“Never you mind that right now,” the old lady led Renee toward one of the older crypts. “Come on now. Hurry.”

Renee stopped, “This is where my great great great
grandparents are buried,” she whispered.

“What say,” the lady turned to her, eyes narrowed.

Renee cleared her throat, “I said, this is where my
grandparents are buried. At least, my grandfather is. Third great grandfather. With his sixth wife. He kept outliving them.” She was mumbling by the time she finished.

Her eyes met the old lady’s. She had seen those eyes in all the old photographs. Even in family paintings before cameras. In too many generations.

The thunder of hooves on pavement broke them from their inaction. Before Renee could react otherwise, the woman had gripped her wrist and held her fast.

“He’s here,” she hissed. “He who rides the Pale Horse. It’s my time, again.”

The horse and his rider came to a stop just short of Renee and the old woman. The horse lowered his head to Renee, then pawed the ground at her feet.