CHAPTER 1:
Imagine for a moment you are taking a road trip to the countryside. You see the endless grassy meadows, corn fields, cows grazing. Then you come to a fork in the road, and a road sign is standing there, weathered and ancient.
One side reads, "Middleton: 41 Miles," and the other says, "Elmhand: 13 Miles." You look at the sky, and notice that it's getting dark.
You remember those nights in the car, sleeping in the back seat, with your moth-eaten blanket. You shudder, and drive on to Elmhand.
You've driven for about fifteen minutes, when you notice a change in the surrounding landscape. The rolling, green hills have been replaced with a dark, thick forest of elm trees. You feel a strange need to roll up your windows, but you don't.
Maybe a hundred yards in or so, you see an elm tree that was hit by lightning – its blasted trunk, blackened from the heat. At least you think that's what happened.
As you keep driving, more and more of the trees are dead, from various causes, but most are little more than charred husks.
You can see craters where lightning hit ground as well, the earth around being tossed hundreds of feet into the air, landing back down a distance away.
Elmhand is still not in sight. You look upwards again, and the light is quickly fading. You step on the accelerator, and feel the car speeding up. The speedometer leans towards sixty.
Five minutes later, the landscape rapidly changes from a mostly dead forest to a blackened wasteland. A few dead trees are scattered here and there.
A fairly new sign stands by the edge of the road. Part of the right side has been snapped off, but the rest reads, "Welcome to Elmh."
You keep driving, and soon you come to a sleepy little suburban town. White houses with vividly green lawns, smiling people, and the bright sunshine dispel any feelings of foreboding you had before.
You stop to ask an old man, sitting on his porch, for directions. "Where can I find the nearest inn?" you ask. He's wearing a white shirt and grey pants. He smiles and points westward. "Thank you." you say, and drive on.
The inn is a large, dusty affair. Cobwebs are strung from many of the corners. The innkeeper is a small, elderly lady. She gives you your keys and says, "The restaurant is down the hallway and to your left, if you're interested," and points you to your room.
You slide the keys in the door and walk in. The windows shed cones of light into the room, illuminating the many dust particles in the air. A bed is against the far wall, a pile of folded blankets sitting on it, with a pillow on the top. You slide open the curtains of the remaining window, and light comes spilling into the room.
Your window gives you a view directly onto the townhouse. It's a brick building, painted white, with brown trim. It's four stories high, and a belfry and a chimney extend from the roof.
People are constantly entering and leaving the townhouse – kids, adults, and their pets – everyone seems to use it. You look at the clock on the desk beside the bed. It's 9:30.
You make your bed and lie down. Sounds are still coming from the townhouse. People talking, gavels pounding. You stare at the ceiling, for what must be half an hour.
The bell tolls ten times. You slip into unconsciousness.
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The next morning you eat breakfast at the inn restaurant. You have scrambled eggs and muffins, with some coffee.
You ask the innkeeper where you can find the town library. You have never heard of Elmhand, you were interested, and you want to do some research. The innkeeper gives you directions, and you leave.
The walk to the library is short and pleasant. People smile and wave at you, even though they don't know you. You turn down a corner, and there it is.
The library is small. It's smaller than the inn, about the same size as most of the houses. It's the same style of architecture as the surrounding houses, and the same color. It's only distinguishing feature is the sign over the door with the words "Library" printed on it.
You walk in, and a rush of cool air greets you. It's very quiet in here, and there are only a few people. You can faintly hear the scraping of a chair against the floor.
You walk up to the front desk. The librarian is the stereotypical one, an elderly woman with horn-rimmed glasses. You ask to see the card catalog. She points you to it, in the corner of the room, and reminds you that if you want to check out a book, just sign your name on the card.
Being faintly acquainted with the Dewey Decimal System, you quickly find the history section and flip through the cards. After a few moments of searching, you find a book entitled, "A Sanctuary of Elms: the History of Elmhand," and go off to search for it.
You find it on a dust-leaden shelf, next to far more ancient tomes. You slide it out from the bookshelf, rousing a cloud of dust. It is a recent book, dating from 1989 by the copyright.
You walk back to the card catalog, and, finding the card again, sign your name on it.
You walk out. The librarian asks you if you found what you needed. You nod.
The air outside feels especially warm after the cool temperature of the library. You look up. There are vultures in the sky, endlessly circling.
