the dead travel fast

The following is a reconstruction of a story told to me by a close friend. Gathering the pieces of this story from the vast expanse of the internet has not been a simple task, especially since some party seems to have been attempting to erase it. For this reason, as well as to protect the identities of the individuals involved in the incidents recounted here, I have been forced to substitute most of the images with similar ones under a Creative Commons license. Sources for those pictures can be found on my attributions page. The sequence of these entries, from various platforms, should help demonstrate why I have concluded that the story my friend told me must be true. Whether or not it is believable, I leave up to you. (Because of the nature of this account, there may be some violent or disturbing content. Reader discretion is advised.)

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August 12

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August 11th

Dear John, We’re on our way back from Whitby tomorrow – or later today, I suppose. It has wound up a much more eventful stay that we expected, and extended a few days with Lucy’s accident. But summer holiday is ending soon, and work calls. I am trying to stamp down the thought that you were supposed to be on this trip with us – Lucy has of course been delightful company, as was Arthur when he came, but none of them are you. John, it’s been so long without word from you. I keep sending these because the thought that you might read them is all that keeps me from breaking down some days. And now with Lucy sick…I don’t know what’s going on with her at all, John, and it’s frightening me.

Last night was our last day at Whitby and all the gloomy thoughts of whether or not you are alive, whether or not I will ever see you again kept me from sleep. After almost two hours of tossing and turning, I turned sleepwalker myself, put on my coat, and went for a stroll. Just around the neighbourhood, mind you; Lucy’s late-night accident is still too fresh in my memory for me to want to go far. And she’s had a few nights where she’s woken up gasping, or sleepwalked to the door or the window, trying to get out. If I stayed close to the house, she couldn’t go far without me seeing her.

We’re fairly far from the night life, so the evening was quiet, the air cool even here in the height of summertime. You can see stars out on the horizon over the sea, where the city lights don’t blind them out. It helped me catch my breath, the stars. The same stars are looking down on you, wherever you are. We’re all under one sky, and I said my prayers for your safety and felt my head clear.

There was this sudden moment of peace, as if my prayer was answered, that you were safe and on your way back to me. I had a moment of darshan there, the sky was my murti. I need to visit temple when we’re back in London.

The sense of peace was quickly followed by a wave of exhaustion, the blessedness of sleep finally catching up with me. I made my way back across the few blocks I’d walked to the house, yawning.

And then it was broken, because I saw the upper window of the house was wide open and Lucy was leaning out over the street. At first, I thought she might be looking for me, but her gaze was upwards. There was this pitch-black bird, a raven maybe, that had just flown past, and her eyes were fixed on it. She leaned out even more and I had a sudden terror that she’d fall. I raced inside, and thank God but she still had one toe on the ground. I grabbed her by the waist just as she was about to pitch over and pulled her back inside. I was shouting her name as I rolled her over. Her eyes were empty and vacant – she was sleepwalking again – but she started and woke up. ‘Mi—Mina? What’s wrong?’

I started to tell her, but then I noticed – the wound on her neck had opened up again and there was blood smearing her nightgown. My hand flew to my mouth and I almost dropped her. Lucy pushed herself up, winced, and touched her wound. When she saw the blood on her fingertips she started to tremble and she grabbed onto me tight. We held each other for a few minutes until she had control over herself, then she pulled back away from me and sat with her back against the wall.

John, I’ve never seen her like this. She had her knees up to her chin, clasping them to her like it was all that was keeping her together. She shook her head slowly and then she told me. I’ll try to stay as close to what she said as I can.

‘That night – the night of the a—accident. I had a dream. When I was sleepwalking. There was this place I had to go to, this specific spot up on the cliff and if I didn’t get there then – I don’t know what would happen. But I had to go. It was…there were dogs. Howling. Lots of the them. Down in the city. I went up the steps and then I could only hear them from a distance. There was a lot of wind. Then a…’ she paused for a long time here. ‘It was something long. Dark. Red eyes. I don’t really remember what it looked like. There was a smell. It was sweet and bitter all at once. And I felt like I was sinking into the deep dark sea and everything turned green then grey then black and it was like I wasn’t in my body anymore, I was somewhere else, floating away—’

I interrupted her at this point. ‘An out of body experience?’

‘Yes, I know what the damn term is!’ she snapped, then immediately looked apologetic. ‘I went all the way up above the lighthouse. I could see the whole town. I thought for a moment that I’d just float off up into space and never come down, but then I felt some jolt yank me down and I was back in my body and you were shaking me and everything hurt.’

