Grave Girl

by Amy Cross

  Sam takes a deep breath. "The children -"

  "Ah, yes, the children." He takes a sip from his beer. "A strange family, by all accounts. I only know what I've read, obviously, but it's claimed that the parents wanted their dead children to be arranged like angels, hanging from the ceiling of the tomb. Such a tragic story. All three of the little beauties were under ten years of age when they perished in a fire. The parents were distraught, but they took solace in creating a rather remarkable tableau. Tell me, were they still hanging up there, with their little wings and halos?"

  "Um..." Sam raises her eyebrows for a moment, finding the whole thing to be kind of freaky. "Yeah," she says eventually. "I mean, they didn't really look much like angels..."

  "Still, the intent was there. I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Petersen would have been glad to know that, almost a century later, their effort remains in place. I've often thought that it's a shame such a beautiful scene can't be witnessed by the general public, although..." He reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper, which he slides toward her. "I suppose that, for those of us who are not lucky enough to be admitted into the mausoleum, contemporary newspaper accounts will have to be sufficient."

  Unfolding the piece of paper, Sam sees that it shows the inside of the mausoleum. The three bodies are still hanging from the ceiling, while the two stone coffins are open, showing the dead faces of Mr. and Mrs. Petersen.

  "Grim, isn't it?" Fenroc says with a grin. "Such a macabre and unusual family. One has to wonder whatever was going through their minds when they arranged such a thing, but I have learned over the years that it's foolhardy in the extreme to try second-guessing those who are in the throes of grief. They had their reasons, and we must simply abide by such an understanding."

  "I guess they could afford to do what they wanted," Sam says.

  "Oh, the perils of money," Fenroc replies. "I'm afraid that great wealth is often wasted on those who lack the good taste to spend it well. Meanwhile, those of us with strong principles and good ideas are left to scrabble about in the dust for a few meager pennies." He pauses for a moment. "This town is strange, Sam. I'm sure you've noticed already. There are people here with secrets, and there are things living in the shadows. One can never be quite certain that one is alone."

  "I don't mind being alone," Sam says.

  "I've noticed," Fenroc replies. "You're not alone in the cemetery, though, are you?"

  "Aren't I?"

  "You've got all those bodies with you," he continues. "All those corpses rotting in the ground. Doesn't it give you the willies, Sam? Don't you ever sit in that little cottage and think about the fact that you're surrounded by graves? So much company, even if your friends are all dead." He smiles. "Don't you have any friends, Sam? No-one from your old life who's going to come and visit you?"

  Sam shakes her head.

  "Interesting," Fenroc replies. "I'm always fascinated by people who seem to appear from out of nowhere. Speaking of which, have you felt the tremors lately?"

  "I thought it was a small earthquake," Sam says.

  "In Yorkshire?"

  "Stuff happens."

  "Maybe." He takes another sip from his beer. "It feels to me as if something's stirring. Something deep underground. Let's face it, Sam; you don't really know who, or what, is buried in that cemetery, do you? If you were to dig beyond the bodies you know about, what might you find far below?"

  "It's just a cemetery."

  "In a town that's built on a very pronounced hill. Do you think such hills emerge naturally, Sam, or do you think maybe someone gave this town its shape on purpose?"

  Finishing her water, Sam glances across the town square for a moment.

  "Penny for them?" Fenroc says eventually.

  "Do you ever feel as if you've landed in something you can't handle?" she asks after a moment. "I just came here to do some stupid job, and now it seems like..." She pauses for a moment, before she realizes how dumb it'd be to open up to a complete stranger, especially when she's not sure about his motives.

  "You're doubting yourself?" Fenroc asks.

  "What are you doing here?" she replies. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem very popular."

  He shrugs. "I'm like you, Sam. I don't need to have people around me all the time. Don't worry. I'm never lonely."

  "I have to go," Sam replies, standing up. "Thanks for helping me get out of there. Eventually."

  "Maybe you can pay me back some time," he says.