The bell tolls ten times.
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You eat lunch at the burger place down the street. You order a chicken burger with extra mustard, pausing in between bites to flip through the pages of the book.
You find little snippets of information that catch your eye.
"The name of the town originates from the elm trees surrounding the entrance," the book says at one point, "When the famous wanderer-poet Joseph Grimsley traveled through the then-young settlement, he said 'By God, if those elms were men, their branches would surely be the grasp of the dying, accompanied by the last rattle of breath.' And the name stuck."
You have never heard of Joseph Grimsley, but you think him very macabre and are glad you hadn't. Besides, if they would like to name their town after one of his quotes, they are welcome to.
Slightly sickened, you finish your burger, throw the wrapper in the trash, and leave.
The bell tolls twelve times, then falls still. There are vultures in the sky again.
You walk back to the inn and go into your room. You sit on your bed and think. Eventually you decide you aren't interested in this town and go to return the book to the library.
When you get there, the library is closed. A note on the door tells you that the librarian is sick, and the library will be open tomorrow.
How terribly convenient, you think. Bitter, you walk back to your room and stare out the window at the townhouse. A group of men walk into the building. They are talking amongst themselves and one leads in front. They are all dressed formally, with a strange furry cap, but the leader is wearing military attire. He also carries a gavel.
A meeting of sorts, you think, your anger fading away. Curious now, you step outside the inn and walk to the townhouse.
"Hello, there!" you say to the young man standing outside the townhouse as an attendee. "What's going on in there?" You gesture towards the door.
"Hello, sir!" he says. "What we got in there just happens to be a meeting!
"What kind of meeting?" you ask.
"Meeting of the Walkers-with-Salufan!" While he says this he scratches his nose.
"What?" you say.
"Elmhand's very own Secret Fraternity!" He winks.
The bell tolls once.
You would like to find out more about this fraternity. You go back to your room and look through the book you checked out, but by 6:30 you have found no mention of it.
You decide to have dinner at the inn restaurant because you don't really want to walk anywhere. You have the broccoli soufflé and everyone is very nice. You give the waitress a ten dollar tip and leave.
You go back up to your room and promptly fall asleep. The bell tolls eight times.
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The next morning, you decide that you don't really want to find out about that fraternity, and you must be going on your way. You return the book to the library, check out of your room, and drive away from Elmhand.
The bell tolls seven times, then nothing. There are no vultures in the sky.

CHAPTER 2:
Elmhand had no schoolhouse. Elmhand had no church building. Elmhand had no courthouse. Elmhand had only the townhouse.
Everyone did everything in the townhouse.
Most kids went to school in the townhouse, and to church.
Some kids just went to school in the townhouse.
A few kids went to school and to court in the townhouse.
Cameron was one of these last few. Just this Saturday, he'd been let out after three days in a jail cell for spray painting obscene words on the library wall.
Last week Wednesday, he'd been let off the hook for throwing dead rats in neighbors yards because he had school.
The day before that, his parents paid old Mrs. Barry twenty dollars because he'd put her cat through her lawn mower.
Cameron was only ten years old, but he was a "regular" at the prison and the sheriff knew him well.
He lived in a green house with mustard trim. He hated it. He hated the size, the color, the style, the yard. He hated Elmhand in general. But most of all he hated the people.
They were all trying to be nice but none of them really understood him, and he hated them for that. And most of them were old people.
Well, today was Sunday, and he didn't have anything to do. His parents had gone to church, and understandably had left him behind (last time he had gone he had thrown rocks at the minister).
He walked around to the back of his house, where a small brook ran. There were a few trees there, a couple bearing Cameron's name. There weren't any fish in the stream, but occasionally wild animals came to drink.
Today a toad sat in the middle of the water. Cameron, bored, caught it in a swift motion and brought it up to his face.
"Hello little frog," he said, eyeing it. He could feel it squirming.
He held it upside down by its legs for a while, but eventually he was bored by it. He snapped a twig off of one of the trees and stabbed the toad in the eye.
"How does that feel, froggy?" White pus dribbled out of its eye. Disgusted, Cameron tossed the frog back into the stream. It crawled pitifully away.
"Disgusting little animals." he muttered. He went in and watched television.

Chapter 3:
Walter's bike creaked as he rode it to church. He always rode his bike because his parents didn't go to church anymore. They told him if he still wanted to go he could go himself. He didn't really care as the trip wasn't far. He could have walked if he wanted to.
