Maren stopped running. In the black chapel she turned toward the voice and stood her ground. "If there's no door, then talk to me. What do you want?" "A grave. The one you owe me," it said. "Dig it, and we are even." She lit her lantern with shaking hands and went out to the yard. One grave, one last bell, and the voice was gone for good. Her dead could finally rest.

Maren swung her lantern at the voice on instinct. It shattered, oil sprayed, and a flame caught the dry old pews. The chapel roared into fire. The voice only laughed as smoke filled the room. "You cannot burn what was never alive," it said. Maren stumbled out into the snow, coughing, the chapel blazing behind her. She ran from the yard and never went back, the debt chasing her all her days.