  "Sure," Sam mutters as she turns to walk away.

  "How about dinner?" Fenroc calls after her.

  She stops and glances back at him. "Dinner?"

  "You look so shocked," he says, smiling. "Am I really such a disgusting bastard? I just thought maybe we could talk more fully if we had a little longer, that's all. There's a great little restaurant around the corner, serves Italian food. I know it's hard to believe that such a place could exist in Rippon, but I swear to God, it's worth a visit. Maybe we could meet up there, say... tonight? I'll pay, of course. It's not often that a man like me gets to take a beautiful young woman out to dinner."

  "I..." She stares at him, trying to work out what to say and feeling an awkward, cringing sensation creeping through her body.

  "It's not a date," he continues. "I just feel that we have a lot more to talk about, and a quick drink in a cafe isn't entirely conducive to a long conversation. I don't know about you, but I think we have a few things in common. I've certainly got some information that's going to interest you about the cemetery. That place is more unusual than you might imagine. I've been meaning speak to one of the new gardeners, but I kept putting it off. I mean..." He pauses. "Well, for all I know, you might even be the last gardener, so I guess I should tell you."

  "The last gardener?"

  He smiles. "Just a phrase."

  Sam takes a deep breath. "Next week," she says after a moment. "I can meet you one day next week, if you want."

  "At Antonio's, just around the corner? Eight o'clock? Say... a week on Monday?"

  Sam nods.

  "Relax," Fenroc says with a grin. "It'll be fun. You look so serious. Everyone needs to unwind from time to time. I promise, I don't bite."

  "I'll see you there," Sam says, turning and walking away. She can feel Fenroc's eyes staring at the back of her head, but she's determined to keep going and not give him the satisfaction of looking back. She figures there's something pretty strange about that guy, and a lot of things just don't add up. Plus, there's that phrase he used when he described her as 'the last gardener'. That's twice today that she's heard those words, and she can't shake the feeling that Fenroc maybe knows more about what happened than he's letting on. In fact, she feels as if maybe he's the one who pushed the door shut. After all, who else could it be?

  Chapter Eight

  "Dear Lord," Father Jones says quietly, kneeling at the altar, "I beg you to forgive these people. They know not what they do, and they have been led astray by those who promise them free and easy living." He pauses for a moment, trying to clear his head so that he can find some way to save the town. "I have tried, Lord. I have sought to train your flock, to show them that they must stand tall against the Devil. To a man, they have ignored me. Even now, with the Devil walking our streets, they are too lazy and too arrogant to believe that they need do anything. I beseech thee, Lord, to stir some sense of faith in their hearts, and to spare them the full horror of the beast's wrath."

  He lowers his head and closes his eyes, listening to the vast silence of the church.

  "Amen," he mutters eventually.

  "Bravo!" calls a voice from nearby, and the sound of clapping hands fills the space.

  "Who's there?" Father Jones asks, getting awkwardly to his feet and turning to find a figure sitting nearby. Sighing, he realizes that he is set to be mocked yet again, and by one of his least favorite people in the whole town. "What do you want, Fenroc? Have you come to torment an old man?"

  "Of course not," F
enroc replies, sitting back in one of the pews. "I came to watch a man of faith as he prays to his god. That's not something you see every day, now, is it? A man of true and absolute faith. When I was growing up in Ireland, I saw a few, but they kind of faded away. I guess they became unfashionable. Some of them lost their faith, some of them were caught up in scandals, some of them just died and were never replaced. It's good to see strong men such as yourself still getting about, though, father. Gives me hope for the human race, so it does."

  "I must confess," Father Jones says, walking over to the spot where Fenroc is sitting, "I'm surprised to hear such words come from your mouth. In all the time you've been in Rippon, I don't think you've ever before walked through these doors and come to demonstrate your faith."