They didn't really live far from anything in the little town. His house was just down the street from the townhouse, but no one found the trip long. That is, except for the few people who lived out of town. That kid Leo and his dad lived out in the countryside. They were farmers, but they hadn't come in to buy any animals in a while, so no one knew how they were doing. Sometimes someone would go and visit them, but that was rare and hardly anyone did it anymore.
Walter could see the townhouse now, its belfry looming against the horizon over the crest of the hill.Soon the chimney came into view also, then the white paint and brown trim. He pulled his bike into the grass parking lot and locked it to the chain link fence. Not that anyone would steal it. He knew almost everyone in the town and they were all nice. Well, actually, Cameron might steal it. So it's a good thing I'm locking it, then, he thought.
He dismounted and walked in. He was a bit late, but only about five minutes, so it wasn't a big deal. Father Homeshire was giving communion when he came in. All the adults came up to take communion and he took his usual seat in the eighth pew on the right side. He liked being in the back, where he could watch everyone.
Johnny Groomer, fifth pew, middle, was scratching his nose. Elizabeth Walker, third pew, right side, was rummaging through her purse.Elijah Rheter, seventh pew, left side, was talking quietly on his cell phone. Lorna Pettington, first pew, middle, was drooling in her sleep, even though she was right in front of Father Homeshire.
The Father was doing his best to ignore her, but he wasn't doing a very good job. He kept stealing side glances at her every few seconds. Eventually he messed up his Latin and had to go back, which snapped him back to attention. He stopped looking at Lorna and went on reading.
The scripture was over and Father Homeshire was giving his sermon now. It was along his usual lines of sermon, following the same general pattern. Walter listened for a while, but then he got a bit bored and was fidgeting with his shoelace.
He must have been doing that for a while, because when he looked up, Father Homeshire was wrapping up his sermon. He said amen, left the podium, and church was over. Walter got up and walked outside. He unlocked his bike, wheeled it out, and rode away.

Chapter 4:
Pink. Everything was pink. The walls, the furniture, the clothes, and the stuffed animals. Even Teresa was pink, from sunburn. The evening before she had gone sunbathing on her roof, but had fallen asleep for too long.
She was reading her favorite magazine with her favorite stuffed animal, a frog plushie. It was a fashion magazine, with a pink cover, and instructions for each outfit.
The frog was pink too, but it had a green back. She called it Mr. Hopper. She thought that was a great joke, after a painter she had once heard of.
"Teresa!" called her mother. "Hurry up! We're late for church already!"
Teresa snapped the magazine closed, snatched up Mr. Hopper, and rushed out the door. Her parents were waiting for her in the car.
"Hurry up!" they said. "Get in! Get in!"
"We're almost half an hour late!" said her mother. Indeed, after they took off, the bell rang ten times.
They were always half an hour late. It did not usually matter, because they always arrived in time for the sermon, but today was Communion.
Teresa enjoyed church. She liked watching Father Homeshire, the tall pastor, fiddle with his glasses, then consult his Bible, and talk about His word. She couldn't partake in communion, but it was fun watching all the adults take the bread, and the wine.
Some of the church folk eyed Mr. Hopper occasionally, but she didn't mind. Once her mother had told her not to bring him to church, but she had made a fit, and her mother had given in eventually.
Often she didn't understand what Father Homeshire said, but it didn't really matter. She just liked coming to observe people. Sometimes she would look around, and everyone would have their heads bowed. She would look up at Father Homeshire, and he would be speaking some nonsense in Latin. She would quickly assume the head-bowed, hands-clasped position everyone else was in.
A while ago Thomas Grimson had come to church. Everone knew the General Store Manager, with his big black moustache and white apron. Only this time he had shaved, and he was wearing a suit and necktie. No one had seen him without his moustache or his apron.
Mr. Grimson was such a familiar sight around town that a lot of people didn't recognize him at first. People whispered a lot, and pretty soon Mr. Grimson had grown his moustache back and was wearing his apron again.
Teresa was snapped back from her memories by a gentle tap on the shoulder.
"Teresa." said her mother. "It's time to leave. The sermon's over."
"Oh." said Teresa. She got up and left with her parents.

Chapter 5:
Joseph Grimsley: Traveler, Poet, Writer, Hunter.
