Bury Me

by K. R. Alexander

  We knock politely on the mayor’s front door. His house is probably the grandest in town, with huge Roman columns stretching up on the wraparound porch, but even his house shows signs of age and neglect. The white walls are stained with years of dirt, and the furniture we can see through the large windows is threadbare and dusty. It’s the closest to the manor that any house in town comes. Especially mine.

  Mayor Couch answers the door. He’s wearing a long bathrobe and slippers, and his thin hair is all wispy on his head.

  “Hello, children,” he says. He glances behind us. “What are you doing here so early? And where are your parents?”

  “We’re here to ask you some questions,” I say. Then I remember my manners. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so early. But they really can’t wait.”

  “Oh, well,” he mutters. He steps outside and closes the door behind him. “What seems to be the matter?”

  My voice lodges in my throat. For some reason, telling an adult about this makes it all more real. It’s no longer a scary story between us kids. It’s a problem. One that needs an adult to solve it.

  “It’s about the manor house in the woods,” Alicia says boldly. I look at her, suddenly proud that she is my friend. “We wanted to know who lived there, and what happened to them.”

  “Manor house?” Mayor Couch asks. I look back at him—his eyes are unfocused, and his voice takes on the same hazy tone as before. “There’s no manor house in the woods.”

  My mouth drops.

  “There is,” I say. “We’ve played there.”

  “You shouldn’t be playing in the woods. Bad things are out there.”

  “What kind of bad things?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He doesn’t sound angry or defensive—his voice is distant, like he isn’t even sure what is out there, and that is why he can’t speak of it.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Bad things like this?” I ask. I hold the doll in front of him.

  It seems to take him a moment to actually see the doll. When he does, his expression changes. He becomes almost … angry.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But I think it comes from the manor. I think it belonged to a girl named Elizabeth—”

  He snatches the doll from my hand.

  “If this is your idea of a joke,” he says, “I’m going to have to have a talk with your parents.”

  “It’s not a joke!” I yell. Then I try to control my voice—my mom always taught me that the best way to argue a point is to be calm and collected. He has to believe us. He has to have some sort of answer. “Something strange is going on, Mayor Couch. And we’re trying to get to the bottom of it. It has to do with the manor—I know it.”

  “There is no manor,” he replies. His voice once more takes on a distant tone. “And there was no little girl named Elizabeth. I will hear no more of it, or of this doll, or of her thieving family.”

  He hands me the doll. I clutch it to my chest.

  “Now, I suggest you three find a different game. One that doesn’t involve the woods or the mine. And one that definitely doesn’t involve dolls.”

  With that, he steps back inside and closes the door in our faces.

  James flinches back from the door and bites his lip. “I guess that’s it, then,” he says.

  Alicia looks at me sadly. “I’m sorry, Kimberly,” she says. “He wasn’t any help after all.”

  “But he was,” I say. I turn and head toward the library.

  I didn’t mention anything about Elizabeth’s family.

  But Mayor Couch called them thieving.

  Clearly, he knows something about the manor and the family who lived there.

  And if he won’t tell me anything more about them, I know precisely who—or what—will.

  “Hello, Mr. Jones,” I say when we step into the library.

  It’s warm and quiet in here, and the stacks smell like home.

  “Hello, Miss Rice,” he says. He peers at us over the top of his book, his eyebrows raised. “You’ve brought friends.”

  I feel myself blush. I don’t think I’ve ever come in here with James and Alicia before; I can tell he’s surprised that I have friends.

  Then his eyes seem to catch on the doll and I can see his friendliness waver.

  I quickly put the doll behind my back, introduce James and Alicia, and get down to business.

  “I’m here for the book I returned yesterday,” I say. I hesitate. “I, er, left my bookmark in it and it’s very special to me.”

  For some reason, I don’t want to tell him why we’re looking for the book—after his and Mayor Couch’s strange responses, I don’t want to tell any other adults about what’s going on. Especially adults who could hold the key to finding out the answer.

  “Of course,” he says. “Though I re-shelved it. Would you like me to help you find it?”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Jones,” I say. “I remember where it is.”

  He nods and goes back to reading as though this is just a normal morning. I glance at my friends; my heart is racing, and I swear the doll is still cold to the touch. I wish I had a bag to stuff her in, but even then, I don’t trust that she wouldn’t escape and find some new way to terrorize me. If only she would move when others were looking; then people would believe me. They wouldn’t have a choice.

