Grave Girl

by Amy Cross

  "Home," she whispers, trying to force herself to believe that she can live here. "Home," she says again. It still doesn't sound very easy to believe, so she pauses for a moment before saying the word a third time, louder and with more confidence. "Home," she announces proudly.

  Well, at least it sounds convincing.

  "This is where I live," she says, walking around the side of the cottage and finding a pile of chopped wood, presumably intended for the wood-burning stove inside. "This," she says again, with different emphasis, "is where I live." She pauses. "This is where I live," she says eventually, before frowning as she tries to think of a better way to express the idea. "This is where I live," she tries finally. None of it sounds right, but she figures she'll get used to the idea eventually.

  Wandering around to the back of the cottage, she finds a huge thicket of overgrown brambles and bushes; deep in the undergrowth, however, there appears to be a small shed, which she realizes probably contains the tools she'll be requiring. Pulling her hands up inside her shirt for protection, she struggles through the mass of vines until finally she reaches the door to the shed, which opens easily enough to reveal a dark interior. As her eyes get used to the darkness, Sam starts to make out a pair of benches running along the walls, covered with various small spades and hoes; at the far end of the shed, there's what appears to be a small mechanical lawnmower, which instantly looks to be woefully inadequate for the task of keeping the cemetery clean. Leaning against one wall, there's an old-fashioned scythe, like the kind that Death wields in old paintings.

  "Perfect," Sam says, grabbing the scythe before turning and using it to swipe the vines aside. Within a few minutes, she's managed to clear a path from the shed door to the cottage, which seems like something of an achievement. Already tired, and with her hands feeling sore, she sets the scythe over her shoulder and wanders around the rest of the cottage and arriving back at the front door, where she carefully rests the scythe against the wall.

  "Hello," she says, staring at a stone angel that's standing close to the door. Frowning, Sam wonders how she managed to not notice the damn thing earlier; thinking back to when she arrived with Mayor Winters, and to when she emerged from the cottage a couple of minutes ago, she's quite certain that there was no stone angel in the immediate vicinity. Still, stone angels don't move themselves, so she decides she must have simply had a little blind spot. Reminding herself to be more vigilant and observant in future, she walks over to the angel and finds that its eyes are staring straight at her; it's an unusual coincidence, and once that sends a slight shiver down her spine.

  "I'm your new boss," Sam says after a moment, patting the angel's shoulder. "I shall name you Sparky. Don't worry, I know it sounds a bit modern and weird, but you'll get used to it. I used to have a dog called Sparky but he..." She pauses, thinking momentarily of her dog and what he must be doing at this exact moment. Probably running around, playing in a field; probably not missing her at all. "Well," she says, taking a deep breath, "you're the new Sparky. To be honest, you seem easier to train. So why don't you wait right here while I go and take a look around, okay?" Turning, she walks a few meters, before stopping and looking back at the angel. "Stay!" she says firmly, before continuing on her way.

  Taking a small notebook and a pencil from her jacket pocket, she starts jotting down a rough map of the cemetery. She soon finds that there are several paths criss-crossing the place, each of them meandering in curled lines between crooked gravestones that appear to have been dropped into place from a great height. Clearly there was no central planner or grand designer; space has simply had to be found for new graves in the most convenient spot, while larger mausoleums stand dotted around, testament to the wealth of entire families who chose to be buried together. As she walks, Sam sees dates stretching back hundreds of years marked on stones that are covered with green and yellow moss. Most of these people have been dead for centuries, although occasionally she spots the shiny new marble of a more recent memorial, and a couple of graves even have fresh flowers resting on their turf. Looking down at the uneven grass, Sam can't help but think of the dead bodies resting in the dark; some of them will just be bones by now, but some might still have a little flesh and meat.

  Hundreds and hundreds of corpses, all around her; the thought freaks her out for a fraction of a second, before she reminds herself that she's definitely not the kind of person who gets worried about such stupid things.

