I found my father greatly changed-indeed, Arden Farm itself seemed changed. Winter was the time he usually pruned the trees, but now as I stood next to him at the window, I saw the sucker branches reaching sharply into the winter sky, casting strange shadows everywhere.

“Half my orchard has been felled,” he remarked, and I knew he was not talking of the trees, but of the toll consumption had taken on his family. “First Rebecca, then Robert and Daniel. Last month, your mother-dearest Sarah! I’ve said prayers and made my peace with the Lord. And still he wants more. Is this my God?”

“Noah and I are healthy,” I replied, trying to keep his spirits up. “And Julia is with her husband in Peacedale. She’s well.”

From the other room, we heard the sound of Nathan’s cough. “Now my youngest!” my father said.

“Noah and I will care for Nathan. He’ll get better.”

But neither of us could easily hope that Nathan would recover. Too many times in the past year, consumption had robbed us of those we loved. Ten-year-old Rebecca’s cough started early in 1891, and her illness progressed slowly at first. She rallied in the spring, and we thought all would be well. But in August, the cough came back. She was soon coughing up blood-we knew she would not live long after the blood started. By the end of the month, she was dead.

Robert and Daniel, my older brothers, took ill the week before Rebecca’s funeral. Mother wrote to me less often, her time taken up with care of them. When she did write, her letters were filled with news of neighbors who had also taken ill, or of the advice given to her by Dr. Ashford. “He tells me to give to them fresh air, to keep them clean, to change their clothes often,” she wrote. “I confess to you, dear John, that I am quite worn down-each day, I take them outdoors, read to them, and try to keep their spirits up. This is the most difficult of all my duties. They miss Rebecca, and they know their own symptoms are identical to hers. Still, I will do all I can to keep my boys alive. God keep you safe, John!”

But despite all her efforts, by October, I came home again-for Robert’s funeral. And thus I was there, three days later, when Daniel told us he had dreamt of Rebecca and Robert.

“They were here, sitting on my bed. They weren’t sick. They said I had helped them to get better.” Two days later, he passed away during the night.

I returned to school, but Mother’s letters grew fewer still. I thought it was grief that kept her from writing, but when I came home for the Christmas holidays, I immediately realized that the cause was otherwise-the wracking cough of consumption was no longer an unfamiliar sound to any of us.

“Why did you not tell me?” I asked my father.

“She did not want us to take you from your school,” he said. “She has come to believe you will be safer there than here.”

I hurried to her bedside. She looked so thin and weak.

“John, you are home!” she whispered to me as I sat beside her. “Rebecca, Daniel, and Robert are with the Lord. I’ll be with them soon. They are good children. They’ll not bother me. I have not dreamt of them. They won’t come and take me.”

“What does she mean?” I asked my father, when she fell asleep again.

“Winston!” he said angrily. “He’s all about the village, telling everyone that the consumption is caused by vampires.”

“Vampires!”

“Yes. He tells his tales to any who will hear him. Gets the most ignorant of them to believe that the spirits of the dead consume the living, and thus the living are weakened!”

“But surely no one believes such things!”

“In the absence of any cure, do you blame them for grasping at any explanation offered to them? Grief and fear will lead men to strange ways, Johnny, and Winston can persuade like the devil himself!”

“Yes, he was ever one to seek attention,” I agreed.

“He has gained a great deal of it during this crisis,” my father said. “And the rituals he has driven some of the more superstitious ones to perform! It sickens me!” He shivered in disgust.

Mother died two nights after Christmas, as Father held her, singing hymns to her. The next day, he dressed her in her favorite dress and sent word to the undertaker. The stonecarver had already completed her headstone, and her burial place had long been chosen.

Noah wrote to me of Nathan’s illness in late January of 1892, and I hurried home again. That first night back, as I studied my father’s face, etched in grief, I saw that my mother’s death had wounded him even more deeply than I had imagined. I had never doubted their love or devotion to one another, but I had not before realized how much of his strength must have come from her. If this great man could be made so weak, what would become of us? I suddenly felt as small and frightened as a boy of Nathan’s age.

“Papa!” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at me and smiled a little. “It is some time since you called me ‘Papa.’”

“You-you need your sleep,” I said. “Won’t you go up to bed?”

The smile faded. “So empty, that room…” he murmured.

“Please, it’s so late and you seem so tired-”

“I cannot-I will not be able to sleep there.”

Understanding dawned. “Then I’ll make a place up for you here, near the fire. But you must sleep. Please. Nathan and Noah need you. I need you.”

And so he consented, but when I left him to go back to Nathan, he was staring into the fire.

The next morning, my father gently shook me awake. I sat up stiffly in the chair next to the bed where Nathan still slept. I could hear our dogs barking. Father gestured for me to step into the hallway.

“Winston is on his way up the drive! I’ve asked Noah to delay him all he can. But I must tell you this-make sure Nathan hears nothing of his foolish talk.”

I started to tell him that Nathan’s head was already full of Winston’s foolish talk, but he had hurried off.

I stood near the window of Nathan’s room, straining to hear the conversation that was taking place below. Winston was a large man, whose new derby, well-made coat and fine boots signaled his prosperity, but could not improve his rough features. As my father approached, Winston’s pock-marked cheeks were flush. He eyed the dogs warily, until Noah called them to heel.

“Will you not ask me in, neighbor?” Winston asked, fingering his heavy gold watch chain.

“My youngest is ill,” my father said firmly. “I would not have you disturb him.”

My father’s lack of hospitality did not delay Winston from his mission. He took a deep breath, and said in loud voice, “I fear for my community, for my neighbors and their families! I know you’re scared for what remains of yours, too. I can see it in your eyes, Arden. Rebecca took the boys, then they took Sarah. Now, Sarah’s taking Nathan. John and Noah will follow, and you’ll be last. Julia may be far away enough to be safe, but there is no certainty of that.”

“My family’s safety is my own concern, Winston.”

“Your obligation is greater than you perceive, Arden!” Winston shot back. “The vampires look beyond your family! Lavinia Gardner has the consumption.”

“Isaac’s wife is ill?” my father asked, dismayed.

“Yes. And she’s dreamt of your wife! There’s only one way to stop this-the ritual must be performed! It has worked for Robinson, and others as well. This is a warning, Arden! If you’re afraid to do what is necessary, I’ll do it myself!”

“You’ll go nowhere near the graves of my beloved!” Father shouted. “I know of your ritual, Winston. I’ve spoken with Robinson. He’s not the same man-he’s alive, but he looks for all world as if he believes himself damned.”

“Nonsense!” Winston blustered. “What’s more important, Arden? Maintaining your own selfish prejudices, or the survival of Carrick Hollow? Our eldest sons and daughters are fleeing-they’ve taken factory jobs in Providence and Fall River.”