She started laughing hysterically and John, oh John, I hated it. ‘You must think I’m going completely mad.’

I assured her I wasn’t, and I made her a cup of tea and we sat together quietly until she dosed off. My God-sent sleepiness was all gone and I’m writing this as I start to see the sun peaking up over the horizon. No sleep for Mina tonight I suppose. I can sleep on the train.

I think I need to have a talk with Jack. I worry that Lucy’s got, I don’t know, PTSD? Something is affecting her more than just the blood loss. I don’t think she was assaulted or anything because surely the doctors would have noticed, but ---

Long, dark, with red eyes. I saw it too, John.

Please come home.

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From: Mina M****y *********@gmail.com

To: John Harker ******************@gmail.com

Date: August 8th, 20** at 5:36 pm

Dear John,

One thing after another seems to keep afflicting us on what was supposed to be a peaceful vacation. Lucy’s sudden sleepwalking, my racist run-ins, the bad weather, a ship crashing, people dying – and now Lucy’s been hurt. Not terribly, she’s back from hospital already, patched up. The official story is she got out of the house at night and scratched herself on something badly enough to leave the two deep indentations on her neck that produced the most blood but…

…but John, it’s stranger than that. I couldn’t give all the details to the doctors because I can barely believe what I saw myself. I must have been still half asleep when I got to her but…

Let me start at the the beginning. Get everything straightened out in my mind. I was exhausted after the funeral and took a melatonin. Usually they just barely push me over so I can sleep naturally, but this one must have knocked me out quite badly, because one moment I’d closed my eyes with the sun barely set, then next I woke bolt-upright like they do in movies, and it was one in the morning. I had this unbearable sense of dread, that something was horribly, horribly wrong. If it was because of some nightmare I’d been having, well, I’ve forgotten it completely. I suspect rather it was by subconscious telling me that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Lucy wasn’t in the bed next to me anymore. In fact, the sheets were cold, as if she hadn’t been there for hours. I immediately panicked and went to the door. It was shut, but unlocked. Can sleepwalkers unlock doors? I don’t know. I threw on my bathrobe and went out into the hall of the house, calling her name and heard no answer back. I was shouting now, racing into every room, it’s not a big house, but she wasn’t there. Then I checked the front door. It was shut, but just like the one in our room, it was unlocked.

I was bloody panicking at this point. I grabbed a torch and slid on my shoes and I ran into the street. I thought at first to shout for her, but I had a sudden fear that the neighbours might not take kindly to an Asian woman waking them up in the middle of the night. Instead I hissed her name and swept the beam around as I zigzagged through the streets and alleys. There was no one – even the usual nightlife was mostly absent, thanks to the rumours of a rabid dog on the loose. I was down at the pier before I started really shouting for her, and then my torch beam caught something white up on the East Cliff, at the bench Lucy and I had sat at just the other day. I had a brief wave of relief that I’d found her, that she’d just sleepwalked her way into one of our strolls.

I ran up the slope of the cliff towards her. It was a full moon last night, which was helping with the search. I’d turned my torch off, but then clouds slipped up over the moon as I neared the top, darkening everything so that for a moment I felt almost blinded. It was only for a moment, however, and then the moon was back and everything was extremely crystalline clear on the cliff side – the old Abbey, the churchyard, our bench, and yes, that was Lucy, half-lying down on it.

But, John—she wasn’t alone. I sort of told Artie, but I didn’t give him all the details because in my own mind I feel I must have been somehow dreaming. My feet felt as though they had lead weight on them, as if I could only move in slow motion towards Lucy and the thing that was bending over her, the long, black thing stretched over her, touching her, and I screamed her name and it looked up at me and its face was so white and its eyes were so red but I couldn’t move fast enough.

Then the clouds passed over the moon again and suddenly I could run to her side. The thing was gone. Lucy was sleeping soundly, but breathing strangely, long raspy breaths like she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. When I tried to look at her, she shrugged off my touch and pulled up her pyjamas up over her throat. She was so very cold, I took off my own robe and threw it over her, then gently shook her until she woke up. It look a long while, until she blinked her eyes open like a little child, just an adorable face, and then the cuteness was gone and she shuddered and clung to my arm. After she stopped trembling, whether from the cold or the shock of being woken from her sleepwalking, she gulped and said, “Let’s get home, Mins.”

I would have just taken her home, but I saw the blood spots seeping through the collar of her pyjamas and made her stop. She didn’t want me to look at them at first, kept saying it was nothing, but I batted her hands away until I could pull it down. Well, it wasn’t nothing, they were two nasty punctures and a smear of blood. Suddenly her low body temperature and trembling took on a much more sinister tone and I insisted we call 999.

The doctors confirmed she was in mild shock – lost almost a liter of blood. Nothing life threatening, she’s bandaged up and home already, with an updated tetanus jab since they think she stuck herself on something in the churchyard. When I told them I thought she might have been attacked by someone – well, I could hardly tell them what I thought I saw, could I? So without the details, and since it doesn’t look like a knife or a bite, they think it was an accident.

And it probably is. But I swear it reminded me of this illustration in a children’s book I’d read growing up, New Tales of Vikram and the Vetal. They’re just a collection of fairy tales, but supposedly they were narrated, Scheherazade-style, by a creature called vetal, that hangs upside down beside graveyards and possesses corpses to make them walk again, like zombies. I really hated the picture of the vetal when I was little, with its pasty white skin, red eyes and mouth, clinging to Vikram’s back and telling its stories.

Boogeymen, black dogs, ghost ships, maybe Whitby really is haunted.

I'm glad we're leaving it all behind soon.

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August 8th

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August 8th

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From: Mina M****y <*********@gmail.com> To: John Harker <******************@gmail.com> Date: August 7th, 20** at 9:12 pm

It’s been a long day and I’m typing this from my bed. Maybe I can get to sleep early tonight, and hope for no bad dreams. If nothing else perhaps a doctor will give me something to help with sleep.

I went to George Swales’ funeral today, without telling Lucy. It was sparsely attended, mostly by a few union members and his great-niece. I haven’t seen enough Christian funerals to know for certain that the sermon was boilerplate, but it was missing the details I’ve heard from the few I’ve been to, just generic reassurances that he was in a better place. Clearly the minister didn’t know him, nor had anyone much to tell him about the deceased.

I sat near the back of the church to avoid notice, but it was to no avail as his great-niece approached me afterwards. She wanted to know how I knew her great-uncle, and so at first I lied, or rather kept things from her. I told her we’d met in passing a week ago and I’d been stunned to find out that he’d died shortly after that.

“Uncle George was no saint,” she admitted to me. “He’s outlived the few friends and loved ones he had left, and I suppose it’s good to have another person at the service…”

I decided to tell her a little about our conversation, then, just that he’d insulted me but apologized for it, and that he’d voiced regrets about the way he’d lived his life. That seemed to give her some measure of comfort. Even if there’s nothing I can do for Swales wherever he’s off to now, I feel some satisfaction that I could offer comfort to his family.

She actually offered to take me out for tea, but I refused, knowing Lucy would be missing me. Which she was, and none too pleased when I explained what I’d been about. But she hid it, because I imagine she knows the stress I’ve been under and how that can turn a body sentimental.

“You know, I hope he is reborn. Maybe as something nasty to teach him some humility.”

“Or as the kind of person he hated to teach him empathy?” I offered.

“That would work too.” She sighed “You’re too nice, Mina, I don’t know how you manage to make it in this world.”

“Well, it helps to have a tough-as-nails friend who’s always there to protect me.”

She laughed at that one and the difference was mended. I wonder what we look like, walking alongside each other on the beaches here. I’m half a head taller than her, three years older, who would imagine that anyone might think she’s the tough one? Actually, I’d rather think they’d think we’re a couple.

Which you’ve joked about before, and we even had that one conversation about it where I never you gave an answer, and I suppose that answer is perhaps? Lucy’s never been interested in women, but if she had gone after me rather than pushing me towards you, perhaps our friendship might have developed into something more? I just want her to be happy so badly after everything she’s done for me, for us, really, since your disappearance.

You know what, just ignore me, I’m rambling about unfinished conversations we had years ago, because I’m exhausted, so I’m heading to sleep early tonight. We leave the day after tomorrow. And we can finish all our conversations once you get back home.

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From: Mina M****y <*********@gmail.com> To: John Harker <******************@gmail.com> Date: August 7th, 20** at 7:51 pm

The ship was removed from the harbour today by tugboats, and the body sent packed up to head on a plane back to the Ukraine, where the captain’s family is waiting for burial. I suppose the rest of the crew’s family will have to make due with letters of condolence for their loss. More gravestones without bodies beneath them.

There have been all kinds rumours flying about Whitby as people wonder about what could have killed all those poor men. I see Lucy get agitated every time she hears them. When I called her on it, she said, “It freaks me out, is all. Thinking about that sort of thing happening in real life. It’s all fine when you’re reading a book or watching a film, but could you imagine it? Being aboard a ship as everyone gets picked off one by one?” and then she shuddered. It doesn’t help, I suppose, that the main theory is that the captain went mad and murdered the crew, all the while believing it to be some nefarious Other aboard the boat committing his own violent deeds.

But that doesn’t explain the mystery of the dog. There have been multiple reports of pets dying in animal attacks in the last few days, and everyone who pays any attention to it is sure that it’s the beast that had been aboard the ship. But where could it have come from? And could it really have killed all those men?

My hunches about its first victim in Whitby turned out to be correct; I found the old man’s obituary the other day. His name was George Swales, and he was 96. His funeral is in two days, and I plan on attending, though how I can keep this from Lucy I don’t know. She wouldn’t approve, I know, and I have no rational reason for wanting to do it. For all I know his family will call me slurs as well.

Yet I do want to go. I need some resolution to whatever that was on the beach. His premonition, our moment of connection. I need to know that meant something, that meeting me effected some change in him.

Or maybe I just need a funeral to go to give myself an excuse to cry.

Lucy and I have been taking walks along the seaside when we’re not about shopping or eating or taking jaunts into the countryside. We talk about everything, about you and Artie and my work and how her degree is going. There’s a bench up along the East Cliff that has become our usual stopping point, where we sit and finish whatever conversation we were absorbed in, then let the silence settle as we watch the sea and listen to the echoes of passers-by.

Today that silence was interrupted by Lucy admitting that she’d been dreaming about the dog. She gets up and sleepwalks at least twice every night, and I have to bring her back every time. She says that in her dreams she isn’t being chased by the dog, the way one usually would be given the frightening nature of the stories about it, but rather pursuing it. It isn’t her dog in the dreams, so she’s not trying to recover it. Instead the chase is a sort of game, exciting to pursue something so strong and dangerous – until she catches it and it turns to look at her and its eyes are shining and red.

“Which is when I want to wake up, but I don’t. I just teleport somewhere else, here in Whitby or in London or even places I’ve never seen before, deep forests somewhere, and then the chase starts all over again.” She gave a big sigh then. “Maybe that’s why I’m so tired.”

We’ve both agreed that she really must see a doctor once we’re back in London. Only a few more days left in Whitby, and then we can get away from all of this.

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From: Mina M****y <*********@gmail.com> To: John Harker <******************@gmail.com> Date: August 5th, 20** at 8:14 pm

Dear John,

Our uneventful stay at Whitby has suddenly turned into a sensational event. The storm I’d seen two days ago sent a freighter that was supposed to be landing in London crashing into our much smaller docks. It’s been all the local news has covered, though my grandparents say it’s been buried in the back pages in London. I’ll send you the links to the articles, but as a tl;dr the entire crew either disappeared or died on the voyage from Romania. To be honest, a part of me wonders if you might know more about this than we do as of yet, since most of the crew – though not the captain – was Romanian. Has the news where you are mentioned anything about the ship’s tragedy?

Are you even able to read it?

I won’t be gloomy about this. No pessimistic Mina allowed, I believe you’re safe, somewhere. Life here in Whitby is offering me enough distractions. Lucy managed to get out past the door of their bedroom even though Artie’s had it locked the last several nights. I fortunately overheard her walking in the hallway and caught her before she reached the stairway and risked a fall; Lucy said that happened a few times when she was young. Unfortunately Artie just received a call this afternoon that his father has taken ill, and so he’s headed back to London tomorrow morning. I’ve offered to camp out in Lucy’s room to keep an eye on her in his absence. She’s game for it, though I did warn her that you’ve told me I hog the covers (sharing a bed on a regular basis may be the biggest hurdle of our marriage).

Artie has raised the idea of seeing doctor about her sudden return to sleepwalking, but Lucy’s hesitant and wants to wait until we’re back to London. I have to admit I was surprised when she protested. She’s not usually the kind to put off receiving attention for her health. But then again we’ve had mixed reactions from the locals and perhaps that’s put her off to it.

It’s not hard to feel uncomfortable here. The wreck of the ship is still tilted on the coast, and then there are the stories spreading on the streets about the black dog that supposedly fled the scene after the crash. I read the Gazette this morning and it’s even mentioned in the captain’s log. The worst of the rumours is that an elderly man who died yesterday had a heart attack after being attacked by it. And I can’t help but remember the old man’s words to me on the beach, that he’d seen dreams of a black dog that omened his death. I’ve been watching the death notices just to put down my own superstitious paranoia.

And yet…there has been so much happening now, so much agitation in my life, the idea that it is all connected is somehow inescapable, as irrational as it may be. It’s all this whirlpool slowly dragging in every part of my life to make a vast chaos that overwhelms me.

When we go back to London, I may take Jack’s advice and find a counsellor. I just continue to hope that I’ll get news of you before that happens and all this gloomy nonsense in my head will be gone.

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From: Mina M****y <*********@gmail.com> To: John Harker <******************@gmail.com> Date: August 2nd, 20** at 7:33 pm Subject: Strange evening

There’s a bad storm coming in as I write this. The wind is howling through the streets of Whitby like the barguest that supposedly lurks on the cliffs. I never did get around to reading The Witches of Whitby or Stoker’s retelling of the legend, but Lucy’s been most informative. It’s unsettling to hear now after the conversation I had late this afternoon.

I was on the beach by myself while Artie and Lucy saw a movie at the Pavilion. The weather had been lovely earlier in the day, but as the sun started setting off to the hills behind the city, the sea grew dark not just from the coming night but from thick banks of clouds, their fronts illuminated by the last rays of daylight. It grew colder than my jacket could manage, and I was preparing to hike back up to the theatre to wait for them inside.

That’s when the old man approached me. The one who’d spat a slur at me the other day. I’ve been on my guard a little ever since then. Yes, the confrontation with them may have gone well, but you never know about retaliation, do you? And here he was, limping up to me, this rather lost look on his face. I made to walk away, hoping he hadn’t seen me, but he called out “Miss!” to me and I realised he was in fact looking for me.

I slipped my phone out of my bag to have it in hand in case I needed to call 999, and asked him, a little curtly, what he wanted.

“I want to apologize, miss. The younger boys gave me a right tongue-lashing for how I behaved the other day, said I was showing my age, still saying things like that. And it is true, I’m a man of the last century, born more than ninety years ago. And you get to be my age, you don’t like changes or newcomers of any kind. We’re daffled like that.” (I’m not attempting to mimic his accent here, but it was quite thick)

I told him I understood and I accepted his apology, and I thought that would be enough, but he went on talking.

“I been thinking about them men, buried up on the cliff or dumped out at sea. We all wind up somewhere like that in the end. Living is just waiting for something else than what we’re doing, and death is all that we can rightly depend on. I’m nearer it than you. I think my time’s coming soon. I’ve had dreams, you see, of a black dog. Maybe it’s just the tales getting to my head, but there’s something coming.” He turned his head to look out at the darkening ocean sky. “And when you see death coming, things like your skin or your country don’t mean quite as much. We’re all headed to dirt. From dust you are and to dust you shall return, right miss?”

I told him that growing up Hindu I’d always heard that death is as if you’re trading an old garment for a new one when you pass to a new life.

“Another life’d be nice, getting to start all over. And this suit I’m wearing is getting ragged for sure.” As if on cue he had a coughing fit, and I felt moved to step closer and ask if he was all right.

“Like I said miss, I’ve been on this earth more than ninety years. I’m not afraid of death. I just want it to come quick and easy, and when I’m ready.” He had another coughing fit, and I dared to lay a hand on his shoulder. That surprised him, but there was something in his eyes that was infinitely sad. I believe he really had seen some sort of premonition of his death – why else the sudden change in attitude? It was all so disturbing that everything he said is trapped in my memory now. I may not be getting all his words exactly right here, but they’re close to it.

After he finished coughing, he made a few passing comments about the weather, telling me to stay safe this evening. And then he tottered off down the beach.

I haven’t told Lucy about any of this because I think she’ll think I’m being foolish, not just for thinking about death omens but for having compassion on an old bigot. But he is right. Whether or not we rot or pass to heaven or reincarnate, death is our great equalizer. We all pass through it at some point.