  "Time to get to work," she says, turning and heading back to the cottage. It takes her a while to work out which path to follow; already, her map seems to be stubbornly unhelpful, almost as if the paths have shifted since she set out a few minutes earlier. Eventually, however, she manages to get to the cottage without having to take any shortcuts across the grass, and she finds Sparky still standing obediently where he was left. "Good boy," she says, patting him on the head before she makes her way into the cottage and grabs the broom. As she starts sweeping dirt from the kitchen floor, she raises a cloud of dust that makes it difficult to breathe, but she forces herself to keep going until, finally, she has to nip outside for a short break.

  "I could kill for a cigarette," she says, looking over at Sparky. "I quit while..." She pauses for a moment. "Hell, I swear to God, right now I could kill for just one little..." Her voice trails off as it occurs to her that she could probably just go into town and find a newsagent. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the envelope that Mayor Winters gave her; it's the first time in many, many months that she's actually had some proper cash, and she has to fight the urge to go out and splurge. Besides, she reminds herself, she had plenty of reasons to give up smoking, one of which was that she was starting to get a little worried about the persistent cough that kept rattling her chest over the winter.

  "So what do people do for fun around here?" she asks. "Come on, Sparky. You look like you've been knocking about for a while. Are there any pubs or clubs, any..." Again, her voice trails off as she remembers what happened the last time she was in a position to go out socializing. It was fun, sure, but things got kind of out of hand. Taking a deep breath, she feels a strange sensation deep in her chest, almost as if some invisible hand has reached into her body and placed a gentle, calming touch on her heart. "Never mind," she says after a moment. With these urges to have a drink and a cigarette, she realizes that perhaps she hasn't changed as much as she'd hoped; those complicit little demons are still lurking deep within, curled into tight balls and ready to leap out at the first opportunity. Fortunately, Sam tells herself, she has this little thing called Free Will, which means she can fight her temptations and get on with the task at hand. "I didn't come here to have a good time, Sparky," she says after a moment. "I came to get away from all that. I guess you can be my new best friend, okay?"

  She pauses, almost as if she's waiting for an answer. "Does this count as talking to myself?" she asks after a moment. Glancing around, she sees that there's definitely no-one nearby. "I think I've been talking to myself," she says, nodding slightly. "Sparky. I'm begging you, don't tell anyone. Don't embarrass me."

  Heading back inside, she spends a couple of hours cleaning the interior of the cottage. There's a huge amount of dust and soil and dirt caked all over the place, but eventually - as the sun starts to set and the sky turns a kind of warm orange - she finds herself standing in the middle of the kitchen, reflecting upon the fact that she has at least made the place habitable. She can get about without breathing in a cloud of dust every time she moves anything, and she can touch the surfaces without having to immediately wash her hands in the gray-green water that comes belching out of the rickety old tap.

  "Time to go into town," she says, checking her watch and seeing that it's almost 8pm. Grabbing the keys, she steps out of the cottage and pulls the door shut. It takes her a few tries to work out which key fits the lock, but eventually she gets the job done. Turning, she smiles at Sparky before making her way along the path, toward the main gate. When she gets there, and while she's
finding the right key to lock the cemetery for the night, she glances over at the stone angel that stands nearby, or rather at the plinth where there used to be a stone angel. A shiver passes through her body as she thinks back to the moment, earlier today, when she definitely saw an angel standing right by the entrance.

  "Huh," she says, making a mental note to start keeping better track of the cemetery's stone inhabitants as she wanders casually along the street.

  Chapter Eight

  Turning the television down for a moment, Mrs. Mayberry listens out for the sound of footsteps in the alley that runs down the side of her house. She looks over at the clock and sees that it's almost 9pm, which means no right-minded people should be out at such an hour. In Mrs. Mayberry's opinion, people on honest business tend to go out during the day, while the night is reserved for drinkers, carousers and fornicators. She's old enough and wise enough to know that she can't stop people from gathering at drinking holes around the town, but the one thing she does like to control is the alley next to her home. Every time she hears someone walking down there after dark, she suspects they must be up to no good. After all, there's nothing at the other end apart from some sheds.

