We Find Some Different Dead Guys St. Mark’s Church looked different at night. It was on 10th Street near Second Avenue, across from a convenience store and an Urban Outfitters, but the church felt like it was in the middle of nowhere—an island of darkness behind its iron fence and wooded yard.
We passed the bench where Annabeth and I had talked on Monday. At the time, it had seemed like a nice place to hang out. Now it seemed like a nice place to get mugged or swarmed by angry spirits.
The gates were black and, like the Aeaea perfumery, decorated with Greek key designs. (Warning! Mythological mayhem inside!) We slipped through and into the cemetery.
More trees, grass, benches. I couldn’t see any headstones, but Annabeth assured me the ancient graves were there under the brick pathways, gnarled tree roots, and thick ivy. I believed her. The air felt ten degrees cooler.
Ground fog clung to my ankles. I hadn’t been in a place this creepy since fifteen minutes ago, when we’d left Hecate’s.
Hecuba and Nope sniffed around, pulling my arms in different directions. The area probably smelled like a high-end buffet to them.
We had the place to ourselves. Out on the avenue, traffic flowed.
Pedestrians went about their business. But the bustling mortal world seemed muted and far away, like we’d already crossed through a veil into the world of the dead. I didn’t like that idea.
“Pete?” I called into the gloom. “Where you at?”
Annabeth elbowed me. “Maybe let’s not call him Pete until we get to know him. His crypt is over there.”
She led us to the side of the church. Under a stained-glass window, at ground level, a dark stone marker was affixed to the wall: IN THIS VAULT LIES
PETRUS STUYVESANT.
There were more words after that, but I was too nervous to read them.
Probably they were the fine print, warning what would happen if Pete’s spirit was disturbed. Results may vary. Do not let ghosts operate heavy machinery. Seek divine help if your dead last longer than twelve hours.
Gale barked, leaping from Grover’s shoulder to mine.
“She says we’d better start,” Grover translated. “The goo is only effective for a few hours at most.”
I wondered if the polecat could feel my shoulders shaking. “Okay.
Annabeth, you good?”
She hefted the unlit torches. It occurred to me that I should’ve brought a box of matches.
“Ready,” she said. “Just help me by concentrating on what we need.”
Right, I thought. I want the spirits to rebuild a haunted house. If this went well, we could start our own show on the Home DIY Channel: Renovated to Death.
Already, I wasn’t doing well staying focused. I was about to suggest we take a minute, maybe practice some meditative breathing, but it was too late.
Annabeth stretched out her arms and the torches blazed to life on their own.
Blue-and-white flames cast a sickly glow across the old stone wall, glinting on the stained glass. The depictions of saints leaped and danced in a way that wasn’t at all creepy.
Concentrate, I told myself.
I closed my eyes. That didn’t help. My mind just raced with more wild ideas. I focused on the stone marker. I imagined Hecate’s mansion being rebuilt.
With pizza toppings. Stop it, brain! I hoped the rest of the gang was having better luck.
The ground trembled. Annabeth almost lost her balance, but she regained her bearings quickly. Gale jumped off my shoulder and hid behind me. The polecat was no fool. If the ghosts turned angry, much better to let them devour the big, juicy demigods.
The fire warmed the air. Blue light danced across my arms, making me look like a corpse—and I really didn’t need that analogy.
Hecuba growled as the specter appeared. It rose against the wall like a shadow— Annabeth’s shadow. Then the dark silhouette deepened, peeling itself from the bricks and taking on a smoky form like a cloud of coal dust. I sensed its aggravation, confusion, anger. It was asking a question. Why?
Next to me, Nope let loose a torrent of pee. Not going to lie—I had the same instinct. Somehow, I managed to keep myself together.
I didn’t know if this ghost was Peter Stuyvesant himself or some other poor schmuck, but I tried to communicate an image of the manse in Gramercy Park. I pictured the damage being repaired.
Beads of perspiration dotted Annabeth’s face. “You’re doing great,” I murmured.
