The Rising
Chapter Seven of The Call of Mammitum
This is chapter seven, did you read chapter one yet?
Note: This is not intended to be a fully released serial, these are sample chapters to wet your whistle while I figure out how to publish this thing.
Tommy’s wheels scritch in the grit as he rolls through the gates of Kerr Hill. Jonah’s steps follow behind.
I don’t move. The cold digs in, and my teeth won’t stop. I left my jacket in English—my last class—because even there my head was already here. The rubbing is in its pocket—and I’m glad.
I didn’t forget my books, though. I hunt for a dry spot to set them. There—by the gatepost.
I pull a composition book and my pencil from the bundle.
Sarah’s voice—take good notes.
I plan to.
I turn, and they’re already down the path—too far. I swallow and jog to catch up, then slip between them, tight as a thread.
We don’t speak—not for a while. Talking here feels wrong—like trespassing.
Leaves hiss over the cobbles. Willow strands lift and comb into long waves—rustle and swish—like whispers catching on the wind. The wind hums against stone, whistles through gaps. Branches creak… then crack.
No words. Just layers of wind—and my head, doing what it does. Making things up.
“Where were you when you heard the whispering, Mattie?” Tommy’s voice hits too loud in the hush.
I blink and point toward the cenotaph, hand trembling. “Over there. By that memorial.” My voice comes out small.
A gust stirs the willows. The whisper-sound rises—almost syllables—almost my name.
“Maaatttie.”
I clamp my eyes shut. I’m imagining it. It isn’t there. But it sounds like—
“Marcus, right?” Jonah asks.
I blink at him. “Yeah… what?”
“That’s why you were here, right? His name’s on that wall—your pa’s too—along with the rest.”
“Huh-how…” A chill rolls up my back and under my shirt. How does he know? I glance at Tommy. He’s watching too—quiet, eyes asking.
“My brother, Isaiah,” Jonah says, eyes locked to the path. “He and Marcus enlisted together. But Isaiah... came home.”
Isaiah. I’ve heard that name, there was an— “Izzy, right?”
Jonah’s grin flashes—wide and warm.
I nod. “Yeah. Marcus mentioned him in his letters. You came to the service.”
It hits in pieces: black suits, black dresses, murmured condolences. Casseroles—chicken in tin rectangles.
I’m twelve in a church dress. Eyes on the floor. A tall boy with red hair mumbles at me—sorry for your loss—or something like it. His mother holds Mama’s hand. If you need anything…
We ate the casseroles, but the offers we left behind.
Jonah nods. “Isaiah was still overseas, so we came for him. There were a lot of those that year—each one up on that wall.”
He kicks a stone, and it skitters away. “Isaiah went to Phoenix when he got back—had his fill of fog and trees.”
I look up at him; he won’t look back. His grin is gone—jaw tight, eyes far-off.
“What’s he doing out there now?” Tommy asks.
Jonah snaps on a smile, and his eyes go bright. “Collins Industries opened a warehouse there. Pops lets him run it, sent all six of my brothers out to open one. Plans to expand into all forty-eight states.”
He keeps talking as we walk, going on about each of his brothers in big cities I’ve barely heard of. My mouth lifts while he talks, Tommy’s too. He sounds so proud.
And his loud voice gives my ears somewhere else to go—away from the wind.
“How about you, Jonah?” I ask.
The idea of leaving Ganser and starting a life somewhere different? It sounds wonderful. At the same time, I don’t want him to go anywhere.
But he looks at me, and my smile drops.
Eyes wide, his mouth hangs open. “Me? I don’t know.” Quieter now. “Pops wants me to finish school. College, even. But… well.” He swallows. “That’ll be a trick.”
He looks away.
I reach for words, but my throat stays empty. So I point toward the overgrown path ahead where, last night, Papa beckoned me forward. “There. That’s where… the whispers led me.”
We cross into the old cemetery and the cobblestones give way to rutted dirt, hemmed in by bramble. Saturday’s rain sits dark in the dips—slick; the damp rot hits my nose—heavy and sour.
Tommy’s chair shudders as the wheels catch on roots, jam on stones—then dives, sticks in a patch of muck.
