by Dacre Stoker
The wood was rotten. The box was constructed of cheap knotted pine, and the earth had gone to work on the wood the moment the townsfolk lowered it into the ground. I had to forgo the shovel for fear of breaking through the lid of the coffin. Instead, I scooped away the dirt by hand and tossed it out of the hole, which had grown to nearly five feet deep.
When at last the coffin was uncovered, I ran my fingers along the edges in search of some kind of handle; I found none. The lid had been nailed shut from the top, six nails in all, one for each of the four corners and two midway down the side. The pine was swollen and brittle, so much so that I dared not stand upon it; instead, I placed one foot on either side and slid the blade of the shovel under the lid. I turned to my sister, silently offering a final opportunity for her to walk away from this terrible task and forget all about it, but she remained steadfast and granted me only a resolute nod.
I pressed down on the shovel’s wooden handle until the metal blade dug into the wood. Then I gave the handle a slight wiggle to force the blade deeper before pressing down again. This time the lid buckled slightly and the nails near the shovel’s blade groaned, pulling out enough for me to able to get my fingers beneath the wood. I set the shovel aside and gripped the lid. With all my strength, I pulled up and to the side, and the lid tore away with a ghastly squeal, each nail screeching in protest.
As the lid separated from the coffin, cockroaches poured out. Thousands of them. Moving so fast, their plump bodies scuttling up and over the sides. They ran over one another, each faster than the last, tiny black legs shuffling, sounding like sheets of paper rubbing together. The roaches covered my legs, my chest, my arms. I heard Matilda scream; then she began stomping on the bugs as they crawled from the grave and scattered amongst the leaves.
I climbed from the hole with haste and brushed them off. There were so many, I could feel them scurrying over every inch of my body. I dared not open my mouth to scream for fear one of the creatures might seize the opportunity to slip between my lips. Just the thought of one in my throat, my stomach, writhing about . . .
When at last the mass exodus of the cockroaches concluded, I realized I had shuffled nearly ten feet from the open grave. Matilda stood even farther away, near the front of the church ruins, stomping the ground with undeterred resolve until the last of the roaches were finally either dead or gone. I ran my hand through my hair, then turned my back to her. She brushed one more off my shoulder, crushing it with the toe of her shoe, before proclaiming me roach-free. I found none on her.
Together, we cautiously made our way back to the grave. The smell was horrible. I covered my mouth and nose with the collar of my coat and peered into the hole.
The corpse was wrapped in an orange shroud. At least the shroud appeared orange, most likely having earned that color after years of absorbing the remains it shrouded. Dirt covered the bottom of the coffin. Whether it had been placed there deliberately or found its way in through one of the rotten boards, I could not be certain. I could not help but recall the earth we found beneath Nanna Ellen’s bed, smelling so much of death yet teeming with life.
Around the body were various personal items—a book, a mirror, a brush, some clothing . . . a very bizarre assortment indeed.
“Would he have been buried with such things?” Matilda asked.
“It would appear so.”
“How did the roaches breathe down there, buried in that box?”
To this question, I had no answer. Did roaches, in fact, breathe? I imagine so, but I have never studied their physiology. Most likely, they were perfectly capable of sustaining themselves underground, or, possibly, they burrowed back and forth. Or perhaps they were just like flies in a jar.
“We need to get closer.”
“You stay here, I will—”
But she was already gone, slipping down the grave’s wall and landing with a soft crunch on the earth below as her shoes crushed a few of the remaining roaches.
I cursed under my breath and slid down next to her, careful not to catch on one of the thick roots I had cut with the shovel but which now stuck out from the grave walls like angry fingers attempting to grab at anything moving past.
“I must see his face,” Matilda said from my side, barely visible in this deep hole. “Please, Bram.”
My attention was elsewhere. Something was not right; there was something off about this body. The shape, the length of the arms and legs, the proportions were all wrong. I reached near the head for the orange shroud, cringing as my fingers wrapped around it. The shroud felt moist, as if were covered with some kind of bile or slime; it was akin to reaching inside the carcass of some dead thing and taking holding of the stomach.
I tugged the cloth out from under the head and peeled it back to the sound of Matilda exhaling beside me as the head became visible. At the sight of it, I gave the shroud a swift tug and tore it from the box, tossing it to the ground beside us.
“Rocks, nothing but rocks,” my sister said.
Where a body should have lain were rocks instead, arranged so as to form the shape of a body. Wrapped in the shroud, they presented the illusion of form. And with the lid of the coffin closed, certainly the weight, too.
“Was his body stolen and replaced with rocks?”
“If grave robbers stole the corpse, there would be no need to go to all the trouble. They would simply replace the lid and bury the coffin as is, if they bothered to rebury it at all,” Matilda said. “This coffin never contained a body; someone placed the rocks there to fool whoever was tasked with burying O’Cuiv.”
“Possibly.”
“What do you make of this?” Matilda picked up the mirror lying in the open coffin. Ma had a similar one, which she called her looking glass. This mirror appeared to be made of silver and gold; the remarkable craftsmanship was evident despite heavy tarnish.
“Something is written on the back, just above the handle. Can you read it?”
