Bury Me

by K. R. Alexander

  “How?” I ask.

  She just smiles grimly and turns her attention to the doll. She lifts up the hem of its dress, pulls out a small marker, and writes ☺, the number 42, and the letters ZXR on its leg. When she flips the dress back and stands up, I can’t tell she’s made a mark.

  “What does that mean?” James asks.

  “Nothing,” she replies. “It’s nonsense. And no one but us saw what it was.” Again, she glances around the woods. We all look, but there’s no way anyone could be hiding out there. At least, not close enough to see the tiny letters.

  “Now what?” James asks.

  “Now we test Kimberly’s theory,” Alicia says. “We see if the doll truly is coming back from the dead.”

  We burn the doll a second time that afternoon.

  No funeral. No speeches. Just a fire in the pit behind my house.

  We all watch it burn in silence.

  I swear, over the hiss and the pop of burning wood and cracking porcelain, I hear something. Faint as the wind rustling through the leaves. Screams. Distant screams, someone crying far away.

  I glance toward the woods and swear the sound is coming from the mansion.

  “What’s up?” Alicia asks.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask.

  James and Alicia look at each other. That’s answer enough for me.

  “Never mind,” I say.

  I try to drown out the sound and the building ache in my chest—the fear that this won’t work. The fear that something terrible will happen as a result. Alicia keeps looking at me worriedly. She doesn’t ask anything. I don’t think she really wants to know the answer.

  We don’t move until all that’s left of the doll is ashes. And when the ashes are cooled, we each scoop a handful into separate tins and bury the rest. For extra measure, Alicia secures the lid on each tin with duct tape.

  “We don’t let these out of our sight,” Alicia says solemnly. “Sleep with it on your nightstand or under your pillow. If the doll is coming back from the dead, there’s no way it will be able to return without its ashes.” Then her serious expression breaks and she smiles at me. “See? Problem solved. You won’t be haunted by a creepy doll any longer.”

  “But what if it does come back?” James asks. He holds his tin gingerly, like he doesn’t want it anywhere near him. I know the feeling. If I could have Alicia watch my tin without feeling like a coward, I would.

  “Then we go to the police.”

  I hold back a snort. The only policeman in this town is Officer Frank, and I think he spends more time napping than he does actually policing.

  Even quieter, James asks again, “But what if it still manages to come back?”

  My heart sinks with his question. Because I’ve been thinking it, too.

  “I don’t know,” Alicia admits. She looks at me. “We just better hope that doesn’t happen.”

  * * *

  Even though I’m no longer grounded, playing with James and Alicia isn’t nearly as fun as it should be. Mostly because none of us want to be alone, which means our usual games of scavenger hunts or hide-and-seek are off the menu. It’s too hot to leave the cover of the woods or the fort, or to do anything really fun like climb trees. If only there was a lake nearby we could visit, or a swimming pool. Instead, there’s just the heat and the bugs and the forest.

  And the looming presence of the doll’s cremated remains.

  “Maybe we could go on a quest?” Alicia ventures. “The fort can be a submarine and we’re heading down to the bottom of the ocean to look for sunken treasure?”

  James and I agree to take part, but after a few minutes of trying to get the story rolling, we give up. It’s too hot to pretend we’re underwater. And besides, we all keep looking at the taped tins we have stacked beside the fort. We’re watching to see if they move, or break open, or disappear.

  The doll is gone, but she’s all we can think about.

  After a while, we each grab our tins and head home. It’s still a few hours before dinner, but the mood between us is heavy. Expectant. We can’t concentrate on having fun when we’re worried about what will happen next.

  At least, for the first time, it seems I’m not alone in that fear.

  I trudge back home. Even though it’s still incredibly hot, the tin box feels cold in my hands, like it’s holding ice. A small part of me wants to open it and see if the ashes are still inside, or if they’re starting to re-form into a doll leg or something, like a caterpillar metamorphosing in its cocoon. The rest of me doesn’t want to see the truth. I don’t know what I’d do if the doll was whole inside there, beyond scream and run to the town’s exit as fast as I can.

  I’m so caught up in thinking about the doll that I don’t even realize the trailer isn’t empty until my mom clears her throat.

  “I didn’t expect you to be home already,” she says.

  She’s sitting at the front table, a glass of lemonade in one hand and a book on her lap. Strange.

  “What are you doing home early?” I ask. I thought she was working another double. She seems to always be working doubles lately.

  I try to smoothly hide the box behind my back, but of course she notices.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Scavenger hunt,” I reply quickly. I walk over and sit on the chair beside her. “You didn’t say why you’re home early.”

  She sighs. “Fridge went out in the diner, so they sent me home.”

  “Yay?”

  “I guess. It means no money tonight.”

  I don’t say anything to that. Just yesterday she was yelling at me because she thought I’d ruined my toys to disrespect her. I can tell she’s still thinking about it.

  “So what did you find in the hunt?” she asks. She nods to the box in my lap.

  I swallow.

  “What do you know about the mansion in the woods?” I ask.

  I don’t really know where the words come from. She doesn’t usually care where my friends and I play or what I do, so long as I stay out of the mines and don’t get into trouble.

