Better Left Buried

by Frisch, Belinda

“Harmony, stop!” Adam wrestled the knife from her hand. His panic-stricken tone and the hurt in his eyes said something had happened, something she hadn’t realized. He bordered on hysterical as he gathered up every towel in the kitchen. “Why … why would you do this to me again?”

  She looked down at her arms and fainted.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Harmony, what happened?” Adam changed the towel on her forearm, adding the dirty one to the pile.

  She shifted on the couch and the room resumed spinning. The moments up to Adam coming home were a blur. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” The rough cotton scratched at her skin. She pushed his hands away. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? What if I hadn’t come home?”

  What if?

  Part of her wished he hadn’t. The escalated attack had her terrified of what came next.

  “I don’t know.” She sniffled. “The last thing I remember, I was trying to sleep but I was really stressed out and you weren’t here and I kept thinking someone was watching me. You can’t blame me after what happened. I mean, I was attacked. I kept hearing things and all I could think of was that guy in the alley. I took a couple of sleeping pills—”

  “A couple? It’s supposed to be one.”

  Truthfully, she hadn’t taken any, but the excuse seemed the only one that would make her behavior plausible. “I know. I just thought … I don’t know. I didn’t think one would work. I don’t know how I got cut. I must’ve been sleepwalking or something.”

  “Sleep-induced suicide attempt? You really expect me to believe that?”

  “You really think if I were trying to kill myself I wouldn’t do a better job?”

  He shook his head, but she could see he got her point.

  “We need to get this clean so I can take a better look at it.”

  The towels mottled the blood on her arm, making a grim mosaic that was hard to see through.

  “Help me to the sink.” She felt faint. The last thing she needed was to pass out.

  Adam helped her up slowly, holding his arms out to catch her in case she fell. “Can you walk?”

  She blinked to clear the fog from her vision and waited until she felt steady enough to move. “I think so.”

  Without pressure, blood welled up from the cuts.

  Adam turned on the faucet and rolled her sleeve up as far as it would go past her elbow. The lumpy cuff held her arm at an unnatural angle.

  She put her forearm under the slow trickle of water and rubbed gently to wash off the blood. The cuts were slightly deeper than superficial—enough to have bled, but not deep enough to need stitches. The worst of them overlaid her suicide scar exactly.

  “Get the glue,” she said, holding the sink’s edge for balance.

  A piece of broken coffee cup crushed under Adam’s boot as he walked across to the counter. He picked up the largest pieces and threw them in the trash. “Be careful where you step. There’s broken coffee cup all over the place, and it looks like the microwave clock finally died.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the clock frozen at 2:34 AM. “It was the power outage. I think that must’ve been when I dropped the mug.” Details she couldn’t make sense of, things she wouldn’t admit to, came back to her piecemeal.

  “What power outage?” He unscrewed the top off the tube and patted her arm dry, closing the cuts one by one.

  “Right before you came home. The TV went off, then the light—”

  “I don’t think so. Everyone else’s lights were on when I pulled in and besides, everything would’ve gone off at the same time, not in sequence.”

  “No, I’m sure of it. I came out in the kitchen to get a flashlight, which is when I dropped the mug.”

  “I thought you were sleeping?”

  “I was—I mean, I think I was.” The more she tried to explain things, the less they made sense.

  “And if the power went out, the clock would’ve reset.” He unplugged the microwave, counted to thirty, and plugged it back in, hitting the side when the clock didn’t immediately light up. “See,” the clock flashed 12:00, “like that.”

  “Then I must’ve been sleeping, right?” Harmony blew on her arm and patted the shiny streaks to see that they were dry. Her skin felt tight, but the glue helped with the pain. “Things just aren’t adding up the way I remember them.” She took a couple of aspirins and wrapped a roll of white gauze around her forearm to keep the glue from cracking.

  “If that’s true, we have a new wrinkle.” He swept the kitchen floor, his gaze distant.

  Whether it was paranoia or not, she imagined he was thinking about taking her back to Spring View.

  “It’ll be fine. I won’t take the pills again. I shouldn’t have taken them in the first place.” She knelt to hold the dust pan. “It was an accident.” She set her hand on his thigh.

  “An accident, huh?” He dumped the crumbs and rinsed off the knife. “I’ll be right back.” He tucked the butcher block under his arm.

  “Where are you going?”

  He picked up his car keys. “To make sure there aren’t any more accidents.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Adam pulled into the high school’s senior lot and parked in a space marked “Visitor”.

  “What, you don’t feel like braving the bus loop today?” Harmony was doing her best to keep things light.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Do what? Go to school? Not really, but I don’t have a whole lot of options. I’m three absences away from not graduating, four tops. I’ll be fine.” She leaned across the seat and kissed him. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll be with Brea and I have my phone so I can call if I need you. I know you’ll be right here.”

  “Always,” he said, tracing his hand along her fingers. “I’ll pick you up at 2:00.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Harmony opened the truck door, noticing the gossip seemed louder than usual.

  “Seriously, Jaxon’s lost his mind.”

