The Graveyard Book

Her way home was going to be very long and very dark.

The boy and his guardian stood at the top of the hill, looking out at the lights of the town.

“Does it still hurt?” asked the boy.

“A little,” said his guardian. “But I heal fast. I’ll soon be as good as ever.”

“Could it have killed you? Stepping out in front of that car?”

His guardian shook his head. “There are ways to kill people like me,” he said. “But they don’t involve cars. I am very old and very tough.”

Bod said, “I was wrong, wasn’t I? The whole idea was to do it without anybody noticing. And then I had to get involved with the kids in the school, and the next thing you know, there’s police and all sorts of stuff. Because I was selfish.”

Silas raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t selfish. You need to be among your own kind. Quite understandable. It’s just harder out there in the world of the living, and we ca

Bod rubbed his hand over the stone of Thomas R. Stout (1817–1851. Deeply regretted by all who knew him), feeling the moss crumble beneath his fingers.

“He’s still out there,” said Bod. “The man who killed my first family. I still need to learn about people. Are you going to stop me leaving the graveyard?”

“No. That was a mistake and one that we have both learned from.”

“Then what?”

“We should do our best to satisfy your interest in stories and books and the world. There are libraries. There are other ways. And there are many situations in which there might be other, living people around you, like the theater or the cinema.”

“What’s that? Is it like football? I enjoyed watching them play football at school.”

“Football. Hmm. That’s usually a little early in the day for me,” said Silas. “But Miss Lupescu could take you to see a football match the next time she’s here.”

“I’d like that,” said Bod.

They began to walk down the hill. Silas said, “We have both left too many tracks and traces in the last few weeks. They are still looking for you, you know.”

“You said that before,” said Bod. “How do you know? And who are they? And what do they want?”

But Silas only shook his head, and would be drawn no further, and with that, for the time being, Bod had to be satisfied.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Every Man Jack

SILAS HAD BEEN PREOCCUPIED for the previous several months. He had begun to leave the graveyard for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. Over Christmas, Miss Lupescu had come out for three weeks in his place, and Bod had shared her meals in her little flat in the Old Town. She had even taken him to a football match, as Silas had promised that she would, but she had gone back to the place she called “The Old Country” after squeezing Bod’s cheeks and calling him Nimini, which had become her pet name for him.

Now Silas was gone, and Miss Lupescu also. Mr. and Mrs. Owens were sitting in Josiah Worthington’s tomb talking to Josiah Worthington. None of them was happy.

Josiah Worthington said, “You mean to say that he did not tell either of you where he was going or how the child was to be cared for?”

When the Owenses shook their heads, Josiah Worthington said, “Well, where is he?”

Neither Owens was able to answer. Master Owens said, “He’s never been gone for so long before. And he promised, when the child came to us, promised he would be here, or someone else would be here to help us care for him. He promised.”

Mrs. Owens said, “I worry that something must have happened to him.” She seemed close to tears, and then her tears turned to anger, and she said, “This is too bad of him! Is there no way to find him, to call him back?”

“None that I know,” said Josiah Worthington. “But I believe that he’s left money in the crypt, for food for the boy.”

“Money!” said Mrs. Owens. “What use is money?”

“Bod will be needing money if he’s to go out there to buy food,” began Mr. Owens, but Mrs. Owens turned on him.

“You’re all as bad as each other!” she said.

She left the Worthington tomb, then, and she went looking for her son, whom she found, as she expected to, at the top of the hill, staring out over the town.

“Pe

“You don’t have a pe

“I’ve got two in the coffin,” said Mrs. Owens. “Probably a bit green by now, but I’ve still got them right enough.”

“I was thinking about the world,” said Bod. “How do we even know that the person who killed my family is still alive? That he’s out there?”

“Silas says he is,” said Mrs. Owens.

“But Silas doesn’t tell us anything else.”

Mrs. Owens said, “He means only the best for you. You know that.”

“Thanks,” said Bod, unimpressed. “So where is he?”

Mrs. Owens made no reply.

Bod said, “You saw the man who killed my family, didn’t you? On the day you adopted me.”

Mrs. Owens nodded.

“What was he like?”

“Mostly, I had eyes for you. Let me see…he had dark hair, very dark. And I was frightened of him. He had a sharp face. Hungry and angry all at once, he was. Silas saw him off.”

“Why didn’t Silas just kill him?” said Bod, fiercely. “He should have just killed him then.”

Mrs. Owens touched the back of Bod’s hand with her cold fingers. She said, “He’s not a monster, Bod.”

“If Silas had killed him back then, I would be safe now. I could go anywhere.”

“Silas knows more than you do about all this, more than any of us do. And Silas knows about life and death,” said Mrs. Owens. “It’s not that easy.”

Bod said, “What was his name? The man who killed them.”

“He didn’t say it. Not then.”

Bod put his head on one side, and stared at her with eyes as grey as thunderclouds. “But you know it, don’t you?”

Mrs. Owens said, “There’s nothing you can do, Bod.”

“There is. I can learn. I can learn everything I need to know, all I can. I learned about ghoul-gates. I learned to Dreamwalk. Miss Lupescu taught me how to watch the stars. Silas taught me silence. I can Haunt. I can Fade. I know every inch of this graveyard.”

Mrs. Owens reached out a hand, touched her son’s shoulder. “One day,” she said…and then she hesitated. One day, she would not be able to touch him. One day, he would leave them. One day. And then she said, “Silas told me the man who killed your family was called Jack.”

Bod said nothing. Then he nodded. “Mother?”

“What is it, son?”

“When will Silas come back?”

The midnight wind was cold and it came from the north.

Mrs. Owens was no longer angry. She feared for her son. She said only, “I wish I knew, my darling boy, I wish I knew.”

Scarlett Amber Perkins was fifteen, and, at that moment, sitting on the upper deck of the elderly bus, she was a mass of angry hate. She hated her parents for splitting up. She hated her mother for moving away from Scotland, hated her father because he didn’t seem to care that she had gone. She hated this town for being so different—nothing like Glasgow, where she had grown up—and she hated it because every now and again she would turn a corner and see something and the world would all become achingly, horribly familiar.

She had lost it with her mother that morning. “At least in Glasgow I had friends!” Scarlett had said, and she wasn’t quite shouting and she wasn’t quite sobbing. “I’ll never see them again!” All her mother had said in reply was, “At least you’re somewhere you’ve been before. I mean, we lived here when you were little.”