I didn’t know if she heard me. She had the expression of somebody arm- wrestling a Hyperborean giant. (And yes, I’ve seen that.) The smoke thickened. The ghost took on a more definite shape. He had a broad- brimmed hat; long, stringy hair; a cape; a doublet; and puffy breeches
—all made from swirling dust particles. A rapier hung at his side.
I wondered if we’d raised one of the Three Musketeers. I was starting to fret about where the other two might be. Then I noticed the ghost was leaning on a cane. His right leg ended in a wooden peg.
“It’s him,” Grover whispered in my ear. “They called him Peg-Leg Pete.” “Isn’t that a cartoon character?” I whispered back.
“Different Peg-Leg Pete.” “How do you know this?”
“I did the assigned reading.”
I glanced at him. He wasn’t kidding. Apparently, Annabeth had given him homework on Pete. Either I’d forgotten about it, or Annabeth hadn’t bothered giving it to me because she knew it was hopeless.
“Boys.” Annabeth gritted her teeth. “Help.”
Right. Focus.
I went back to imagining Hecate’s house. I broadcast mental pictures of hammers, nails, paint, and duct tape. Did they have duct tape in the seventeenth century? I imagined us all taking a stroll up to Gramercy Park for a fun evening of do-it-yourself home renovation.
Hecuba gave us another low growl—a sort of heads-up.
More shadowy forms were rising from the ground. Soon a crowd of ghosts surrounded us—dozens at least.
Grover reined in Nope, who really wanted to meet the smoke people. He must have gotten over his initial fright. His barking was joyous, like, YOU!
SMELL! INTERESTING! The noise didn’t help me concentrate.
Gale chittered, probably reminding us that we were on the clock. How long had we been here? Minutes? Decades? The ghosts closed in, invading our personal space like we were the newest dead on the block and they
needed to size us up. They didn’t touch us, though. So far, Gale’s goo seemed to be doing its job.
Why? the ghosts asked.
They didn’t like us. Their hostility tinged the air like sulfur. They knew Annabeth wasn’t Hecate—not a goddess to fear, just a teenager with borrowed torches.
They crowded around, swirling, sniffing us, held at bay only by Gale’s anti- ghoul salve and Annabeth’s willpower. Their presence drained the strength from my limbs. I didn’t know how Annabeth could stand it.
Their thoughts and memories washed over me. I saw New Amsterdam as a young colony—just a few buildings clustered around the southern tip of the island. Farmland stretched around us, alongside woods and streams. I felt bitterness. I saw frowning faces, heard insults being shouted in Dutch.
Peter and his friends apparently hadn’t been well-liked. They had been buried here, in what was then the far northern edge of the settlement.
They’d been slumbering in their graves for centuries as New York rose around them, burying almost every trace of their lives, eroding the names on their gravestones, making it impossible for them to sleep with all the traffic and construction. Now they were disoriented and angry.
I couldn’t blame them. Resting in peace wasn’t something that happened a lot in Manhattan.
I get it, I thought. But we need your help. Follow Annabeth. Work for her.
I wasn’t sure how helpful I was being. I was too distracted worrying about Annabeth, who must have been taking the brunt of the ghosts’ anger.
The torches burned brighter, turning a deeper blue, almost violet. Annabeth’s arms trembled.
“You okay?” I asked. “I—I’m good,” she managed.
I wanted to believe her, but the smoky forms kept multiplying. The whole graveyard seemed to have risen—hundreds of souls from unmarked graves, their names forgotten, their identities erased over the centuries. They thought in Dutch, English, French, and Algonquin—a chaotic chorus I couldn’t
follow, but the emotions were clear enough. They wanted to tear us apart. They were just waiting for a sign from Peg-Leg Pete.
Annabeth straightened. She looked right into the sooty eyes of Peter Stuyvesant. “You will help us,” she commanded. “Follow me.”
Stuyvesant’s dust particles churned with resentment. But I felt something else now, too: curiosity, cold amusement, a cruel desire to see how long
Annabeth could hold herself together before she broke. His response hissed in my mind. Go on, then, girl.
Annabeth turned and led us out of the graveyard.