  "Oh, well, I've been busy," Fenroc says, smiling. "You know how it is. A little of this, a little of that. I've been meaning to pop by, but I just couldn't bring myself to pass the threshold. I kept wondering whether I'd start to sizzle and smell of bacon if I came inside, if you know what I mean." He pauses for a moment. "I offer up a little prayer now and again, though, just to keep in touch with the old guy."

  "And what has brought you here today?" Father Jones asks.

  "Curiosity. There are so many odd things going on right now. I heard your little argument with the Mayor in the town square, and I have personal experience of some rather odd things going on in the cemetery. There are some interesting bodies buried in this town, aren't there?" He pauses for a moment. "Besides, something seems to have changed. Suddenly the threshold seems to have changed somewhat."

  "There's a girl in the cemetery," Father Jones replies, his voice filled with horror. "I don't know what's got into the Mayor's head, but he's hired a young lady to tend the garden. Quite apart from the fact that she can't possibly manage all the heavy work that's required, there's the issue of propriety. It's a man's job, Mr. Fenroc. A young lady should be busying herself with other things!"

  "Needlework and cooking?" Fenroc suggests with a smile. "A baby, perhaps?"

  "I'm not old-fashioned," Father Jones continues, "but I firmly believe that the fair sex should remain aware of its proper place. Men and women are most certainly not the same, despite the claims made by the modernists and the feminists. The gardener should be a strong, honest, hard-working man of the soil!"

  "I believe of few of that type were hired," Fenroc says airily, "and none of them lasted too long. They tended to run away or drop dead. So far, it looks like this young lady is lasting longer than the past couple of gardeners combined."

  "Only because the Devil is pushing her along," Father Jones replies.

  "Ah, yes," Fenroc says, getting to his feet. "The Devil. Are you really so certain that he's kicking about? Isn't it possible that you've got your knickers in a twist, old man. From what I've heard, the Devil tends to be a difficult man to miss. Isn't he a tall, red guy with horns and a tale? Doesn't he tend to make himself known? Do you not think someone would have said something if they'd seen such a beast come wandering into the local watering hole? The Devil, here in Rippon? Do you really expect people to believe such a claim?"

  "You know nothing," Father Jones sneers. "You're just like all the rest, Mr. Fenroc. You think you know better. You think godly men are fools, beholden to the old ways and wrapped up in superstitious nonsense, but you'll see. The Devil is here in Rippon, and if he's skulking about in the shadows, that merely means he has devious plans. You'll realize I'm right one day, but by then it'll be too late. If you're not ready to bow down before the Lord, you might as well get out of here. My church won't protect you from the Devil's work unless you're willing to let true faith into your heart."

  "I've tried doing that," Fenroc replies, "but I just can't seem to get the knack of it." He heads along the aisle until he reaches the door, at which point he takes a small vial from his pocket and dips it into the font of holy water. "You have no idea how hard it can be," he continues as he scoops up as much water as possible and then seals the vial, "to be born without the capacity of faith. Believe me, I've tried. I've begged the Heavens to light that spark in my heart, but there's nothing doing. I'm an empty and hollow man, father, and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing I can do about it." He carefully sets the vial back in his pocket. "Good day to you, father. For all our sakes, I hope you're wrong."

  Once Fenroc has left, Father Jones hurries to the altar. Filled with rage, and convinced that the whole of Rippon is set to suffer now that the town has turned its back on God, the old man is determined to pray for the Lord's forgiveness. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, he bows his head, closes his eyes and tries to hear the voice of God in his mind. Slowly, the silence of the church seems to settle around him like a fine dust, disturbed eventually by the sudden intrusion of a presence.

  Opening his eyes, Father Jones stares straight ahead. Without turning, he can feel that someone is directly behind him; not just behind him, but also towering over him. Someone or something has entered the church and is readying itself to strike. With a growing sense of dread, the old man realizes that the Devil has arrived.

  "You do not frighten me," Father Jones says, refusing to turn and look at the beast.

  Behind and above him, there's a snort of contempt.

