Chapter 8 second quarter

On Sunday, in the winding passage under the street level, Rev. Elisha Talbot, the dean of the Second Unitarian Church in Cambridge, walked among the dead, holding a lamp high, and left and right from time to time. Dodging to the right, for fear that he would run into dilapidated coffins and piles of broken bones.Although the tunnel with all its twists and turns was pitch black, he was already very used to it. He wondered if it was superfluous to use kerosene lamps to illuminate the road now, but the strong rotten smell in the tunnel was very pungent, and it was hard to pinch his nose tightly. Can't stop.He encouraged himself that one day he would be able to walk freely in this tunnel simply by his faith in God.

Suddenly, he thought he heard a rustling sound, so he looked around, but the tomb and the stone pillars were still intact. "Could it be that someone has revived tonight?" His extremely melancholy voice sounded in the darkness.It may not be appropriate for such a word to come from a priest, but there is a reason for it, and he was really taken aback just now.Like all men who die alone, Talbot harbored many fears in his heart.He always shuddered at the thought of death.Talbot nervously turned on the lantern, and walked quickly to the stairwell at the other end of the crypt—from here, he could see the warm gas lamp again, and it was closer to home than walking down the street.

"Who?" he asked, turning quickly with the lamp in hand, and this time he was sure he heard a sound.But still nothing.The sound was very heavy, not like a mouse gnawing; it was also very calm, not like a urchin playing in the street.Where is Moses?he thought.Reverend Talbot held his humming lantern to his brow.He had heard that several gangs of troublemakers had left their homes due to war and territorial development, and they often gathered in the abandoned tombs recently.Talbot resolved to call in the police tomorrow morning to find out what was going on.But what's the use of calling the police?A few days ago, the 1,000 yuan he put in the safe at home was stolen. He also reported to the police, but there has been no response yet.Needless to say, the police in Cambridge didn't take it seriously.The only good news is that the Cambridge thieves were as incompetent as the police. Except for the thousand dollars, none of the other valuables in the safe were stolen.

The Reverend Talbot was a virtuous man, whom his neighbors and congregation spoke highly of.Except for a few times, he was perhaps overzealous.Thirty years ago, shortly after he took over the management of the Second Church, he agreed to recruit some people from Germany and the Netherlands to emigrate to Boston, promising to provide the immigrants with places of worship and well-paying jobs in his parish.If Irish Catholics can swarm America, what's the point of coaxing a few Puritans into it?It's just that the so-called high-paying job is to build railways. As a result, many people died of exhaustion or illness, leaving a large group of orphans and widows.Talbot quietly withdrew from the agreement, and over the next few years worked hard to wipe all traces of his involvement.He also wanted to refund the "consulting fee" given by the railway builder, but later kept it secret.From then on, whenever he had to make a decision, he would let himself and others go, and first expected that others would make mistakes like him and would not correct them.

Doubtful, Talbot walked backwards with plodding steps, but tripped over something hard.He got up and stood there in a daze, then he thought for a moment that he had lost his way and hit the wall.For years, Talbot had never had physical contact, or even a touch, with anyone other than a handshake.Now, however, he felt warm arms encircling his chest and taking his lantern away, arms which he was sure belonged to someone else.The man clung to him, full of anger and intense aggression. As soon as he regained consciousness, he realized at once that a strange, unfathomable darkness enveloped him.His breath still had the pungent smell of the tomb, but the difference was that his cheeks were cold and wet, his mouth was bitter and salty, as if sweat had flowed into it, and he also felt tears overflowing from the corners of his eyes until Flow up the forehead.Cold, as cold as in an ice cellar.His body was stripped naked, shivering uncontrollably.However, a hot air began to engulf his numb body, and at the same time, a feeling of discomfort that he had never felt before rose up.Could it be a nightmare?Yes, of course I was dreaming!Recently, he often reads boring books about monsters and beasts before going to bed, and his sleep is restless.But how he crawled out of the burial chamber, into the modest house with its peach-coloured wainscoting, or filled the washbasin, he could not remember.In fact, he never stepped out of the tunnel, on the sidewalks of Cambridge.For some reason, he always felt that his heart was beating and rising, and then suspended above him, beating rapidly, and all the blood in his body poured into his brain at once.His breathing was rapid and weak.

The priest felt his feet kicking wildly in the air, and from the heat of his feet he knew it was no dream: he was dying.It's so strange, at this moment, he doesn't feel any fear at all.He had lived in fear all his life, and had probably exhausted it.He was pissed off with rage—and it happened that one of God's disciples was dying, while the others remained the same, intact. As he lay dying, weeping, he tried to pray, "God, forgive me my sins." But what burst from his lips was a shrill cry, which was lost in a terrible thunderous heartbeat.