by Amy Cross
“She won't be if I don't find her bear.”
I pause for a moment, feeling a little flustered, and then suddenly I realize that I haven't even told this man my name yet.
“I'm sorry,” I continue, holding a hand out to him, “I'm Lizzie.”
“Lizzie?”
I nod, before looking down at my hand.
“Wait,” I add, “we already did that, didn't we?”
“We can do it again.” He shakes my hand. “My name is -”
“Mummy!” Kate calls out from the shoreline. “Did you find him yet?”
“Not yet, darling!” I reply, and she stares at me for a moment before turning and resuming her splashes.
“I don't much envy you,” the man says, peering at the rocks. “That bear could be anywhere, and then there's the possibility that it might have been pilfered by a crab or a seagull. And you said it was given to the girl by her late father, I believe? It must have great sentimental value.”
“She sleeps with it every night,” I tell him.
“Does she have nothing else of his?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then,” he continues, taking off his jacket and setting it on one of the nearer, lower rocks, “it looks like there's only one thing to do.”
With that, he turns and starts climbing up onto one of the higher rocks.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?” He reaches the top and then smiles at me. “I can't leave one lady in distress, let alone three. I shall simply have to roll my sleeves up and help with the hunt. Provided you don't mind my presence for a few minutes, that is.”
“It's fine,” I reply, “but you really don't have to.”
“Nonsense, I'd be delighted to help. What was the bear's name again?”
“Mr. Puddles.”
“Mr. Puddles!” he calls out, clambering over the rocks and quickly disappearing from view. “Where are you, Mr. Puddles? There's a young girl who's missing you desperately!”
I open my mouth to tell him again that he's being too kind, but then I spot him leaning down into one of the gaps. Figuring that I should just be glad of the help, I climb up so I can join in, although after a moment I glance toward the shore and see that Kate is still having fun.
For the first time in the six months since her father died, she's acting like a normal five-year-old. She actually seems happy.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alice
Today
“It's definitely her,” Graham says as he comes into the pub. He's clearly shaken, having spent several minutes talking to the police. “They haven't made a formal identification yet, but they're certain the body is Dora Ohme. They say she must have been dead for at least six months.”
“That's not possible,” I reply, still thinking back to the sight of the desiccated corpse. “If that was Dora Ohme, then who -”
Before I can even finish the sentence, I hear another beep from my phone. Taking it from my pocket, I see that there's yet another book review from Dora Ohme's account, this time on a title called The Evil of Sperringwood Forest. My hands are trembling, but I scroll down and see that Dora has given this book just two stars.
“Contrived to the point of parody,” I read out loud, “this so-called novel is filled with errors. For one thing, the author writes about ghosts as if they're some kind of zombie-like monster. For another, although he describes a phenomenon that's rather similar to a soul auction, he gets all the details wrong.”
“What's a soul auction?” I whisper, before turning to see that Graham has taken a seat.
“Here you go,” the landlord says, bringing two glasses of whiskey over to us. “Looks like you two need these, after what you found just now.”
“I'm fine, thanks,” I reply, as I glance out the window just in time to see that a body is being carried out from the cottage and loaded into an ambulance. There's a sheet over the body, of course, but I know exactly what's underneath that sheet.
“I can't stop thinking about how she must have been in there all this time,” Graham says, between sips of whiskey. “Mum and I live next door. She was right on the other side of the wall, and we never knew.” He turns to me. “If you hadn't shown up and made me wonder about Dora, she'd still be there now, rotting away with all those flies buzzing around her.”
“Don't think about it like that,” I reply. “There's nothing you could have done for her.”
“I should have checked on her sooner,” he continues. “That's what neighbors are for. We all noticed she hadn't been around much, but we thought maybe she'd gone to stay with someone out of town. It never occurred to me that...”
His voice trails off, and then he downs the rest of the whiskey before setting the glass down and picking up mine.
“Someone's been posting online using her account,” I point out. Having finally admitted why I'm here, I guess there's no point holding back anymore. “I'm going to have to go and tell the police. I know they said she most likely died of natural causes, but still, the whole thing's kind of suspicious.”
“She'd been having heart trouble for years,” the landlord says. “Dicky ticker and all that. Wouldn't surprise me if it just stopped pumping one day. At least she wouldn't have felt much.” He lets out a derisory sniff, before turning and eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “Why were you look for her, anyway? What's your connection to Dora?”
“I don't have a connection to her,” I reply.
“Then why did you show up like this and -”
“Alice is a writer,” Graham tells him. “A good writer.”
“I'm really just starting out,” I add, hoping to avoid getting into too many details. To be honest, I'm losing track of what I've told people here, and I really just want to keep to myself. “I've only really had one or two books published.”
“A writer, eh?” the landlord mutters. “What kind of books?”
“Horror,” Graham says, before I have a chance to deflect. “Her first book was brilliant. I haven't read the second yet.”