Jonah steps in behind and pushes. The wheels lock and sink with a wet squelch. Jonah grunts, wrenches the bar—back and forth. They sink deeper.
He wipes his brow. “We’ve got a problem.”
Tommy’s jaw jumps. His hands squeeze the armrests.
I touch his arm. “It’s okay, Tommy. Maybe Jonah and I can come back another day. I can—”
“No.” His lips press thin. “I want to see it.”
Jonah clears his throat. “I’m sorry, bud. This chair’s not going any further. If we force it, it’s not coming back.”
Tommy’s shoulders drop. One deep breath—then he sets his jaw again. He looks up at Jonah. “Do you think you can carry me?”
Jonah blinks. “Carry you?” He flicks a look at me. “Wouldn’t that be, uh… kinda embarrassing?”
Tommy laughs—short and dry. “This isn’t my first time being carried. This town’s built for feet, not wheels.” He nods toward the path. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’ll drag myself through the mud on my elbows.”
He looks back up at Jonah. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”
My stomach drops—after everything? I’d carry him myself if I could.
So I look up into Jonah’s eyes. “Can you?”
Jonah holds my gaze—brow pinched, lips tight. Then he nods, slow. The pinch eases. His smirk slides back up like nothing happened. “Yeah. Let’s try.”
He claps once, rubs his palms. “Alright, Tommy. Hang on tight. This won’t be elegant.”
Tommy’s mouth twists at the corner. “My dad usually carries me out in front.”
“Nah,” Jonah mutters, already crouching. “Not this far. Get on my back, like a rucksack. I can carry three hundred pounds this way at the warehouse. You’re about half that—this’ll be a piece of cake.”
Tommy loops both arms around Jonah’s shoulders. Jonah rises, pulling him off the chair—then yelps.
“Ow! Not my ear.”
“I need something to hold onto.”
“Then try my neck, not my skull.” Jonah stumbles back, face reddening. “Too—tight.”
Tommy readjusts, hands locked around Jonah’s collarbone. “You gotta swing me and grab my legs, they don’t do much other than hold on pants.”
Jonah nods, ducks, slips an arm under Tommy’s thigh—then the other—and hoists.
He tilts. Grunts. “Oof—lost it.” He plants his feet again. “Alright. Ready?”
“Ready,” Tommy says through clenched teeth.
Jonah braces and lifts.
It’s messy—one foot slides in the muck, knees knock, arms adjust. Tommy’s leg drags until Jonah cinches him higher, elbow locked beneath the knee. Tommy clings like a barnacle, breathing hard.
Once upright, Jonah hitches him forward and pants, “You good?”
Tommy’s voice is muffled behind him. “I’m not falling, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good enough.”
Jonah is hunched forward; Tommy peers at me over his shoulder. A grin splits my face.
Jonah catches it. “Don’t laugh, Mattie.”
“I’m not laughing.” I swallow it down. “You just—look…”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Come on—it’s getting dark already.”
I lift the Grimoire off the seat. It’s heavier tonight—the leather warm against my palms. The whispers stir again as I hold it.
I look up. The boys don’t react. It’s just me again—just my head.
Under the willows, the light goes fast, and the path smears into shadow. Jonah shifts Tommy on his back, reaches into his coat, and pulls out a flashlight.
He hands it to me. “Here. Light the way, Mattie.”
The silver casing is scuffed and faded—Shurlite etched at the base—warm from his pocket. When I flick it on, pale yellow light spills over crumbling stones.
The way feels longer than it did last night. A snap in the brush yanks my gaze to the shadows. A rustle by the stones behind me catches in my ear. But the light finds nothing.
Still, the hairs on my neck lift—my heart drumming too fast—and the whispers buzz—ki-gal-sheh.
I stomp louder, but they won’t leave. I press the Grimoire—warm—against my chest
Finally, we reach the base of the hill, where Sun beams cage the shadow of the ridge.
I sweep the flashlight through the dip, and the beam lands on gray stone.
Tommy’s voice is hushed. “Is that it?”
I nod.
“It’s so big,” he says.
Jonah kneels and lets Tommy slide down to sit in the clearing in front of the door. Jonah moans as he stands, hand to his back. None of us speak.