Joseph Grimsley the Ninth was none of these things. He preferred the indoors, and did not like going anywhere. He detested writing, and only read what he was required to. And he had never shot a gun in his life.
Instead, he stayed home and played video games, going out only when he knew his batteries wouldn't die on him.
He did not much care for school, but he went, and that was more than can be said for Cameron, the naughty little kid down the street.
He did like his History class, though. Whenever the teacher mentioned Joseph Grimsley the First, he would beam with pride, and she would say, "And you know all about him, don't you, Joseph?"
And he did. He knew his birthday, his wife's name, when he lived in Middleton, how much food he packed when he traveled, and every other trivial fact about Joseph Grimsley the First.
Several kids rode by his window on their bikes. He didn't notice. He was busy watching his character pick itself over a rocky landscape while fending off waves of aliens.
His family was rich. He would admit that readily. The people hereabouts were suspicious of rich folk, but he looked down on them too, so the feeling was mutual.
That was why he didn't hang around much with other kids. That and the fact that they weren't descended from famous people.
Everyone hung out together, even Cameron, but he willingly separated himself from them.
He sighed, and turned off the screen. There was nothing to do on a Sunday. He would have gone to church, but he had been ill with a fever, and his parents had him stay home.
He lay down on his bed and went to sleep.

Chapter 6:
Cameron found himself by the brook the next morning, Monday. He had to go to the townhouse soon, for school, but he had wanted to come out here for some reason. He did not remember exactly what, but he knew he came for a reason.
The brook was the same as he had left it the morning previous. Small trees, rushing stream. A wild goose stood on the far side. Normally he would have thrown a rock at it, or something, but today he didn't.
He looked around for a moment and saw some red paint on one of the trees. He came over and scratched at it with his fingernail. It peeled off easily. It was a bright red, and thin. it wasn't spray painted, that much was obvious, but...
If those stinkin' meddlers have been messing with my house again...was his first thought. But then he thought it over, and dismissed the idea. Just must of been some construction peoples.
He walked back into his house, but before he had, he looked up. There were more vultures in the sky today.
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Cameron walked to the townhouse, cutting across his neighbor Johnny Groomer's lawn, then crossing the street at the intersection of Main Street and Elm Boulevard, where Joseph Grimsley and his dad rattled past on their old, yet shiny, Chevy. The walk was completed when Cameron walked the last twenty or so feet across the parking lot of the townhouse.
He waited in line in front of the large wooden front doors. When the bell tolled eight times, the principal came up and gave his usual speech. It involved something with the schedule, the state of the school, and the budget, but no one really listened to it so they weren't sure what it was about.
Then the teachers came and hauled open the great big doors, and everyone rushed inside. The inside of the townhouse was much like the outside, brown and white. The inside was a layer of wood after the brick. The walls weren't painted, but the ceiling was a dirty white.
A staircase led up from the General Hall to the smaller rooms upstairs. The higher you went, the smaller the rooms were. Most meetings of the community were, then, held on the ground floor. The only real purpose of the upper rooms was for the schoolhouse. Well, sometimes smaller groups, like private clubs, held meetings there, but it was rare.
Today the teachers were weary and depressed, the schoolday a harsh change from the weekend. Cameron's teacher was Lorna Pettington. She taught all the fifth graders math, reading, history, and science on weekdays, but on Wednesdays she took the day off. Cameron wasn't sure she was allowed to do that, and he didn't think the principal knew about it.
The Math lesson was first. She passed out books, and wrote the homework on the board. Then she wrote the classwork for today. The students quickly began work. Cameron took one look at the numbers on the board, and looked out the window until he fell asleep.
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He was awakened by a rapping on his desk. He looked up to see Ms. Pettington standing over him, ruler in hand.
"Have a nice nap?" she said. "Time to work. Get to it."
Cameron took out his book and began to write. When Ms. Pettington left, he began to doodle on his page. He looked out the window again and saw some birds on a nearby tree. They looked as if they were singing.

Chapter 7:
The end of the school day always marked some sort of excitement for the children. One day, they might be going to the city that afternoon. Or hiking into the mountains. But most days, they would simply be looking forward to the lemonades on the porch, watching the sunset, and the general feeling of freedom.