  "In this house," Father Jones continues, his voice trembling, "you have no dominion. The Lord watches over me and protects me. He does not permit your kind in this place. Be gone and -"

  Before he can finish speaking, he feels something brush against his waist. It takes a moment before he realizes that a large hand is slowly closing its fingers around his body. Determined not to struggle, and not to give the Devil the satisfaction of feeling his fear, the old man closes his eyes again as he feels himself being lifted up off the stone floor.

  "Dear Lord," Father Jones whispers as he's taken higher and higher above the altar. "Protect your humble servant from the machinations of this beast. Ensure that good triumphs over evil, and that the forces of sin are not permitted to gain a foothold in this town. The people of Rippon are misguided, but they can be brought back into your fold." He pauses as he realizes he has been raised almost to the roof of the church. "Dear Lord," he continues, "permit not this sacrilegious act. Turn this demon away from your door and save your followers from the machinations of the horned beast."

  He waits.

  Opening his eyes for a moment, he looks down at the altar far below.

  He opens his mouth to pray once again, but at the final moment his faith falters.

  "Help me!" he screams, but before the words have even left his body, he's thrown across the church until finally he slams against the far wall. His neck is broken instantly, and his body tumbles down to the stone floor far below. As his dead, glassy eyes stare up at the ceiling, a large presence makes its way along the central aisle and back out into the dusty town square, and the font of holy water bubbles and sizzles until it's been completely burned away.

  Chapter Nine

  Unlocking the door to the cottage, Sam steps inside and immediately realizes that she's not alone. There's a very clear and very distinct presence in the room, one that she can't shake off. Walking across the kitchen, she peers through to the other rooms, half-expecting to find someone waiting for her. Glancing at the little table over by the far wall, she notices a dirty porridge bowl and a half-drunk bottle of water.

  Those were not there when she left this morning.

  She walks over to the table and sees that someone has definitely been in the cottage. To make matters worse, the kettle appears to have been used, and one of Sam's tea mugs has been used, and then washed and left to dry.

  "Hey!" she calls out.

  No reply.

  "Stop using my stuff!" she says firmly.

  Looking back to the door, she sees her grave-digging spade leaning in the corner. Grabbing the spade, she raises it above her shoulder, ready to strike if anyone jumps out at her. Moving across the kitchen, she glances into her bedroom, but there's no-one around. Turning,
she makes her way to the bathroom, which is also empty. Finally, she realizes that despite the strong indications otherwise, there genuinely seems to be no-one else in the cottage, which can only mean one thing...

  "I'm going crazy," she says quietly, lowering the spade. Staring at the table, she tries to work out if there's any way that she might have had breakfast and then forgotten all about it. Another possibility is that the mayor might have let himself in and then... Pausing for a moment, she sighs as she realizes that none of these explanations makes any sense. She doesn't believe in ghosts, so she figures the mystery intruder must be someone rather more solid.

  "I'll catch you," she mutters. "If I have to stay up all night, I'll fucking catch you."

  After making a cup of tea, Sam heads back out to finish working on the mausoleum. She figures there are still a few vines that need removing from the outside, and she wants to get the whole damn thing looking absolutely perfect. To her surprise, however, she discovers that someone appears to have beaten her to it: the mausoleum has been completely cleaned up, to the extent that it looks as good as new. The moss has been carefully scrubbed away, the ivy has been stripped down and even the stains in the stonework have been removed. To top everything off, there's a brand new lock on the door, with a shiny new key hanging from a chain.

  "Huh," Sam says, sipping from her cup. She turns and looks across the cemetery, but there's no sign of anyone nearby. Still, this is one coincidence too many: there's definitely someone else around, and they're clearly playing mind games. Although she's pleased that the mausoleum has been cleaned, Sam can't help but wonder why someone would be doing all this. Sure, kids might decide to play tricks on her, but she figures they'd probably do something that requires a little less effort. Something about this whole situation strikes her as being particularly strange. She just can't work out why anyone would go to such extraordinary lengths to freak her out.