The boys stare, while I hang back at the edge, by the path. The door looms there—too big. Too real.
My breath shortens and sticks. My palms remember it—warm. Humming.
Jonah turns to me, hand out for the flashlight. I give it up, hand trembling.
“You okay?” he asks—brow pinched, voice low.
I nod. Liar.
He walks to the door—the yellow beam shrinking as he nears, bright on the carved flower at the center.
“See if you can find any other markings,” Tommy calls.
Jonah sweeps the light over the door. I clutch the Grimoire to my belly and watch.
Now voices rise over the whispers—full cry, no mistaking them.
Open the book, Papa calls.
Find the page, Marcus urges.
My breath catches. I know those voices—I want them to be real. The boys don’t react, so they can’t be, but the promise lands anyway—You can see us again.
The book throbs—warm, insistent. No. This is wrong. I told Tommy I wasn’t ready. I shouldn’t be here.
Open the book.
Find the page.
I should warn the boys; tell them—beg them—to leave. But I can’t. My hands find the edges, the book opens, and the pages flutter—dim, flashing gold.
Find the page, Mattie. Louder now, deeper.
Not Papa’s voice. Not Marcus.
The tone drops—rough, rasping like briars across a bare leg, scraping like bone against stone.
Still, I turn the pages. I want to stop. Just stop—but I can’t. The sound tugs at my chest like a hook on a line.
My fingers stop, and gold shimmers in the shape of a door—this door.
No.
The voice jags like a cackle—then fades. Only the whispers remain.
The page glows in my hands—
From the flashlight.
Jonah is beside me, and the book lifts away before I can shut it.
“Hey, Tommy! Mattie found something!” He’s already gone with it.
I’m stuck—head barely shaking. Arms hanging stiff, fingers curled like I’m still holding it. Lungs forgetting how.
Sarah was right. This was a mistake.
I should have listened to her. We should’ve left the book where we found it. We shouldn’t have even come.
“Can you read this, Jonah?” Tommy asks.
Jonah tilts the book under the beam. “Uhm… it’s short. Just: ay-gal-oo ih-doo ay-gal-oo.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Kinda catchy.”
Tommy frowns, studying the door.
My arms drop and I stumble forward, sucking breath like I’ve been drowned. I try to shout—“Wait… no—don’t—” But my voice squeaks and dies. I cough.
I don’t know what those words mean. I don’t know what Tommy’s about to do. Every nerve in me screams against it—and I can’t get that scream out.
Tommy opens his mouth and speaks. Soft at first. Then louder—clear and powerful.
“AY-GAL-OO IH-DOO AY-GAL-OO!“
The words crack through the clearing—loud as thunder—echoing off the stones.
The sound rattles my chest; my bones tingle; the ground quivers beneath my shoes. The willows shiver in reply.
Jonah flinches. “Holy smokes, Tommy! Why’d you yell like that?”
Tommy doesn’t answer. His mouth falls open. His eyes go wide.
And the ground is still rumbling.
Now scraping—stone grinding on stone. My head snaps to the sound. Jonah’s beam sweeps, catching dust, and vanishes where the door yawns open—nothing but black. Thick fog spills out, rolling low, twisting like breath made visible. It curls around Tommy where he sits—up his sides, over his head—until I can’t see him. Jonah stumbles back as it breaks against him like a wave.
It hits me cold—up to my knees. Deep cold. The stench—rot, dust, old earth—fills my mouth.
The fog keeps going, crawling up the path, seeping through trees, curling between headstones, spreading out in a flood.
Jonah’s looking at me. Tommy too. But no one speaks. Even the willows go still. So silent I can hear my own heartbeat—and maybe theirs.
I look into the black doorway and something... pulls in my chest. The whispers swirl—ki-gal-sheh, ki-gal-sheh—and I take a step forward.
You can see us again.
Marcus—from the doorway. A shape. Is that him?
Jonah cracks the quiet. “What the hell?”
And the silence breaks behind us—shuffling among graves, soil sifting, roots snapping, stones cracking—thud—against the ground.
I take another step toward the door, but a voice cuts clean behind me.
“Run!”
I spin—Sarah Whitmore bursts through the brush. Her eyes lock on mine. She grips my arm and yanks me toward the path. “We need to go. Now.”
