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saw my father hesitate. I took his hand, and together we walked to the familiar section of the churchyard, the one I knew so well from that winter of funerals. As we stood at the foot of the four newest Arden graves, Winston’s voice interrupted my silent prayers.
    â€œDig up all four coffins,” he directed.
    â€œAll four!” my father protested.
    â€œWe must be certain!” Winston said. “We’ll place them under that tree. Once they are all exhumed, we’ll open them one at a time. Start with the children.”
    Father, Isaac, and I stood away from the group. At a nod from Winston, their picks and shovels struck the earth. They began to dig, never looking up at us. My father swayed a little on his feet, and Isaac moved nearer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Together we stood listening to the rhythm of the digging, the downward scrape and lift, the thudding fall of the soil as they attacked my sister’s grave. Soon, the top of Rebecca’s coffin was struck. How small that coffin looked! The earth was moved from around its sides, and ropes were placed under the ends. The coffin was lifted from the grave and placed under a nearby tree. In two more hours, two other coffins were taken from the earth—the larger coffins of my brothers, Robert, who had been but eighteen, and Daniel, a year younger—the age I was now. As each coffin was brought up, my prayers became more urgent and the fact of the exhumations more real.
    The group moved to Mother’s grave. Again, shovels broke into the soil. The digging slowed now—the first frenzy long past, the men grew tired. At last, they pulled her coffin from the earth and set it with the others, beneath the tree. I moved toward it, and placed my hand on the lid of her box. I felt the cool, damp wood, and the small indentations made by each nail. I broke out in a cold sweat, and my hand shook. I turned when I heard the creak of the nails being pried from the other coffins.
    Father’s hand gently touched my arm. I moved away.
    When they had finished loosening all the nails on the top of each of the coffins, Winston directed the men to remove the lid of Rebecca’s. With horror, I gazed at the unrecognizable form that—had it not been for her dress and the color of her hair—I would not have known as my sister. This child’s face, impish and smiling not so very long ago, was now nothing more than a skull, covered with sunken, leathery skin; her small, white hands now nothing more than thin bones covered with dark, dried sinew. My throat constricted—I could not swallow, could not breathe. Rebecca! Little Rebecca! My memories of her could not be reconciled with what I saw. I had taught her how to write her name, I thought wildly—I had heard her laughter. This could not be my sister  . . .
    Winston was studying her. I wanted to claw his filthy eyes out.
    â€œNo,” he said, and the lid was quickly replaced.
    He said the same thing when he gazed upon the remains of my brothers, who also appeared mummified, their dry skin stretched tight over their bony frames.
    I tried hard to control my emotions, but this was increasingly difficult. By the time we reached my mother’s coffin, only my desire to deny Winston any glimpse of weakness kept me on my feet.
    They slid the coffin lid off the edge of the box. Father and I looked down at Mother’s face. She looked peaceful, remarkably like the day we buried her, despite the three cold months that had passed. Her nails and hair appeared longer, and in places, her skin had turned reddish.
    â€œAhh,” Winston said, moving closer. “As I suspected. But we must examine the heart to be certain.”
    â€œYou’ll not touch her!” my father cried.
    Winston smiled, and turned to the others. “Light the fire.”
    â€œBy God, Winston—”
    â€œOh, indeed, I’ll not touch your vampire wife. You must be the one.” He