Phillips was far toward the back, on the opposite side of the cemetery. The memorial read: william Campbell

PHILLIPS, AUGUST 9, 1888-MARCH 3,1918 HE DIED SO THAT DEMOCRACY MIGHT LIVE.

The ground above the grave was freshly churned, as if someone had been digging there recently and had tossed the soil back in haphazardly. There were several circular depressions nearby, some almost eighteen inches across, where the concave earth had seemed to sag.

Mike's parents were calling to him from the parking strip of grass beyond the black fence. He ran to join them.

Father C. was glad to see him. "Rusty can't get the Latin right even when he reads it," said the priest. "Here, have another cookie."

Mike's appetite still hadn't returned, but he took the cookie. "I need help, Father," he said between bites. "Your help."

"Anything, Michael," said the priest. "Anything at all."

Mike took a deep breath and began, telling the whole story. He'd resolved to do it during the lucid periods of his fever, but now that he'd started, it sounded even crazier than he'd thought. But he kept going.

When he finished there was a brief silence. Father Cavan-augh looked at him with hooded eyes. The priest's five-o'clock shadow was in evidence.

"Michael, you're serious about this? You wouldn't be pulling my leg, would you?"

Mike stared.

"No, I guess you wouldn't." Father C. let out a long sigh. "So you think that you've seen this soldier's ghost . . ."

"Uh-uh," Mike began vehemently. "That is, I don't think it's a ghost. I could see where it bent the screen in. It was . . . solid."

Father C. nodded, still watching Mike carefully. "But it could hardly be the William Campbell . . . whatever "

"Phillips."

"William Campbell Phillips, yes. It could hardly be him after forty-two years ... so we're talking about a ghost or some sort of spiritual manifestation, correct?"

It was Mike's turn to nod.

"And you want me to do what, Michael?"

"An exorcism, Father. I've read about them in True and . . ."

The priest shook his head. "Michael, Michael . . . exorcisms were a product of the Middle Ages, a form of folk magic done to drive demons out of people when everyone thought that everything from illness to bedsores was caused by demons. You don't think this . . . this apparition you saw when you were suffering from fever was a demon, do you?"

Mike didn't correct Father C. about when he saw the Soldier. "I don't know," he said truthfully. "All I know is that it's after Memo and that I think you can do something about it. Will you go with me to the cemetery?"

Father Cavanaugh frowned. "Calvary Cemetery is sanctified ground, Michael. There's little I could do there that has not already been done. The dead there lie peacefully."

"But an exorcism ..."

"An exorcism is meant to drive spirits out of a body or place they are possessing," interrupted the priest. "You're not suggesting that the spirit of this soldier has inhabited either your grandmother or your home, are you?"

Mike hesitated. "No. .."

"And exorcisms are used against demonic forces, not the spirits of the departed. You know that we say prayers for our dead, don't you, Michael? We don't subscribe to the primitive tribal beliefs that the souls of the dead are malevolent . . . things to be avoided."

Mike shook his head, confused. "But will you come out to the cemetery with me, Father?" He did not know why it was so important, but he knew that it was.

"Of course. We can go right now."

Mike glanced toward the rectory windows. It was almost dark. "No, I meant tomorrow, Father."

"Tomorrow I have to leave right after early Mass to meet a Jesuit friend in Peoria," said the priest. "I'll be gone until very late. Tuesday and Wednesday I'll be back on retreat at St. Mary's. Can it wait until Thursday?"

Mike chewed his lip. "Let's go now," he said. There was still some light. "Can you bring something?"

Father Cavanaugh hesitated in the act of pulling on his windbreaker. "What do you mean?"

"You know, a crucifix. Better yet, a Host from the altar. Something in case it's there."

The older man shook his head. "The death of your friend has bothered you, hasn't it, Michael? Are we living a vampire movie now? Would you have me remove the Body of Our Lord from its sanctuary for a game?"

"Some holy water then," said Mike. He pulled a plastic water bottle from his pocket. "I brought this."

"Very well," sighed Father C. "You get our liquid ammunition while I get the Popemobile out of the garage. We'll have to hurry if we're going to get out there before the vampires arise for the night." He chuckled, but Mike didn't hear it. He was already out the door and running for St. Malachy's, water bottle in hand.

Dale's mother had called Dr. Viskes the day before, on Saturday. The Hungarian refugee had given Dale a hurried physical, noting the chattering teeth and the subdued symptoms of terror, announced that he was "not a child zykologist," prescribed warm soup and no more comic books or Saturday monster movies for the boy, and gone off mumbling to himself.

Dale's mom had been upset, calling friends to find the name of an Oak Hill or Peoria doctor who was a child psychologist, calling Chicago twice to leave messages at her husband's hotel, but Dale had calmed her down. "I'm sorry, Mom," he'd said while sitting up in bed, restraining shivers and fighting to control his voice. It helped that it was daylight. "I've just always been scared of the basement," he said. "When the lights went out again and I felt that cat under the water . . . well ..." He managed to look ashamed and chagrined and sane again. Only the last part was difficult.

His mother calmed down, bringing him enough hot soup to drown the dead cat all over again. Kevin came over, but was told that Dale was resting. Lawrence came back from visiting his friend, waited until their mother was back downstairs, and whispered, "Did you really see something?"

Dale hesitated a second. Lawrence had his fair share of annoying kid-brother habits, but telling secrets wasn't one of them. "Yeah," he said.

"What was it?" whispered Lawrence, coming closer to Dale's bed but not getting his legs too near his own bed. He didn't trust the dark under there even in the daytime.

"Tubby Cooke," whispered Dale, feeling the terror well up in him like nausea just from saying the words. "He was dead ... but his eyes opened." As soon as Dale said it, he was glad that he hadn't been that specific with his mom or Mr. Grumbacher. He'd probably be sitting in a padded cell somewhere by now if he had.

Lawrence just nodded. Dale realized with a shock that his brother believed him immediately, implicitly, and without reservation. "It probably won't come back till tonight," said Lawrence. "We'll get Mom to leave all the lights on."

Dale let out a long breath. He just wished everything could be solved as simply as Lawrence thought it could: leave the lights on.

They'd left the lights on Saturday night. And taken turns sleeping and standing watch . . . lying watch, rather, for Dale lay reading Superman comics and watching the shadowed corners. Once, sometime around three, there came the slightest of sounds from beneath Lawrence's bed ... the faintest rustle as of a kitten stirring from its nap . . . and Dale sat up" and gripped the tennis racket he'd brought to bed with him.

But the scratching was not repeated. Toward dawn, when the spaces between the black leaves beyond the screens began to be lighter than the leaves themselves, Dale allowed himself to sleep. His mother came in to rouse them for church around eight, but finding both boys so dead tired, she allowed them to go back to bed.

It was Sunday evening after supper ... the same hour that Mike O'Rourke was riding out Jubilee College Road with Father C. to the cemetery . . . and Dale and Lawrence were in the backyard, using the last of the evening light to play catch, when they heard a quiet Eeawkee from the front yard.