito, “You see that? Freaky guild guy, that tea was hot and by hot I mean—”

  “Listen. I need you,” Clark pointed at Benito, and with his other hand, he pointed a knife at Benito’s throat, “to cure me.”

  “You think I have a cure?” Asked Benito, laying back in the chair, “Man, I’ve got nothing.”

  “Me neither, and I’m legally dead so whatever I do can’t be persecuted.” Clark threw his knife into his uncle’s chest, Francesa came back and screamed, Harland picked up Benito and carried him over to Francesa.

  “What the fuck?” Asks Harland.

  “All those people in your village that died, and those outside it— this guy’s fault.” Botezatu stared at the man, struggling to breathe.

  “And his stupidity is why I’ll live long enough to see everyone I love die.” Added Clark, crossing his arms.

  “If you can’t see that this monster has a human somewhere at his core, then I can’t see you for anything other than what you are Clark, another monster haunting Deepgrove.”

  Harland picked up Benito and carried him down the hill, Francesa following, all the way to James Walz’s office in the basement of the Inn.