She flipped the mirror over and raised it to what little light was seeping in from above.
“Um meine Liebe, die Gräfin Dolingen von Gratz.”
“That is German. ‘To my love, the Countess Dolingen von Gratz,’” I translated.
“Who is that?”
“I have no idea.”
She picked up the brush. “The same inscription appears here.”
I took it from her and ran my fingertips over the writing.
“Maybe some kind of family heirloom?” Matilda suggested.
“These belong to a woman. I don’t understand why they would be buried with Patrick O’Cuiv. Maybe they belonged to his wife and someone placed them in here so he would not forget what he had done? Or maybe—”
“Bram,” Matilda interrupted.
“What?”
She held up a black cloak. It had been bunched up near the bottom of the coffin, by the false feet. “This is Ma’s cloak. The one Nanna Ellen wore that night we followed her out to the bog.”
Before I could argue, she pushed her finger through the small hole on the right sleeve. The same hole I identified it by all those years earlier. The material was matted and worn but familiar nonetheless.
“How can that be?” I heard myself say. “Wasn’t he buried before we saw her that night?”
“I’ll have to confirm the dates, but I think so, yes.”
We both stared at the cloak for some time, neither sure of what to say next. None of this made sense. Matilda worked the material nervously with her fingers. “There’s something in the pocket.”
She reached inside and withdrew the most stunning necklace, a gold chain with a heart of shimmering diamonds surrounding a red ruby of an unimaginably large size.
“That is extraordinary. May I?”
Matilda handed the necklace to me. The jewels had heft in my hands, more so than I expected. And they sparkled so! I daresay, I could barely d
rag my eyes away. The jewels were of exquisite quality and had been mounted by a skilled hand, for I couldn’t determine what held them all together in place. The ruby was a deep red, and as I stared at it in the palm of my hand I couldn’t help but think of a drop of blood afloat on a sea of light. I couldn’t begin to imagine what such a piece would cost.
I returned the necklace to Matilda. She placed it carefully back into the coffin atop the cloak. “What of the book?”
Although I had been taken by the jewels, her thoughts were still clearly fixed on Ma’s cloak, her fingers continuing to work the material nervously. She let go with some trepidation and reached for the small book—old as well, I could see that much from where I sat, the pages yellowed. Matilda opened to the first page, her eyes scanning the text, first going wide, then narrowing as she flipped to the next page and the next after that.
“What is it?”
“It’s in Nanna Ellen’s hand, but I don’t recognize the language,” Matilda said.
“May I?”
She handed me the book and I studied the text. I, too, recognized the handwriting as Nanna Ellen’s, there was no mistaking her carefully executed swirling script. I had seen it as a child on many notes and letters, but the language of origin escaped me as well.
I thumbed through the pages, finding that nearly half the book was filled. Turning back to the first page, I paused and took in the very first line, for even in an unknown language I could figure out what it meant. It was a date:
12 Október 1654.
LETTER FROM MATILDA to ELLEN CRONE, DATED 11 AUGUST 1868
My dearest Ellen,
Oh my, where to begin!
Tonight, Bram and I did what I would have considered unthinkable only a few weeks ago. We dug up the grave of Patrick O’Cuiv! Not only did we accomplish such a ghastly task, we did it under the cloak of darkness long after the cemetery closed. We were in a state of acute apprehension for fear of being discovered by the guard, who, I must admit, executes his office most poorly, for we saw neither hide nor hair of him, not even once. I found all the stealth quite exhilarating.
Dare I say it, we found the most irregular assortment of items within the confines of that pine box. I will touch on these in a moment, but first I would like to point out what we did not find in the coffin—the body of one Patrick O’Cuiv. As I suspected, Mr. O’Cuiv was quite obviously missing from his own burial plot! Someone took the time to place rocks in the coffin as a crude substitute for the body and wrap them in a shroud, but that is all it was. Anyone with half a mind could plainly see this was not a man. The only reason to insert rocks in a coffin in such a manner would be to fool those burying it initially—the men shouldering the coffin to the grave and lowering it in the ground to its eternal repose—so that is what must have transpired.
I have no doubt that the man who recently died in Dublin was the same Patrick O’Cuiv who belonged in this grave. How he lived, I have yet to determine. Nor do I know how he faked his own death or how he failed to age in all these years after. I imagine you will have something to say about that. We will discuss it in great length when we find you, of that you can be assured.
Let us now devote a moment to discussing what we did find within Mr. O’Cuiv’s not-so-final resting place. Ma’s cloak, for a start. How did a cloak you clearly stole from our mother wind up in this grave? How did you get it there? And why? And what of the looking glass and hairbrush? Are they both your possessions as well? If so, did you steal them from this Countess Dolingen von Gratz? Who is she? The moment we return to Dublin, I plan to visit Marsh’s Library to determine exactly that.
I imagine she wants that necklace back. So exquisite!
We are closing on you, my dear Nanna Ellen. We are drawing closer by the minute.
The book was perhaps the most puzzling thing of all. Written in your hand but dated centuries in the past. Had I seen it a year ago, I would consider it to be nothing more than a ruse, but after the things I have seen of late . . .