  I’m watching her eyes when I ask. I want to see if she’s going to go blank like Mayor Couch or the librarian. But her forehead furrows like she’s thinking hard.

  “The mansion in the woods …”

  She trails off. Is that the end?

  Then she looks at me and her face is serious. Angry.

  “Nothing good has ever come from that mansion,” she growls. “You must stay away from there. Just like your father—”

  Her eyes unfocus. No, no!

  “What about Dad?” I ask. “I thought you said he left town and never came back?”

  She raises a hand to her forehead as if checking her temperature.

  “What?” she murmurs. “What were we talking about?”

  “Dad,” I say. “Dad and the mansion and—”

  “Your father left us,” she says, monotone. “And there is no mansion.”

  “But I saw—”

  She winces at my voice. I didn’t realize I was yelling.

  “You and your imagination,” she says. “Ugh, this heat. I suddenly have a migraine. I’m going to go lie down.”

  I watch her go. I watch the trailer shake as she makes her way to the bed and am suddenly reminded of the horrible noises from this morning, the thuds and knocks that nearly crumpled the trailer in on itself. A part of me wants to yell out, to warn her. The rest of me knows …

  I glance at the cold box in my lap.

  The rest of me knows that the doll isn’t after my mom. She’s after me.

  And hopefully, now, she can’t get either of us.

  “Elizabeth!” my mom calls out.

  My dream memory shifts. Elizabeth? But my name isn’t Elizabeth, it’s …

  “Elizabeth, you come out right now or you are grounded, you hear me?”

  I hear the rumble of another voice. My father.

  “I can’t find her—she’s been hiding all afternoon,” my mother growls lo
udly. “I just can’t bear this right now. I have to get ready for tonight.”

  Another baritone rumble as my father responds, then the distant thud of my mother’s departing footsteps.

  I close my eyes against the darkness.

  They won’t find me no matter how hard they look. I know, because I only just discovered the treasury this week—the stairway hidden behind a grand portrait of my grandparents, and the room itself locked by a key I found nestled in my father’s desk. Now I hide behind another portrait, one of my father and uncle. In the portrait, they look happy standing together. I have never seen them that happy in real life.

  I haven’t seen my uncle for years, until today.

  “Elizabeth,” my dad says.

  I jolt—I’ve been so focused on pretending I wasn’t there, I haven’t heard him come into the treasury. I hold my breath and don’t make a sound.

  “Elizabeth, I know you’re in here,” he says, then sighs. “I also know you went into town today, and I hate to think of what you might have seen. Or what it might have made you think of me.”

  I close my eyes once more and pretend I’m not hearing this. But this is the one thing I can’t pretend away.

  My father is a monster.

  That’s what everyone in town thinks. Especially the miners. After what happened last week, when part of the mine collapsed and he forced them to continue working, even though it was dangerous … It’s no wonder the miners are refusing to work. No wonder they are protesting in the streets. They all think my parents are after only one thing: money. No matter the cost. No matter the risk.

  The worst part is, I know they are right.

  My parents will do anything for money. My parents don’t care about human life. Not even mine.

  “I brought you a gift,” he says. “I’ll leave it right here. I do hope you decide to come out. The ball tonight will be a spectacle, and it would mean the world to your mother and me if you chose to attend.”

  If you chose. I have no choice—if I don’t appear at the ball, I will be worse than grounded. They don’t care about me going, they don’t care about me having a good time. They only want me to be on display. Their perfect little daughter. The admiration of all of their rich, disgusting guests.

  The only thing my parents like more than money is admiration.

  “Okay, well, I must go get ready, my dearest. And hopefully you will as well. I have no doubt you will look stunning in your new dress.”

  There’s a rustle and the clank of the iron-bar door shutting behind him. He doesn’t relock it.

  I count to one hundred. When I’m positive he is no longer around and my hiding spot won’t be given away, I step out from behind the painting.

  Despite the fear and the anger battling in my chest, the sight of what he’s brought me makes me gasp with happiness.

  He has brought me a doll, and she looks just like me.

  I wake up in the middle of the night with a jolt.

  My mother sleeps soundly beside me, and the trailer is dark, lit only by a slash of light from the white floodlight outside. My heart is racing and I desperately try to hold on to my dream. I know it’s important.

  In the dream, I was a girl named Elizabeth.

  In my dream, I was hiding, because my parents were upset that I’d gone into town on my own and seen … something. Something that would make me think my parents were monsters.

  Something to do with the copper mine.

  And then my father gave me a doll. No, not a doll, the doll. The same hair and dress, the same creepy eyes and smile.

  In the dream, it had filled me with joy.

  Now it only fills me with fear.

  What in the world is going on? Am I reliving someone else’s past? I know that my dreams the last few nights have been related—I can’t be making this stuff up. Not even my imagination is enough to create something like this.

  So who is Elizabeth? And why am I being haunted by her doll?

  Instantly, I look to the tiny nightstand. As quietly as I can, I crawl over Mom and slide open the drawer. When I see the duct-tape-wrapped tin still inside, I let out a huge sigh of relief. The ashes are still here. I’m still safe.

