the death catchers, by jennifer anne kogler

The Prologue

Mrs. Vicky Tweedy

Room 122, En glish Building

Crabapple High School

Crabapple, CA 91292

Dear Mrs. Tweedy,

I know that a letter may not be what you had in mind when

you said I could save myself from fl unking your class by writing

a defense paper on the topic Why I Should Still Pass En glish Even

Though I Did Not Turn in My Final Project. By the way, I honestly

could’ve given you a big hug right on the spot if I didn’t think

word would spread that weirdo Lizzy Mortimer had stepped

one foot closer to crazy and bear- hugged her En glish teacher.

I’ve got to admit, though, my heart sank when you said that,

in my paper, I had to fi nd a way to “adequately demonstrate my

mastery of the literary devices and techniques” we’d learned

about in class this semester. Sure, I can recite all the terms I’ve

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2

learned— allegories and alliteration and climax and character-

ization and confl ict— and you get the picture. But whenever I

try to write something that’s any good, it’s like I downshift

into auto- horrible- cliché- pilot.

My grandma Bizzy is always saying the same thing to me:

“You have such a gift with words, Lizzy- Loo . . . a way of

throwin’ ’em together like the most unexpectedly tasty word

casserole.” When I began to puzzle over why my grandma thinks

I’m a supergenius with words and a lot of my teachers think I’m

an idiot with them, I realized something. I’m pretty sure I can

talk with the best of them. Ask around. I only get really mixed

up when I write words down.

After Jodi’s letter worked so well, I decided to make my

defense paper a letter. What I’m really doing is pretending I’m

having a conversation with you, except I’m the only one doing

any talking.

I know you may not believe any of it. Two months ago, I

sure wouldn’t have. I seriously thought about making up some-

thing that you’d be more likely to believe.

But I’m so tired of lying to everyone about everything.

Besides, it’s like Bizzy always says— sticking to the truth is the

only guarantee that you’ll keep your story straight.


The Setting

Before I learned my best friend was going to die, I never under-

stood why writers went on and on about setting. It didn’t

make sense to me when Mom would go hog wild if a book was

set someplace exotic like Turkey or Malawi or Canada. The

way I fi gured it, people were what moved a story forward, you

know? I realized the time and place where events occurred

were important, but whenever I read a book, I usually

skimmed the background stuff because it made my eyes droop.

You can do a lot of things when your eyes are drooping, but

concentrating on a book is not one of them.

Of course, I was dead wrong about setting. Don’t get me

wrong. I know people are really important to any story—

especially mine, where most everybody turned out to be totally

diff erent than I thought they were. But I’m now sure none of

this sinister stuff could’ve happened anywhere but Crabapple.

So, though I’ll try not to bore you, Mrs. Tweedy, there are cer-

tain things about this town that aren’t at all what they seem.


4

The offi cial name on the welcome sign is Crabapple- by-

the- Sea, but the town is just plain old Crabapple to everyone

except the occasional tourist.

Let’s be honest: Crabapple is an odd name for a town. What’s

even odder, though, is that there are no crabs here at all and

the only apples are the ones at Miss Mora’s Market. That doesn’t

really seem like anything worth naming a town over, now

does it?

Crabapple is a little blotch of a village. When you fl y over

it in an airplane, that’s exactly what it looks like— a tiny hunk of

civilization resting on towering, jagged cliff s above the Pacifi c.

There’s one two- lane road leading in and out of town. Some

say Crabapple sprang up as a coastal mining town between

Oregon and San Francisco and later became a retreat for pro-

gressives and freethinkers in the 1920s. I used to think that

explained why there were so many peculiar people living here.

Of course I don’t mean you, Mrs. Tweedy— but peculiar doesn’t

even begin to cover it.

Take, for example, Crabapple’s monthly town “Round

Table” meetings. On the fi rst Monday eve ning of every month,

the whole town crams into the Crabapple Community Center

and votes on proclamations like, “Commuting by bicycle shall be

encouraged whenever possible” (in fact, lots of people, including me,

ride their bikes around town). I’ve never seen you at a meeting,

Mrs. Tweedy— you probably have a life— but I’m sure you’re

well aware that all house names must be approved by a majority

of citizens at town meetings.


5

Many of the houses in Crabapple are stone cottages that

look like they’ve been here forever. They all have name plac-

ards out front. There are no street addresses at all. Some house

names are historic, some are geographic, some descriptive, and

others nobody’s quite sure about. It’s supposed to be quaint, but

I fi nd it confusing more than anything else (as does the postman,

Mr. Westerberg, I’m sure). Our house is named Beside the Point

because it’s on a cliff right next to a lookout over the whole

Pacifi c. On the south side of us is The House of Six Gables (the

Dandos planned on the traditional seven gables but ran out of

money) and to the north, Periwinkle (repainted an eye- popping

blue violet color every summer by the McGraw brothers).