  “I know, right? I mean, Brea Miller. What a freak.”

  “What’s wrong?” Adam said.

  “Nothing. I’ll see you at two.” She hopped down and headed across the lot.

  “I love you,” Adam shouted through the partially open window.

  It was something she had never said. To anyone. She lifted her backpack strap onto her shoulder and pretended not to hear him.

  The main entrance came into view and she saw what all the fuss was about.

  “What the hell?”

  Jaxon stood outside the vestibule next to Brea, holding her books. He laughed and talked as casually as if they’d known each other their whole lives. Brea looked like she was about to be sick. She cast back and forth glances across the parking lot and jumped when Harmony called her name.

  The color drained from Brea’s face as she took her books from Jaxon and said, “You have to go.”

  Harmony was great at reading lips.

  Jaxon looked unthrilled, but was out of sight by the time she got to where he’d been standing.

  “What was that all about?”

  Brea shook her head. “Nothing. He’s part of some stupid church group thing my mother makes me go to.”

  “Really? This isn’t church group. It’s school.”

  Brea looked down, blushing. “I know, but he wanted to talk about it. It’s nothing. Honest.”

  “If you say so.”

  The warning bell rang and the straggling students hurried toward the main entrance. Harmony waited for the last bus to exit the parking loop and pulled Brea’s sleeve.

  “What?” She stopped before going inside.

  “Come on. I need to show you something.”

  “Harm, I can’t skip class again or I’m never going to take my road test. My mother—”

  “Shh. Just come on. I’ll have you back by second period. They won’t even call her.”

  “But—”

  “Brea, it’s important.” She made sure the coast
was clear before ducking down the hiking path they used to walk the half-mile in gym class. Brea reluctantly followed.

  “Where are we going?”

  Harmony cut off the trail and headed into the woods backing County Route 32. “Not far. Will you just trust me?”

  “I do trust you, but if my mother finds out—”

  “Then you can ask her why she didn’t mention being attacked by mine.”

  “Wait, what?” Brea stopped between the tree line and the shoulder when a car appeared. “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember when she got arrested? Apparently, there was some sort of cat fight between her and your mother.” Brea’s jaw went slack. “Looks like you’re not the only one keeping secrets.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Harmony blew a strand of hair from in front of her face. “Really? You’re going to play stupid with me? What did I just walk in on with Jaxon?” An extended silence was all the answer she needed. The car passed and she tugged Brea along.

  “I was going to tell you, I just—”

  “Save it, all right? Just don’t.” Harmony cut across an overgrown lawn to the abandoned house that had been foreclosed on in early spring. The notices covering the front door were weathered, unreadable.

  Harmony pulled her student ID card from her wallet and forced it into the gap between the door and the jamb. She wiggled and pushed it until the lock gave. There had been plenty of nights before agreeing to stay with Adam that she’d refused to go home. This was one of the few places she didn’t mind staying. The lock popped and the door swung open.

  “Get in.”

  Brea shook her head. “I don’t want to. Do you know what’ll happen if we get caught trespassing?”

  “We won’t get caught. Get in before someone sees.” Harmony pulled Brea inside and locked the door behind them.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Harmony unbuttoned her jacket at the wrist and rolled up her sleeve. She peeled back the white medical tape holding the rectangle of gauze in place and showed Brea the cuts. “I need your help.”

  “Jesus, Harmony.” Brea examined the angry cuts that, while superficial, appeared menacing against Harmony’s pale skin. “So, you’re cutting now? What the hell?”

  “I’m not cutting, Brea. Get serious.”

  “Then why did you do that?”

  “Honestly? I don’t think I did.” The events of the previous night were hazy, the details about how and when she got cut less clear than others. “That’s why I need your help.” She set her backpack on the hardwood stairs and took out something wrapped in a square of flannel. She unrolled the bundle and handed Brea a small drinking glass from inside. “I read about this.”

  “Harm, those books are making you—”

  “They’re making me what? Nuts? Confused? What’s your label for me?” She’d had so many over the past seventeen years that none could hurt her, not even coming from Brea. “Something attacked me last night. Not someone. Something. It knocked the phone out of my hand when I tried to call for help, blew shit all around the kitchen. If Adam hadn’t come home when he did, it might’ve killed me.” She held out her arm to illustrate her point. “It cut over my goddamned scars. Why would I do that?” She unloaded a spirit board and set it on the table the former owners had left behind. “A voice said, ‘help me’. Over and over again. It just kept asking.”

  “It?”

  “He. Brea, if you don’t do this with me, if I don’t figure out what happened, it won’t let me go. Please?”

  “And this is your solution? You want to communicate with something you think tried to kill you?”

  “Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I did this. Maybe I freaked and tried for an easy out. I don’t know, but I know that if I did cut myself, it wasn’t without a push.”

  “What does Adam think about this?”

  Harmony stared at the board in front of her. It was vintage, wooden, and intimidating in its careful detailing. This wasn’t a party game. It was the real thing.

  “You haven’t told him, have you?”