  Suddenly she hears the clinking of her back gate, and her heart immediately starts to race. Rising slowly and painfully from her chair, she hurries as fast as her creaking bones can carry her to the hallway, where she picks up her cordless phone and dials the number for the local police station. After a moment, she hears nothing but an engaged tone; putting the phone down, she curses the local officer for always going out drinking late at night, leaving the citizens of Rippon to face murderers and thieves on their own terms. Fearful of an intruder, Mrs. Mayberry hurries to the back door and double-checks that it's locked. Still, a locked door isn't necessarily an entirely reliable barrier, not when there are determined thieves in the area.

  Heading through to the kitchen, she draws her back curtains and stares over at the glass panel in the door. She can't shake the feeling that there might be someone out there, staring in at her. She's read the newspaper, and she knows there are perverted people in the world; why, perhaps there's someone in her garden right now, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in her nightgown? She heads over to the back door and checks yet again that it's locked. It's been a few minutes since she heard the footsteps and the creaking of the gate; perhaps, she realizes, it might simply be the case that someone got a little lost on their way home. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that one of the town drunks took a turn down the wrong street.

  Feeling uneasy, Mrs. Mayberry goes back to her front room and switches the television off, before drawing the rest of the curtains, grabbing the cordless phone, and starting to make her way unsteadily upstairs. She'd hoped to stay up a little longer, watching a documentary about adoption services, but she feels far too unsettled to remain downstairs now that she fears there might be a prowler about. When she gets to the top of the stairs, she pauses to give her bad hip time for a brief twinge, and then she goes through to her bedroom. Dialing the number of the police station yet again, she finally hears the phone ringing, and eventually Mr. Matthews picks up.

  "Mr. Matthews, it's me!" she says hurriedly, "Elizabeth Mayberry. Listen, I think there might be someone in my back garden."

  There's a sigh on the other end of the line. "Are you sure now, Mrs. Mayberry? Have you checked it's not a cat?"

  "Can cats open gates?" she asks.

  "Have you actually seen someone?" Mr. Matthews continues. "Like a dark shape at the window, or something like that?"

  "I heard him!" she replies. "I heard footsteps, and I heard the gate go, and..." She pauses for a moment as she realizes that she's not being taken seriously. "And then I saw him," she continues, deciding to mix a little white lie in with the truth. She's sick of being fobbed off every night. "As clear as I can see my own shadow on the wall right now. I saw a dark shape standing by my back door."

  There's another sigh. "I'll be there in ten minutes, Mrs. Mayberry," he says eventually. "Until I get there, make sure to -" Suddenly the line goes dead.

  "Mr. Matthews?" Mrs. Mayberry asks, looking at the phone and, in a desperate attempt to make it start working, giving it a quick shake. "Mr. Matthews, are you still there?" She waits, hoping in vain that perhaps the interruption was only temporary. Finally, she disconnects the call and sets the phone down on her night table. Taking a deep breath, she decides to remain dressed for half an hour, just in case Mr. Matthews bothers to turn up. After all, it wouldn't do to let a man see her in her night clothes. Taking a deep breath, she turns to go back downstairs.

  And that's when she sees it.

  The stone angel from the cemetery is standing in her doorway, staring straight at her.

  Chapter Nine

  To her surprise and astonishment, Sam finds that the town square is actually quite busy. Having written the town off as the kind of place where the streets would be empty at night, she sees that the cafe is bustling, with people sitting on chairs under the awning while music comes from within. For a moment, Sam starts to think that perhaps she'd under-estimated Rippon, but then she notices that over on the other side of the square, the small newsagent appears to be closed. Ruefully, Sam reminds herself that while she was used to twenty-four hour opening in Leeds, she's probably going to have to get used to a more sedentary lifestyle now that she's in Rippon. This isn't the kind of place where someone can just wander out their front door at any time of the day or night and find exactly what they're looking for; life in Rippon is probably going to take some planning, she realizes, which means adjusting her state of mind to an entirely new way of living.