I yank free. “Sarah? But… what’s happening?”
She doesn’t blink. “The dead are risen.”
Shuffles and snaps at the gravestones. The fog roils between them—disturbed, breaking. I catch Jonah’s eyes, and he’s already bending down.
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m out of here,” he says.
Tommy clutches his shoulders. Jonah drops the book as he hauls him up with a grunt, staggers, then rushes off.
I don’t follow—just watch.
“Mattie! The Grimoire!” Tommy calls back.
I turn—Sarah’s holding it, eyes fixed on the cover.
“Sarah,” I snap, “can I have that back, please?”
She blinks and, gliding past, hands it over without a word. I glance back at the door.
“Mattie?” She’s waiting.
I grip the Grimoire and tumble after her.
Up the path, something shuffles by a tree stump. A figure lurches in front of us—limbs twitching, skin gray over brittle bones. Hollow eyes stare as insects skitter from nose to cheekbone.
“This way.” Sarah grabs my wrist and drags me down a row of graves.
“Sarah!” I cry—more are rising.
She looks back—silver eyes firm. “Just keep moving.”
Snag—my toe catches, and the ground slams into me. I roll and stop—eyes like pits staring into mine. The thing clambers closer, hand over bony hand, muck slicking off it. My breath won’t come. Dry fingers wrap my arm.
But another arm loops under mine and I rise.
Sarah shouts, “Mattie, you need to stand up!”
I force my knees under and push, but the thing’s fingers cling like hooks until—pop.
My arm burns. I’m free. I run.
Back on the path—figures stagger between the stones. Slow. Clumsy. But unstopping.
Sarah runs too fast—then looks back, slows, and I’m beside her again.
Finally—Tommy in his chair. Jonah’s wrestling it out of the muck, rocking and yanking hard.
I grab the chair arms to help. Jonah’s eyes go wide. Tommy recoils.
He points. “Mattie, your arm.”
I look down—and scream.
A hand grips me there—fleshless, detached—clutching like it never got the message to let go. I thrash, beat at it, spin—
Sarah catches my elbow. “Jonah. The fingers.”
Jonah backs away. “What?”
“Break them!” Tommy barks.
The grip tightens—pain, sharp. Tighter—burning. “Please! It hurts!”
Jonah grabs a finger and wrenches it back—snap, snap—one by one they break off like twigs after a frost.
Each one twitches when it hits—pale as a worm. The rest of the hand falls away. I kick it into the fog.
Jonah wipes his hands on his pants.
My sleeve flaps open over welted skin—red blooming up my forearm. My arm is on fire. My whole body shakes.
The shadows close in, stumbling closer, limbs jerking like broken marionettes.
“We’ve got to go!” Tommy shouts.
Jonah grabs the back of the chair and pulls; I take the armrests and push. The wheels fight the mud, then jolt free with a squelch. Tommy pitches forward into me; I shove him back. He grips the armrests as Jonah spins the chair—and runs.
I’m not far behind. Sarah strides beside me and we burst through the gate together, across the road—until we hit brick and globe lamps bathe us in safe yellow light.
My chest heaves. I clutch my burning arm and look back.
Fog simmers between the gates. One of them stands there—at the threshold—but doesn’t cross.
Then it turns and slips into the mist. The night is quiet again.
Hands on knees, Jonah’s back rises and falls. “Why did they stop?”
Sarah answers without pause. “Because their job is to guard the door you three so clumsily opened.”
I turn on her. “How do you know that?”
Her shoulders jump. “It seems obvious.”
I look down—my hands are empty—panic flashing—
But she holds out the Grimoire. “You dropped this.”
I take it and nod, but I can’t speak. My questions pile up and jam.
Sarah turns without another word and strides up the road, disappearing around a corner.
And I just watch.
“That girl is weird,” Jonah mutters. “And after tonight, I’ve got a whole new definition of weird.”
The burn in my chest flies to my face and I bite down. “Stop calling her that!”
Jonah flinches, but turns to Tommy. “Well… now what?”
Tommy stares toward the cemetery. When he answers, his voice is steady. His face goes calm—firm.
“The library,” he says. “We need to understand what we just did.”