  “What am I supposed to say? That I think a ghost is trying to kill me? That I’m seeing things that aren’t there? Adam accepts my brand of crazy, Brea, and he loves me in spite of it, but that’s asking too much, even from him.”

  Brea tuned in to Harmony’s deepest fear without her having to say it. “You’re afraid he’ll send you back to Spring View.”

  She refused to admit it. “Please? Could be that nothing happens. Then I am crazy and I’ll admit it. But if I’m not then there’s something else going on here.”

  Brea set the glass on the center of the board and whether it was guilt, sympathy, or a combination of both, she agreed. “Fine. Let’s do this. Then at least you’ll know.” Harmony smiled. “But I want to go on record as saying I think this is a terrible idea.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Brea ran her fingers over the smooth wood, her fingertips tracing the scorched letters burnt into it. A moon decorated the left hand corner, a sun the right, and the words “Yes” and “No” were under them. “Hello” and “Goodbye” were written across the bottom in a rough script that indicated the board was handmade. She’d never seen anything like it.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  Harmony cleaned the glass with her shirt. “Remember that old house on McNamara?”

  “The hoarder house?”

  It was on her bus route; a two-story Victorian with piles of junk so high you couldn’t see through the windows. Its paint was chipped, the porch was falling in, and there was a minivan full of trash with four flat tires parked in the driveway.

  “The old woman who lived there died last summer. I guess she didn’t have any family because the town sent people over to clean the place out. They trashed everything. This,” she tapped the board, “was in a box in the dumpster.”

  Somehow, the story didn’t make Brea feel any better about using it. Of all that Harmony had said, she’d focused in on dead old lady.

  “So, what do we do?” Brea asked, thankful for the light of day and unintimidating surroundings. The foreclosed house hadn’t yet fallen into disrepair and the family left behind enough of their belongings for her to feel safe, like a visitor in a home with a terrible housekeeper.

  “Haven’t you ever done this before?”

  Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “They smuggled one into camp, but I watched a movie in the other room.”

  “Big surprise.” Harmony set the glass upside down in the middle of the board and placed two fingers on the edge. “Well?” She raised her eyebrows.

  Brea did the same, feeling more than a little sick to her stomach. “Now what?”

  “Now, we ask questions. Is there anyone here willing to talk to us?” A long minute passed without anything happening. “Can anyone hear me? I’m calling the person who asked me for help. Are you here?”

  Brea tensed. “Maybe it’s only at your place?”

  “He.” Harmony corrected. “This can’t work if you’re playing statue.”

  Brea relaxed and the glass moved. “Harm—”

  Harmony shushed her. “You’re still pressing too hard.”

  Brea concentrated on letting her arm go limp and the glass moved to “Hello”.

  A cold breeze blew across the table.

  She shivered. “I don’t like this.”

  “Shh. It’s fine.” It felt anything but. “Is this the man who contacted me last night? The one who asked for help?”

  The glass moved to “Yes”.

  Brea lifted her fingers, nervous that the answers were coming too quickly and easily. “Are you moving it?”

  “No. I’m not moving anything. You have to focus. Now come on.” Harmony scowled and Brea reluctantly resumed her position. “Can you tell me your name?”

  The glass moved in a circle and settled on the letters T-O-M.

  “Tom?” Brea aske
d.

  The glass stopped on “Yes”.

  She hadn’t meant to ask it a question.

  “Can you tell me your last name? Something I can use to find you?” Harmony asked.

  1-9-9-6

  “Nineteen ninety six? Is that a year?”

  It stopped on “Yes” again.

  Brea did the math. She would’ve been two. “Tom and 1996. That’s not much to go on.”

  “What do you want, Tom? How can I help you?”

  The glass moved faster, looping in circles, and stopped three times on the same number.

  6-6-6

  “Jesus!” Brea jumped out of the chair. “I’m done.”

  “Sit down.” Harmony clenched her jaw. “You need to give it a chance. He’s probably just repeating the last number of the year. It’s hard for them to be clear sometimes. It’s not what you think.”

  “Your books tell you that? No way, Harmony. No. Way.”

  “I’m telling you right now, Brea, I’ll do this alone if I have to, but worse things will happen.”

  “Worse? Triple sixes is the sign of the devil. What could be worse than that?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know. And you’ve communicated with him, whether you like it or not. You can’t just walk away from this.”

  “Watch me.” Brea picked her books up off the stairs by the front door and screamed.

  Harmony rushed into the room after her. The look of anger on her face was replaced by one of absolute terror.

  Papers scattered and Brea’s calculus book landed binding-first on her foot. As much as it should have hurt through canvas sneakers, she barely felt it.

  At the top of the stairs, in shadows cast by a mostly closed bedroom door, was the misty outline of a man—black and willowy with tendril fingers.

  “Harmony, do you see that?” She was convinced it was a hallucination brought on by fear.

  Harmony opened her mouth to answer, but could only manage a nod. Her hands shook and the color drained from her face.

  “Help me.”

  A bitter wind descended and the whisper surrounded them, filling every inch of space.

  Harmony crumbled, covering her ears, screaming for the noise to stop.