Walter followed the crowd out of the townhouse and into the parking lot, where he unlocked his bike and began to pedal home. But before he had made it to even the end of the parking lot, he saw it. A great black car, sleek and shiny, cruising into the parking lot. It made no sound as it drove, and Walter was reminded of a video he had seen once, a documentary about sharks.
The car parked, and a man climbed out of the driver's side. He was dressed in an expensive black tux, and was wearing a bow tie. He opened the back door and three men in black suits and neckties got out. They muttered something to each other, then walked into the townhouse. The man in the tux sat back in the car and drove away.
Probably some people here for some meeting in the townhouse, Walter thought. But we've never had people from out of town come...
Walter dismissed the thought, as well as the feeling that he had just witnessed something terrible.

Chapter 8:
Oliver Burroughs woke at noon. The voice on his electronic alarm clock said, "Good Morning, Mr. Burroughs!" He got up and made himself a cup of coffee. He only got up this late on Mondays. He went to go check his calendar, and realized that today was the day of the meeting.
He had to get to Elmhand by 1:30, and he had no idea where that was. He picked up his map and rushed out the door, into his long, black car, and sped out to the houses of the three gentlemen he had to pick up.
The first house was strongly reminiscent of Victorian England. White and black, with steep gables and multiple stories. A tall man in a suit and necktie stood out front. He had a thin, short moustache and was very clean-shaven. He waved Mr. Burroughs down and climbed in the backseat.
"Good day, sir." said Mr. Burroughs. He was a chauffeur for hire, and he knew a lot of people from his job, but this man was not one of them. He was told the addresses of three people, and they had to get to Elmhand by 1:30 this Monday, for a meeting.
"Can you get us there on time?" the man asked. Mr. Burroughs looked at his car clock.
"I sure hope so," he said.
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It was 12:30 by the time Oliver picked up the second man. This one lived in an apartment, and was wearing a suit and necktie very similar to the first client. Mr. Burroughs immediately recognized the man as the one who had hired him. Short, round and balding, with a prominent walrus moustache and beard.
"Drive faster, Mr. Burroughs, or we will be late." he said, settling into the backseat with his colleague.
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The last man was of average build, tan, and with a grizzly white beard that reached down his neck and into his collar. He climbed into the backseat without a word. They quickly left his house behind, a blue house with an extensive porch and a small lawn. They drove on.
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1:00. The midday heat was beginning to die, and the afternoon cool was taking over. Mr. Burroughs was in the middle of nowhere. His clients were beginning to get anxious.
"Mr. Burroughs, are you sure you will be there by 1:30? My coworkers and I are becoming worried." asked the second one, the one who had given him the job.
"Yes, yes, I will." He lied, searching in his map again.
"Mr. Burroughs, do you know where we are? If so, where are we?" asked the first one, the tall one.
"Ummm....yes. I think we are somewhere west of Middleton..."
"You think?" said the second one, leaning towards the driver's seat.. "That is not good enough, Mr. Burroughs."
"I mean I know it. I think is... a figure of speech."
"Hmmmmmph." said the short man, settling back down.
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"Mr. Burroughs, it is 2:00. We are late." said the first one.
"I think this calls for a special method." said the second one, discussing with his companions. From what Mr. Burroughs heard, they seemed to agree with him. Not knowing what this entailed, Oliver thought of violence, perhaps, threatening him to drive faster. Or maybe they would take over the wheel...
The three seemed to gain a consensus, nodding, then falling silent. Mr. Burroughs felt a terrible pull from some invisible force on his car, forcing it forward from the back. The rear end of his car was being lifted off the ground. The car flipped over, then again and again. They were churning off in a direction that seemed North but could have been anything, what with the car tumbling like it was.
Mr. Burroughs screamed. He did not feel any better after that, so he screamed again. He was being rattled against the inside of the car, but the three men sat stoically, seemingly rooted to the spot. Their brows were the image of concentration, their eyes blank.
Oliver Burroughs screamed again, then fell into blackness.
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Mr. Burroughs woke with a start. His hands were on the wheel, driving, though not of his will. They turned the car left, and he couldn't move them otherwise. He screamed.
"Ahhhhh. Mr. Burroughs is awake." said the second one. "Shall we release his hands now?"
"Right. But first ask him if he is ready to drive now." said the first one. "Colonel, will you do the honors?"
The third man smiled, a deep, sinister smile. His teeth were unnaturally white, and his smile seemed impossibly wide.