“It's really not important,” I point out, annoyed at myself for having apparently spilled a few too many beans already. “A woman is dead. That's what we should be thinking about right now. Did she have any family in Curridge?”
“She didn't have any family anywhere,” the landlord replies. “No siblings, no better half, no kids. Barely even any friends, either.” He sighs. “It's gonna be a sad old funeral, to be sure. Just a bunch of us who were on nodding terms with her. Still, wouldn't be right not to show up. I'll put on some sandwiches for anyone who wants to come down after and remember her properly.”
“Are you sure she lived alone?” I ask. “Is there no chance that maybe someone has been staying with her for a while? Otherwise, how -”
“Sorry!” Graham blurts out, suddenly hurrying past me and rushing through to the back of the pub.
A moment later, I hear him throwing up in one of the bathrooms.
“Curridge is a close-knit community,” the landlord explains, and I turn to look at him. “A lot of people are going to be wondering how something like this could have happened. Dora kept herself to herself, she actively rejected attempts by anyone to get too close, but we still should have checked on her sooner. The idea that she just died in her home and sat there for six months, or even longer... Well, it's going to shake everyone up.”
He heads around the bar and pours himself a Coke, and I can see that his hands are trembling.
***
“But don't you think it's a little odd?” I ask, as I scroll further down the page and show the officer some more of the book reviews Dora Ohme has left. “If she's really been dead all this time, who's been posting these under her name?”
“You don't know it's the same person,” he replies, clearly more irritated than interested by my attempt to help. “Anyone can call themselves anything online.”
“The profile states that she lives in Curridge!”
Si
ghing, he takes out a notebook.
“I'll look into it,” he tells me, “and I thank you for bringing this to our attention. If there's any reason to be concerned, I can assure you that the matter will be thoroughly investigated.”
“But -”
“And now,” he adds, looking past me and nodding at someone, “if you'll excuse me, I need to go and speak to my colleagues.”
“I'm just -”
“Thank you, Miss Ashcroft. You've been very helpful.”
Realizing that he's never going to take me seriously, I turn and watch as he heads over to join some other officers near the ambulance. A couple of other men are emerging from Dora's cottage, wearing protective clothing, but there's no sense of urgency here at all. From what I've overheard so far, it's clear that the police think Dora died of natural causes, and I guess I probably seem like a madwoman.
Feeling my phone buzz, I take a look at the screen. Half-expecting to find that Dora has posted another review, I'm surprised to see a message from the mechanic instead.
My car's ready, which means I can finally leave Curridge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lizzie
Thirty years ago
“Well, here's to abject, miserable failure,” the man says as we sit in a booth at the pub. He holds up his beer and clinks it against my glass of water. “I'm sorry, Lizzie, but I honestly don't think the bear is still on the beach. We'd surely have found it by now.”
“Thank you so much for trying to help,” I reply, looking past him and seeing that Kate is sitting happily at the next booth along and working on a new drawing.
“Children are very resilient, aren't they?” the man continues. “Sometimes, I think they're a little tougher than the rest of us.”
I open my mouth to ask him his name, having somehow failed to pick it up so far, but then I realize that maybe I quite like the mystery. Right now, this handsome guy could be a Bob or a Tim or a Tom, or he could be something more highbrow like a Clark or a Rex. He could even have a foreign-sounding name, like a Raphael or a Stirling, despite his cut-glass English accent. The point is, right now, I think I actually don't want to know.
I glance at Kate and find that she's staring at me. When I smile, she simply continues to stare for a few seconds, before looking back down at her drawing.
“So what brings you to Curridge?” I ask, turning to the guy. “Or do you live here?”
“I'm just checking out an opportunity,” he replies. “To be honest, this is my first time here. I suppose I just liked the smell of the place so I thought I'd come and investigate. I suppose you could say that I'm following my nose.” He keeps his eyes fixed on me for a moment. “So far, I like what I've found.”
“It's a lovely beach,” I reply, before looking down at my water.
He's not flirting with me, is he?
No.
No, he can't be.
He knows my husband just died, and besides, he's attractive and he's clearly very successful. A guy like this would never in a million years start flirting with a single mother.
And if he did, I'd shut him down immediately.
At that moment, almost as if she sensed my discomfort, Alice starts gurgling in her pram. Relieved at the chance to find something else to do, I get up and head over to her, and she continues to gurgle as I lift her out and cradle her gently. To be fair, I'm still convinced that I was wrong when I thought the guy was flirting, but I still don't want to take any chances.
“She's a beautiful baby,” he says after a moment.
“Thank you.”
“And so well-behaved.”
“She cries sometimes,” I reply, finally looking over at him again. “She's been good lately, but some nights I have to sit with her and rock her for hours.”
“I'm sure that's not so bad.”
“Do you have a family of your own?” I ask.