At a Round Table town meeting a few years ago, Bizzy

almost got into a shoving match with the head of the Crabapple

Historical Preservation Society, Mr. Primrose. The grouchiest

man in Crabapple, Mr. Nettles, wanted to change the name of

his house from Windbreaker to Breaking Wind, in recognition

of his newfound habit of public fl atulence. Mr. Primrose, out-

raged, argued “the name would bring shame and dishonor to

each of Crabapple’s citizens.” My grandma Bizzy yelled out that

Mr. Primrose should consider renaming his own home The

Cranky Cottage. I didn’t think it was that funny, but it got a big

laugh from the crowd. Things got heated and Bizzy and Mr.

Primrose eventually had to be separated. Obviously, Mr. Prim-

rose is one of Bizzy’s many detractors.

I’m no expert on what’s normal, but I’ve watched enough

tele vi sion to know that most towns aren’t anything like


6

Crabapple. Which is why I should’ve realized how strange

(and terrifying) Crabapple was long before I did.

Even the weather here is unusual. Bizzy says that Crabapple

doesn’t have air, it has fog. It’s true. Large, soggy cotton fi ngers

of fog creep in from the Pacifi c at night, seize Crabapple, and

don’t let go until mid afternoon when the sun fi nally slaps them

away from above.

Anyway, Crabapple is really where everything in this story

happens. Except, of course, if you want to get really technical,

some of it happened a long, long time ago, in a place called the

Isle of Avalon.

But I really should tell you about the horror at the ceme-

tery before I get into all that history stuff .


The Mood

Mrs. Tweedy, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re always

trying to get your students to discuss the mood of the books we

read. “What kind of mood or atmosphere is the author creating with the

setting and fi gurative language?” you ask each time we begin a new

book. Since I’m the author here (a scary thought, I know) and

I’m no genius when it comes to fi gurative language, I’m just

going to go ahead and tell you the mood of this story.

Creepy.

I don’t know how else to put it. Unless shocking counts as

a mood. Because that might work, too. If I had to pinpoint

exactly when things got creepy or shocking or what ever, I’d say

it was the moment I laid eyes on Vivienne le Mort in the Crab-

apple Cemetery. Of course, I didn’t know she was Vivienne le

Mort then— I thought she was your run- of- the- mill loon who

had wandered off from the se nior center on Mission Avenue.

You’re probably wondering why I was at the Crabapple

Cemetery in the fi rst place. Well, I spend a lot of time there for


8

one reason: Jodi Sanchez. You know Jodi Sanchez, Mrs.

Tweedy. She’s my best friend, but you may not like her. She’s

not exactly a teacher’s pet.

Mom says she’s “mouthy.”

Jodi is fourteen— a freshman just like me— but that’s where

our similarities end. Unlike me, Jodi doesn’t seem to care what

people think of her. Her wardrobe is fi lled with punk- rock sta-

ples like pencil- thin suspenders and skinny black jeans, though

she claims she’s more “mod” than punk rock. Either way, she

sticks out like a sore thumb in Crabapple, whereas I just try to

blend in.

As soon as she graduates, Jodi plans on forming a new-

wave punk band. She says the band will be a cross between the

Clash and Beyoncé, called the Destiny Strummers. Though

she’s out there, Jodi is very thoughtful. For instance, when she

talks about the Destiny Strummers’ fi rst nationwide tour, she

always mentions that she’s reserved a place for me and my

fl ute in the band, even though everyone knows that a fl ute is

the opposite of punk rock.

Jodi’s vowed that she’ll never wear a backpack as long as she

lives. Apparently, she thinks backpacks are too “institutional.”

I’m not even sure what she means, but I have no doubt she’ll

stick to her guns. Instead of a backpack, she has this large shoul-

der bag that looks as if it’s made from pieces of a burlap sack

sewn together. A hand- drawn, black- and- white- checkered pat-

tern covers the outside fl ap, along with all sorts of quotes and

pictures Jodi sketched.


9

Anyway, Jodi’s a constant reminder of how two people

can be very diff erent and still be best friends.

If you knew Jodi as well as I do, you’d be able to guess that

Crabapple Cemetery is her kind of place— she’s convinced the

graveyard is fi lled with adventures waiting to be had and mys-

teries waiting to be solved. Personally, I think she likes feeling

as if, at any moment, her life could turn into a horror fi lm.