  Wandering over to the cafe, she can't help but notice that the locals - most of whom appear to be fairly elderly - are glancing at her with suspicion. Figuring that this is the kind of town where strangers don't often turn up, Sam smiles politely and squeezes her way inside, where she finds that the place is packed to the rafters with people standing around and drinking beer. Trying to avoid the inquisitive stares she receives, Sam manages to make her way to the bar, where the cafe owner is wiping up some kind of spillage.

  "Good evening," he says with a smile. "Come out to sample the nightlife, have you?"

  "Kind of," Sam replies nervously. "Actually, I realized I don't have any food at home." She pauses, feeling a little weirded out by the fact that she just referred to a cemetery as her home. "Anyway, I was wondering if you've got anything. Just to keep me going until I can get to the shops tomorrow."

  "Let's see," the man says, walking over to the far end of the counter and quickly returning with a piece of cake. "I know cake isn't exactly a healthy dinner," he says, setting the plate on the counter, "but we can't have you starving to death, can we? Everyone needs a little sugar now and then. Anyway, you look like you need fattening up."

  "Thanks," Sam says a little awkwardly, looking over at one of the other counters. "You don't have any bread, do you? And maybe a glass of water?" Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the crumpled envelope of money and removes a note, sliding it across the counter.

  "Water?" the man asks, raising an eyebrow. Grabbing a pint glass, he starts pouring a beer. "Don't you think you should have something a little stronger on your first night? On the house, of course." He places the beer on the counter.

  "No, thanks," Sam replies, pushing the beer back toward him. "Just water, if that's okay."

  "You sure?" the man asks, pushing the beer back at her.

  "Really sure," she replies uncomfortably, sliding the beer back at him. "I don't really drink much."

  "Not even a glass of wine?"

  She shakes her head. She can almost feel her liver screaming in terror at the thought that she might be slipping back into old, bad habits.

  Smiling, the cafe owner grabs another pint glass and fills it with water from the tap, before picking up a loaf of bread from his work bench and placing them both on the counter. "Bread and water," he says, "as requested. And put your money aw
ay. On your first night, everything's on the house."

  "New here, are you?" asks a middle-aged man who has wandered over to the bar, beer in hand, to listen to the conversation. Smiling benignly, he sets his glass on the counter and offers a hand for Sam to shake. "Ben Tovey," he continues. "I run the butcher's around the corner."

  "Sam Marker," Sam replies, shaking his hand. "I'm the new gardener at the cemetery."

  Instantly, everyone in the cafe stops talking and turns to look at Sam. Apart from the fact that music is still blaring from the speakers in the corner, it's almost as if someone has come along and flicked a big 'Off' switch for the entire room. Swallowing hard, Sam waits for someone to say something, but it seems like everyone else is waiting for her to start talking.

  "I'm the new gardener," she says eventually, as the cafe owner turns the music down a little. Glancing about nervously, Sam tries to work out what she should say next. "I just arrived today," she continues, her voice trembling slightly. She'd hoped to slip into Rippon anonymously, so this kind of attention is the absolute last thing she wanted to happen. "I'm going to be keeping the cemetery neat and tidy, so... I guess I'll be seeing some of you up there." Grabbing her pint of water, she feels for the first time in many weeks that she'd actually like something stronger.

  "You're the new gardener?" Ben Tovey asks, staring wide-eyed at her.

  Sam nods.

  "You?"

  She nods again.

  "Seriously?"

  "Give the girl a break," says the cafe owner, patting Sam on the shoulder. "You never know. She might do a great job."