Is it dear to you? Are all of these things of some personal value to you?
I want you to know we took them. The cloak, the looking glass, the brush, the necklace, and the book—we took all of it. Much to Bram’s dismay, I wrapped your mementos in Ma’s cloak and brought them with me.
We did not leave the rocks to rest alone, though—I left each of the letters I wrote you in the grave. If you return at some point for your possessions, you will find my words waiting in their stead.
Bram and I refilled the hole with much haste, then quickly returned to the place where we had arranged to meet Thornley’s driver. Upon scaling the wall, we found the coach in the grove of poplar trees, but there was no sign of the driver. The horses appeared impatient; their stamping hooves indicated they had been there for some time.
Bram instructed me to stay with the carriage as he searched the surrounding grounds for the driver. I observed him walking out to the road and following it around to the far side of the cemetery, where he disappeared from sight. I checked the cab for any note from the driver but found none. I then climbed up to the driver’s box in case he had left a message for us there. I found the horse’s reins not tied off, as one would expect, but lying on the floorboards as if dropped in panic. At this point, I discovered the blood. Only a few drops on the seat, mind you, and a couple more along the footrail, but enough to cause concern. These drops were fresh, shed within the hour.
I immediately considered the possibilities: either the driver injured himself and went in search of help or he was injured in some type of struggle and taken. Aside from the blood, I had no reason to believe there had been a confrontation, but my mind grasped on to that possibility and held firm.
I jumped from the coach, ready to go off in search of Bram. That is when I spotted her.
This girl of no more than six or seven years of age, with brown hair and the most radiant green eyes. She stood perfectly rigid at the center of the road, gazing at me. I did not hear her approach, nor did she make a sound once I spotted her; she just stood there in utter silence. She wore a somber brown cloak with the hood pulled up over her head, but not so much so that her face was lost in gloom. On the contrary, her face gleamed, as if her skin captured the light of the moon and was aglow with it. Her eyes, bright as stars, remained fixed upon me without fail.
I knew at once this was the girl we had spotted under the ash tree back at Dr. Steevens’ Hospital.
“Who are you?” I inquired, hoping my voice did not betray the unsettling feeling that had crept over me. Her gaze triggered some deep instinct within me, one that told me to run. As I think back on this encounter now, it makes me think of a cat watching a mouse, a beast studying its prey.
“Why did you disturb my father’s grave?” Her words carried across the street, her voice melodic.
“Your father?” I made the connection then, my mind returning to those newspaper articles of so long ago. “You are Maggie O’Cuiv?”
The girl said nothing, her dark eyes locked on me. I ventured a step towards her, but as I neared she withdrew an equal distance away. It was not her feet that carried her, though; I did not see them move at all. She simply drifted back, as if riding a carpet of air. I could not help but gasp at the spectacle, and this girl found humor in my reaction, her lips curling upwards in a grin. Her now exposed teeth were quite white, unnaturally so. Her skin struck me as odd, too—deathly pale and stamped with tiny veins. Her cheeks, flushed with color when first I spied her, now appeared to be fading.
My thoughts returned to the missing driver. Could this girl somehow be responsible? Nonsense, of course. He probably outweighed even Bram, and she was a slight little thing, but there was something about her, something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Your father is not in his grave, Maggie. Do you know why?”
At this, her grin grew wider. “Perhaps he is standing behin
d you?”
To say such a devilish thing, I know she only wanted to get a rise out of me. I refused to turn and look behind me; I would not give her that satisfaction.
“Perhaps he is standing directly behind you ready to drain the lifeblood from your pretty little body.” As she had floated away from me a moment earlier, she now floated nearer, drawing within a few feet of me. Only the slight ruffle of her cloak betrayed any motion, her person remaining perfectly still. The air around us grew silent. I could not hear the sounds of the city nor the creatures of the night, not even a single cricket.
At this distance, I found her eyes, so sharp and hungry, to be haunting. I wanted to turn away from her but discovered I could not. I could do nothing but stare back.
“My father would like you,” she said, her voice but a whisper. “He has always liked girls like you.”
“Where is Ellen Crone?” I forced the words out, unwilling to let my voice betray my fear. If she recognized your name, her face did not indicate so; she remained perfectly still. I tried not to think about the things I took from Patrick O’Cuiv’s grave. Something told me that if I did think of them, this girl would know. She would pluck the thoughts right out of my head and take these items from the coach, and I would be unable to stop her. So when thoughts of these items tried to enter my mind, I pushed them aside and instead focused on Bram, my brother, my loving brother. I shouted his name then. My voice echoing off the black walls of night. I shouted it so loud a murder of crows flew from the trees around us and batted off into the darkness.
This girl, this thing that was Maggie O’Cuiv, drifted back again, but only a bit, still floating out of reach. At the sight of this, my hand went to my chest and pressed against the silver cross I wore around my neck. The icy metal stung my chest, and I welcomed the cooling embrace, finding it comforting. My subconscious told me to run, to bound back over the fence and race through the door of the church and stay there until daylight won the battle for the sky, but instead I did not move, my feet remaining firm.