He hesitates, before shaking his head. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think there was a hint of awkwardness there, as if maybe I touched upon a sore subject.
“I'm sorry,” I continue, “I just -”
“Please, don't apologize. I haven't lost anyone, in case that's what you're thinking. I simply never started a family to begin with.”
I'm about to tell him that I'm surprised, but I catch myself just in time. The last thing I need is to say anything that might be construed as flirting, so I simply smile as I look back down at Alice. To be honest, I'm quite enjoying the fact that I can talk to a stranger without there being any hidden undercurrents, and it's good to have an adult conversation after spending so much of my time with the kids recently. Not that I don't love them to pieces, of course, but sometimes it's nice to talk to someone whose idea of a good time isn't watching cartoons on TV all day.
“And what's this young lady drawing?” the man asks, getting to his feet and going over to Kate. Stopping next to her, he looks down at her piece of paper. “What is that?” he adds, and now he sounds a little concerned.
“It's Daddy,” Kate replies.
Puzzled, I carry Alice over, and I'm shocked to see that Kate has drawn a figure in a hospital bed, with wires running into his body. She's colored his skin red and yellow, and she's drawn crosses where he should have eyes.
“Why don't you try drawing something else?” I ask, balancing Alice on my hip as I reach down and slide the drawing away.
“Don't you like it, Mummy?” Kate replies.
“I think you're very good at drawing flowers,” I remind her. “Why don't you draw something a little more cheery?”
“I wanted to draw Daddy.”
“I'm sure you did, honey, but -”
“Am I not allowed to anymore?”
She stares at me, and I swear I feel as if she's trying to challenge my authority. She's five years old, she should be drawing silly pictures, yet here she is making a show of wanting to draw pictures of her father.
“You can draw whatever you want,” I explain, “but -”
“Okay!”
Grabbing a fresh piece of paper, she immediately starts drawing what looks like a man holding a sunflower. I guess that's a little less morbid, and I feel a flash of relief as I follow the guy back over to the table in the far corner.
“Children process grief in very unusual and creative ways,” he points out.
“I know.”
“She must have suffered a great deal when her father died. You must all have suffered, even this little one.”
He reaches out and strokes the side of Alice's face, and she gurgles with pleasure.
“We're moving through it,” I explain. “That's what this trip is about, or what it's supposed to be about. Getting on with our lives as a family.”
As I say those words, I realize that they sound so harsh and clinical. Still, after spending six months struggling to look after the girls, and sneaking away to find moments when I can cry, I'm determined to use this holiday as a chance to make a fresh start.
“It seems like you're doing a very good job,” the man says.
“Thank you,” I reply, feeling as if his words are something of an antidote to that Dora Ohme woman's words from earlier.
But then, when I glance at Kate again, I see that she's watching me with a hint of pure hatred in her eyes. Sometimes, I actually think she blames me for what happened to her father.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alice
Today
“I'll be honest,” the mechanic says as he hands me a receipt, “I still haven't figured out what caused the damage. The whole underside was cut up real bad.”
“I must have hit something as I parked,” I reply.
“Hitting something wouldn't do all that,” he mutters, glancing past me and looking at the car, as if he's still troubled by what he found during the repair work. “Part of it were really mangled, almost as if...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“As if what?” I ask.
“As if something had attacked it. Or scratche
d it all up from the underside.”
I can't help raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed something trying to take a chunk out of my car.”
“Of course you would,” he replies, before shrugging. “Anyway, your insurance company can worry about that. I'm sure whatever happened, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. It just looked weird, that's all.”
Once he's given me the details of the warranties on the various parts, I head to the car and climb inside. To be honest, it feels good to be heading home, although I can't help feeling sad that my little adventure down here to Curridge ended with a woman's body being found. Still, I guess it's good that she's no longer rotting alone in that house, and I'm pretty sure that if I was in her position, I'd want somebody to come and find me as quickly as possible.
For a moment, I consider the possibility of a short story in which a dead woman sends messages to people in an attempt to get them to discover her body.
Maybe I should write that some time.
Slipping my key into the ignition, I'm about to start the car when I hear another alert on my phone. Taking a look at the screen, I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I see that I've received a notification about another review.
“What the hell?” I whisper, tapping through to the page and finding that within the past few seconds, somebody using Dora's account has left a review on a book titled The Armitage Horror Tapes.
I scroll down and find just a short, two-line comment.
“Not enough character development,” I read out loud, “and no real twist at the end. Pacing is wildly uneven. Disappointing.”
I click through to the profile page, just to double-check that this really is somebody posting as Dora. I can't understand why anyone would ever want to impersonate a random woman from a small seaside town, but I can only assume that the connection is entirely random. Whoever's behind the account, they'll probably stop as soon as they hear about Dora's death. After all, whatever the point of this weirdness might be, carrying on now would be a decidedly bad taste move. I guess maybe this is just one little coincidental mystery that won't ever get solved.