Mr. Burroughs then felt a stabbing pain in the back of his head, like someone was pressing a knife there, and then the pain gradually transferred itself to his mind, like the knife had gone through his head and into his brain.
A rough, rasping voice in his mind called his name.
"Oliver." it said. "Come."
"Come. Come. Come." chanted a million other voices.
His mind snapped. A billion spots of light erupted in his eyes, and he doubled over with pain. The voice from his head drifted into his ears.
"He thinks he is ready, but he is not. Put him on full body."
Oliver felt an alien presence invading his body. Suddenly he felt his eyes were imprisoned in a foreign body. He could no longer control any of his movements.
He watched as his body drove through the forest, the plains, and into the town. His hands turned the wheel towards the townhouse. His right hand slid off the wheel and put the car into park. He felt himself opening the car door, then letting the three men out. He bowed, got back in the car, and his body drove him away.
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It was about 2:45, and while Mr. Burroughs was getting accustomed to the feeling of not controlling his actions, he hoped they would release his body soon, and he was still panicked at what he had seen.
He stopped for a red light, but when the light turned green for the other side, his foot hit the pedal. Mr. Burroughs wanted to scream, but he couldn't. The car was picking up speed, towards a red van.
He had time to see the license plate, the driver's startled expression. Then his hand reached down and released the seat belt. Collision. Mr. Burroughs corkscrewed through his window shield and landed heavily on the crumpled hood of the red car. He had time to see his best bow tie rip itself from his shirt and fly off into the window shield of the van.
His last thought was of that bow tie, and how he had hung it up every evening, then blackness.

Chapter 9:
Joseph Grimsley lay on his bed, the sheets covered in wrinkles and torn halfway off the bed. Bunched up at his feet was his blanket, and his pillow lay on the other side of the room. Lack of sleep was evident on his face.
He hadn't slept for the past few days. His teacher, worried because he was normally a good student, had been forced to wake him up in class more than a few times. Now, he just stared at his TV screen, waiting for some unknown event.
The reason was that late Monday night, he had seen something strange in his video game. He had been playing the one with the astronaut on the moon who was fighting aliens. He was firing his laser rifle at an alien with a big head and green wings, when he noticed a black smudge on his screen.
At first he thought it was dirt, and tried to wipe it off, but when it wouldn't come off, he assumed it was part of the game. It began to get bigger, and darker, and he had begun to wonder at what kind of alien it would turn out to be.
But he started to see a sort of red dot, and when it got closer, he could make out the silhouette of a bird, with a red head. He tried shooting at it, but it the bullets merely passed it by, as if it was part of the background.
He had been watching this spot for about a minute when he realized that it was a vulture. Coming closer and closer, it eventually became larger than his character. He tried shooting it again. It absorbed the laser bolts, but it didn't die. Instead it began a long dive towards him, and though he kept shooting it, ate him eventually.
He cursed and naturally thought it was part of the game. He would have forgotten about it completely were it not for the text that appeared after.
In white pixelated letters on the black screen, it read, "Game Over, Joseph Grimsley."

Chapter 10:
Teresa had walked into her lawn after the 10 minute or so drive from being picked up when school ended. She had, however, accidentally stepped on a butterfly and ground it into the dirt. She had only noticed because she had seen something glinting in the sunlight. She had bent down to inspect it, and it had turned out to be the butterfly wing.
She realized instantly what had happened, and was feeling very sorry. She gingerly picked it up and dug a hole for it, filling it back up and patting down the mound when the butterfly had been buried.
The next day, she came back to look at the burial site. She had a bit of trouble finding it, having a fairly large yard with no identifying marks. But when she found it, she noticed that weeds were growing on it.
She thought the weeds were dishonoring the butterfly, so she pulled at them. But they seemed firmly rooted. Not thinking anything of it, she simply pulled harder, and eventually the weeds tore out, trailing the mangled body of the butterfly in its roots.
But, disturbingly, the weeds were rooted in the body of a little plastic miniature. The miniature was a detailed effigy of a black bird with a white ruff of feathers around the neck, and a human face. She recognized the body as a vulture, and the man's face had an expression of scorn.
On closer inspection, though, the weeds did not seem to be growing into the figure as they were a part of it, growing out of it.
Teresa was freaked out now, and cast the weeds back into the ruined remains of the grave. She ran inside and washed her hands several times, then went to her room and lay down.

Chapter 11: