The Echo Man

Chapter 18

It is said of Mozart that he could never sit still for his barber running instead to his clavier every time he had an idea, forcing the man tasked with tonsorial duties to chase after him, ribbons in hand.

I understand. Sometimes, when the music of the dead is loud, I cannot sit still, I must go out and begin the hunt anew.

For now I watch and wait, idling, my killing instruments at the ready.

I survey the ground before me. The cemetery looks so different in the daytime. No glowering ghouls, no hovering apparitions. Just the dead. Just a chorus of plaintive voices asking for justice, for answers, for truth.

I watch the people scramble callously about, the decaying dead underfoot, souls trampled beneath the weight of duty. We all know why we are here.

There. From the other side.

Can you hear it?

It is the rooster, a fresh voice in the choir.

The carnivale has come to town.