Regardless, when we’re bored after school, her fi rst suggestion

is to head to the cemetery.

One afternoon near the end of October, when the sun had

just made its fi rst cameo of the day, peeking beneath a bank of

cumulus clouds on its way down to the horizon, Jodi and I

decided to pay the cemetery a visit.

I still wish we hadn’t.

But it’s like Bizzy says— you can never outfox the past, so

there’s no use thinking about it. After pushing open the wrought-

iron gate, Jodi and I weaved our way through the row of white

fi r trees and collection of diff erent- sized tombstones. Many of

the headstones belonged to deceased relatives of current

Crabapple residents. The long shadows of dusk seemed to be

moving with us.

Jodi was headed toward the stone cottage at the top of Cem-

etery Hill, the sloping knoll where the cemetery’s caretaker,

Agatha Cantare, lives. Agatha supervises the cemetery, and from

her cottage on top of Cemetery Hill she can see most of Crab-

apple.

Before we reached the cottage, Jodi stopped next to the


10

most ornate tombstone. It was known as the oldest grave in

the cemetery and looked like a miniature pyramid, coming to

a polished marble point. A name was engraved at the top in

large cursive letters.

Arthur Pendragon

Jodi traced the writing below the engraved name with her

fi nger.

The Most Righ teous Knight of Them AllRest in Peace

687

“Hey, Lizzy, what if Old Arthur really did die in the year

687?” Jodi asked, referring to the long- buried Crabapple resi-

dent by the nickname he’d acquired.

“Crabapple’s been around a long time . . . but not that long,”

I said, moving on to a tombstone, bathed in orange light, with

the name Gawain Orkney carved on it. “I’m sure one of the

Cantares forgot to add the one at the front of the year. Sixteen

eighty seven seems more reasonable, no?” I sounded confi dent,

but no one was exactly sure how old Crabapple was.

Both Jodi and I knew the legend surrounding the dates on

the older tombstones. The Cantare family had been caretakers

of the graveyard for as long as Crabapple had existed. In fact,

not far from Old Arthur’s headstone was the cemetery’s lone


11

statue, depicting Ambrosius Cantare, the fi rst of the Cantares.

Apparently, Ambrosius was a bearded man in long robes and a

cone- shaped hat. Now his stone fi gure is mostly hidden behind

the bushes that have grown up around it. Ambrosius Cantare

had been not only famously illiterate, the story went, but also

incredibly careless with regard to engraving the headstones.

The graveyard was littered with inaccuracies and mistakes—

the oldest granite tombstones had dates that went as far back

as the sixth century. After Ambrosius passed on, generations of

Cantares came and went, but not one bothered to fi x the dates

on the older tombstones. Agatha is the latest in this long line of

careless Cantare caretakers.

She may also be the strangest.

Agatha has two tangled gray braids and wears only white

linen trousers and shirts. Most everyone in town, at one time

or another, has seen Agatha talking to herself among the long

grass and jagged tombstones. People assume she’s completely

bonkers. There are rumors she belongs to a cult. I even heard

Mr. Primrose whisper at a town meeting that she was a pagan,

what ever that means.

All of this, I suppose, is why Jodi’s so fascinated with her.

That afternoon, I trailed behind Jodi, worrying that it was

only a matter of time before we got caught snooping around

Agatha’s cottage.

The cemetery grew darker with each passing minute and

I grew more frightened.

“Her light’s on,” Jodi said, as the sun sank farther below


12

the horizon. She crept up Cemetery Hill, moving from one

gravestone to the next. “That means she’s home.”

Jodi and I crawled up to the cabin, peeking above the win-

dowsill. We had a partial view of Agatha’s living room. Agatha

swayed back and forth in a rocking chair, watching a fi re

blaze, her feet on the brick hearth in front of her.

“She’s just staring into space,” I whispered.

“Shhh!” Jodi commanded.

“Agatha is crazy, Jodi. This is a waste of time.”

“Hold on one minute,” Jodi said softly. “She’s about to say

something.”

Sure enough, Agatha seemed to be talking to someone

on the other side of the room. The half- closed drapes blocked

our view.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the visit, Vivienne,” Agatha

said, her voice soft and sweet, “but I’m afraid your presence

here is a violation of the Great Truce.”

“Why do you continue to stay in this drab village, Agatha,

with petrifi ed Merlin as your only companion?” a voice

res ponded. “You can live anywhere in the mortal world you

choose.”

“I have a lot of fond memories of this place,” Agatha said.

“Doomsday is close, dear sister,” the voice responded. “The

Last Descendant walks among mortals.”