I saw something out at sea too, that made me have my own sense of foreboding. There was a dark shape under the clouds, like a ship but with no lights on it, and it seemed as if a mist spread out before it. It must have been some sort of optical illusion, but like the old man’s word it won’t leave my mind. I took a photo, you can see for yourself, though it’s not very clear.

The rain just started pounding on the windows and it’s getting late. Maybe this email is too long, but as I said, I can’t tell Lucy and I needed to tell someone.

Yours, Mina

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August 1st

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From: Mina M****y <*********@gmail.com> To: John Harker <******************@gmail.com> Date: July 31st, 20** at 9:05 am Subject: So that happened

I need to share this because it is both wonderful and hilarious but I know at the start of reading this you’ll be angry because, well, I was. But you know me, I’m not always the best at expressing my anger, which is why it is good to have a friend along to help you. Even if her ‘plans’ usually need more than a little work.

I had a run-in with a batch of racists the other day – nothing violent, just unpleasant slurs. I was ready to just walk it off – literally, I pounded the steps up to the Abbey – but Lucy doesn’t do that. Because Lucy is not sensible. Which is why she is wonderful, yes, but her plan to deal with it was to come in, flirt with them, then reveal tada! I was her friend the entire time and lecture them on how they treated me.

To which all I could do was sigh and tell her that no, they didn’t do it to her, they did it to me. And I didn’t need for her to lecture them for me, not when I had a better idea.

So here’s how it happened: Lucy went down to the pier, taking candid pictures with her phone and sending them to me until she found the same crowd. They were a mix of people, dockworkers and sailors, a wide range of ages. The oldest of them, a really wizened fellow, was the same one who’d been nasty to me the day before, though that hadn’t stopped the younger ones from either chuckling or doing nothing about it.

Once I’d given her the go-ahead, Lucy strolled up to them smiling and turned on her charm. I was a ways off so I couldn’t hear the entirety of what she said, but when I received a text from her telling me “let’s go,” I came around the bend and saw them all laughing at some joke she’d made. Then, still with a big smile on her face, she turned to me and went “Oh Mina! I have to introduce you to these people I just met!” and then threw an arm around me shoulder.

To which I just said in reply, “Oh no, I met them yesterday.” And stared at them, perfect smile on my face.

Oh John you’d have loved how the blood just drained out of their faces, every one of them calculating whether the pretty young woman they’d been conversing with knew what they’d said to her friend. Wondering whether they were in trouble for it, wondering what they should think about their new acquaintance because of her friendship with me.

“Really?” Lucy asked.

“Oh yes. What have you been talking about with them?”

“The gravestones, and how half of them don’t even have bodies.”

“Really?” I said. “That sounds more interesting than the conversation we had.”

Then Lucy launched into one of her rambles, relating to me everything they’d said, turning to them periodically for confirmation and expansion, and all of them had to uncomfortably talk to me to keep up appearances around Lucy.

You see, they’d made me afraid. There’s violence in that language. And as much as I might want to make them feel that same fear, if I’m going to believe in nonviolence at all I have to resist it. Be angry but not act on the anger. So instead I decided I wanted to make them understand what it’s like to have your nice moment interrupted by an awful sense of unease. A few of them made excuses and ran off rather quickly, but the surprising thing was that the ones who remained – well, they stopped being as awkward after a while.

As we went to leave, one of them tapped me on the shoulder and apologized for his friend’s behaviour the other day, and for not having told him to ‘shut the fuck up’ about it. I don’t know if he would have been sorry had Lucy lectured him, but I think I awoke a sense of shame in him. My first attempt at satyagraha actually worked!

Not that it wasn’t nerve-wracking pulling it off – I had no idea if they’d react violently or not – but afterwards we were both so elated. We met Artie for lunch across the river at Bino’s Bistro, then went down to the beach.

It was a positive experience, but there’s still something that’s been bothering me since. Not anything about the racism, about the conversation about the gravestones. So many sailors back in the day, they said, died overseas or received sea burials that many of the stones in the cemetery have nothing buried beneath them. Some of the men cracked jokes about how it would be hard to raise a zombie army in Whitby. Others were more philosophical, noting that the dead don’t care where their bodies lie. Gravestones are for the mourners who are left behind.

Which is what I fear I am with every passing day, John. Am I going to have a gravestone for you, lost overseas where I can’t find you? I tell myself a hundred times a day not to give up hope, but the morbid thought still haunts me.

Hope to hear from you soon, Mina

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July 29th