  I slide the drawer shut and make my way back to my side of the bed.

  In the morning, I’ll check the library again to see if I can find anything out about Elizabeth and the family who lived in the manor. If nothing else, I’ll learn if what I’m dreaming is fact or fiction.

  At least I don’t have to worry about the doll.

  I slide under the covers.

  My foot bumps something at the bottom of the bed.

  My skin goes cold immediately.

  Quietly, shaking, I double over and reach down toward the bottom of the bed.

  My fingers wrap around the cold body of a doll.

  I swear my heart stops

  as I pull the doll out

  as I hold it up in the slash of light

  as I see the same face,

  same dress,

  same BURY ME

  as I flip up the fabric

  as I examine the marking on its leg:

  ☺. 42. ZXR.

  “No,” I gasp.

  It’s the same doll.

  Somehow, even though her ashes have been divided and sealed up, she’s come back.

  I don’t sleep for the rest of the night.

  I try to find someplace to seal the doll away.

  I put her in the nightstand. But as soon as I close the drawer, I swear I hear her moving inside. I glance at my mom, but she sleeps through the noise as if it isn’t happening.

  I throw the doll in the refrigerator and push a chair against it. I hear her clawing and scraping on the inside, then breaking all the eggs and pouring out the milk so it leaks from the door when I open it again. Once more I look to my mother, but she doesn’t wake. I snarl at the doll—who doesn’t move at all when I can see her—and grab a towel. With the doll in one hand and the towel in the other, I mop up the milk and the eggs.

  I consider waking my mom. Making her deal with this. But I have a feeling that the doll won’t do a thing under my mother’s gaze. All it will do is get me in trouble—Mom needs her sleep so she can get to her opening shift, and if I wake her up yelling about a live doll that only moves when out of sight, she will ground me again for my overactive imagination. I’m so frustrated as I mop up the milk.

  I just. Want. This. To. Stop.

  Finally, when the mess is mostly clean, I wrap the doll in my pillowcase and put her under my body. I don’t expect to sleep, but at least she can’t get into trouble with me smothering her.

  I can feel her pressing against me the whole time,

  her cold, tiny fingers digging into my back,

  her painted lips wordlessly mouthing my name.

  I hear the pillowcase rip. I turn over and grab the doll, holding her tight to my chest. I won’t let her escape. I won’t let her get me into trouble.

  I keep my eyes open the entire night, staring at my mother sleeping peacefully, tears rolling down my cheeks. The doll won’t stop.

  She will not be ignored.

  * * *

  The next morning, as soon as I can, I run all the way to Alicia’s house.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks blearily when she answers the door.

  I know I look a mess; after the doll came out of the pillowcase, I couldn’t let her out of my sight. I stayed up until the sun rose, clutching the doll tight, refusing to shut my eyes for fear she would escape—or do something evil to me and my mother as we slept. But then, when my mother finally woke up, she didn’t mention hearing anything in the night, not the breaking eggs or rumbling nightstand, and I did such a good job cleaning everything up I can’t see any mess.

  It makes me wonder if I dreamed the whole thing.

  The only proof is the doll I still hold in one hand.

  The moment Alicia’s eyes lock on the doll, she gasps.

  “No way,” she whispers.
/>
  “Yes way,” I reply.

  She steps out of the house and closes the screen door quietly behind her. Even now, my feelings are a little hurt that she doesn’t invite me inside.

  “It’s impossible,” she says. “How—”

  “She was in my bed,” I interrupt. My voice shakes. She was under my covers! Just the thought makes me shiver with disgust.

  “But I checked my tin this morning,” she says.

  “Me, too. The ashes are still there.”

  She pauses. I hear her parents moving about in the house. Making coffee. Listening to swing on the radio. Being normal parents, as if this very strange and very scary event isn’t even happening.

  “Are you sure—” she begins.

  I show her the writing on the doll’s leg before she finishes.

  “That’s my handwriting,” she says. She gulps.

  I nod.

  “What does this mean?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. I try to steel my voice. Try to sound assured. Even though, deep inside, I’m very much not. “But today, we’re going to find out.”

  We run by James’s house to loop him in and then go straight back into town. I tell them all about my dreams as we walk.

  “I don’t think anyone has lived in that mansion for a long time,” James says. “Are you sure they’re not just bad dreams?”

  His voice sounds dazed when he says it. Probably because we woke him up. His tone still creeps me out—he sounds way too much like an adult talking about the past.

  “Even if they are bad dreams,” I say, “it doesn’t explain this.” I shake the doll in front of him. He flinches back. “We have to find out what’s going on. I need to know who lived in that mansion and what happened to them. And if anyone would know about the history of this town, it’s the mayor.”

  James nods. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here. It’s clear the doll scares him.

  Only Alicia seems excited. She practically beams as we hustle down the sidewalk, heading toward the mayor’s house. Finally, she’s getting a real adventure.

  I don’t quite know what I’m going to ask. I don’t know what sort of answers Mayor Couch could give. All I know is that I need to have answers, since there’s nothing I can do to make the doll leave me alone. Maybe learning about the girl named Elizabeth will help.