“What’s this?” Agatha asked. The slight tremor in her voice

betrayed her calm appearance.

A woman stepped into the middle of the room in plain


13

view. At least six feet tall, wearing a long, black satin robe, she

towered over Agatha. Her mouth was stuff ed full of crooked

yellow teeth. Her midnight frock and harsh facial features

made her resemble a sinister judge who only ruled in favor of

the guilty and the wicked.

“I have had a vision that the Last Descendant is here in

Crabapple.”

“A vision? You should not be dabbling in arts for which you

have no skill,” Agatha said. She held a pair of knitting needles,

moving her hands in a precise rhythmic pattern in her lap.

“Why are you here, Vivienne? Avalon is where you belong.”

I wanted to leave immediately. But Jodi was still, seem-

ingly transfi xed by the unsettling scene.

“You haven’t had any visions yourself ? You haven’t seen a

boy with the Mark of Arthur?” Vivienne asked.

“I have very limited contact with mortals,” Agatha said.

“And you know very well that since I journeyed here, I no lon-

ger have visions.”

“We all had to make sacrifi ces,” Vivienne replied.

“Indeed,” Agatha said. She continued to stare at her knit-

ting, slowly rocking in her chair.

“You must take solace in the fact that with each breath,

Doomsday nears.”

Agatha raised her hand, waving it dismissively at her sister

before responding. “I have been hearing you prattle on century

after century about Doomsday, and, yet, it has never come.”

“Perhaps, dearest sister,” Vivienne said, her voice oozing


14

sarcasm, “you have grown too comfortable here to listen to rea-

son. But take note: the last Pendragon lives. In fulfi llment of the

fi nal prophecy you made, after he is dead, I will fi nally be in

control.” Vivienne’s voice approached a screech. “You would be

well advised to join me before it is too late.”

“I will not listen to another moment of this nonsense,”

Agatha responded. “Go.”

“We must fi rst deal with the two mortals spying on us

right outside your window,” Vivienne responded.

I looked over at Jodi. As soon as I attempted to turn my

head, I felt a strange stiff ness. I wanted to tap Jodi on the shoul-

der to get her attention, but I couldn’t raise my arm. I tried to

stand up but was frozen on my knees. The connection between

my mind and my muscles had been severed. I attempted to

scream for help, but my mouth wouldn’t move either.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Agatha said.

“You have grown careless, then. There are, in fact, two

mortals outside your cottage. One of them is due to have her

thread cut shortly,” Vivienne added. “But I will not take any

chances and allow their eavesdropping to alter destiny. Their

minds will be cleansed.”

“Do what you must. But should you fail to return directly

to Avalon, I will inform the others,” Agatha threatened.

“Adieu, dear sister,” Vivienne said. Though my head was

frozen in place facing Jodi, out of the corner of my eye, I spot-

ted the vile fl ash of Vivienne’s crimson eyes. “We shall meet

again very soon.”


15

With one fl uid motion, Vivienne fl ung the hood of her

cloak over her head, covering her long golden hair.

Terrifi ed, my mind raced inside my stonelike body.

Jodi was as still as I was.

Vivienne strode toward the door.

Then, an incredible thing happened— something more

unbelievable than the mind- boggling conversation between

Agatha and her frightening sister.

Vivienne walked right through the front door, without

opening it. It was as if the cottage door was a hologram. Either

that, or Vivienne was. I stared at my arm, half- outstretched

toward Jodi, willing it to move. Nothing happened.

Jodi remained in a trance beside me.

Vivienne came around the side of the house and into my

petrifi ed view. She approached us quickly and stopped, loom-

ing directly above us. Her red eyes gleamed in the half dark-

ness of the cemetery. They seized on us. Reaching out, the tall

robed woman placed one spindly hand on each of our heads.

Her hand was as cold as if it were made of solid ice. My head

felt numb. Vivienne’s eyes turned from gleaming red to spin-

ning black whirl pools of terror. I looked into them and swore

my heart stopped beating. Vivienne let her hand linger on our

heads. Jodi’s eyes fl ashed white with fear.

A damp, swirling black cloud rose from the ground where

Vivienne stood, blocking her fi gure.

In an instant, she was gone. The thick midnight- colored

vapor engulfed us.


16

I gasped as if I had been holding my breath underwater for

a minute. I tried to speak. This time, I could.

“Jodi!” I said, reaching for her. “Can you hear me? Jodi, are

you okay?”

Jodi, as still and mute as the tombstones surrounding us,

didn’t budge. She looked dead. I reached for her stiff wrist, des-

perately hoping I’d feel a pulse.


the death catchers, by jennifer anne kogler

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