  Together, my friends and I rush to the back.

  It doesn’t take long to find the book. I hand the doll over to Alicia and use both hands to pull the large tome from the shelf. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know the book will hold a secret. After all, it’s the history of Copper Hollow—surely something like a mansion or a fire or even the copper mines will show up. If there was truly a rich family in town, they would have made the local history books.

  We kneel down on the floor and I place the book between all of us. Carefully, I open the cover and flip to the table of contents.

  It isn’t there.

  “What in the—” I whisper. I flip to the next page.

  It, too, is blank.

  Frustrated, my brain fuzzy, I begin flipping through the pages. How is the book blank? I remember reading it. And yet … for some reason, I can’t remember a thing I read.

  “Slow down!” James says. “You’re flipping so fast that I can’t read anything.”

  “What?” I ask. I let go of the pages. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” He looks at me like I’ve lost it. “I can’t read when you’re flipping so fast.”

  “You can read this?” I say. I look back to the book. Blank. All the pages are blank. Looking at it makes my head hurt. “You can see words?”

  “Um, Earth to Kimberly. It’s a book. Of course I can see words. That’s what books are.”

  Alicia doesn’t say anything. She’s watching me with a concerned look on her face, the doll still held tightly in front of her.

  “But it’s—” I begin. But I don’t finish. Because the way they’re both looking at me says it all: They can see words on the page, but I can’t.

  Suddenly, I’m reminded of the way Mayor Couch stared at the book, of the way an entire night seemed to pass by in a blur when I thought I’d read it. Something strange is happening.

  I grab the nearest book from the shelf and pull it out.

  It, too, is blank.

  “No way,” I mutter.

  As if possessed, I yank the books from the bottom shelf, spilling them on the ground around us. All of them are blank. Every. Single. One.

  Impossible.

  “Kimberly, what are you—”

  “What are you kids doing back there?” Mr. Jones calls out. I hear him slide his chair back—it squeaks against the granite floor.

  I don’t know what comes over me.

  Maybe it’s the panic of realizing that all the history books are blank. Maybe it’s the shock that my friends aren’t seeing the same things as
me.

  Or maybe it’s the fear—the fear that I’m losing my mind, that I’m cursed.

  The fear that this doll is ruining my life.

  “Are you playing with us?” Alicia asks me.

  “What?” I say. I sound too defensive.

  “Are you saying you don’t see any words on these pages?” she asks me.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t understand why she sounds mad.

  “Because there are words on these pages,” she continues. “And I don’t understand why you’d say there weren’t—unless this whole thing is a prank you’re playing.”

  “Alicia,” James tries to stop her. But he also sounds confused.

  “Is this one of your stories?” Alicia presses. “You had us thinking someone was playing a prank on you. But are you playing a prank on us?”

  “No!” I say. Then again. “No.”

  But I’m not sure she believes me.

  And then

  in my head

  I hear the doll laughing

  and I know Alicia doesn’t

  and James doesn’t.

  I am the only one.

  I am all alone in this, and I have no idea why.

  I’ve stopped talking, and now Alicia is starting to think she’s right.

  The doll’s laughter grows louder.

  It fills the library.

  It fills my head.

  I am the only one who hears it.

  I grab the doll and leap to my feet.

  Before anyone can stop me, I run from the library. I don’t stop.

  I don’t look back.

  I make it all the way to the edge of town before I realize where I’m going.

  I’m leaving.

  My feet push me down the dusty road that stretches past the mine. I don’t slow down when I see it, even though my head swims with vertigo and dream memories as I pass. All I can think of are my friends’ shocked expressions as I opened the blank books. The anger in Alicia’s eyes when she thought this entire thing was one big prank I was playing on them. I remember the way they looked at me when I tried to go deeper into the mansion, the same glazed expression as Mayor Couch had when I tried talking about the past.

  I don’t know what is going on in Copper Hollow. Something is wrong here. Something to do with the mine and the family that lived in the mansion and this stupid doll.

  Something is wrong, and I don’t want to have anything else to do with it.

  So I keep running. Down the road and through the trees, their branches a rustling canopy above me. For some reason, I swear they sound like the laughter of the doll. I swear they’re mocking me.

  I run until I can’t run anymore, until I’m out of breath and panting, one hand on my side and the other clutching the doll. I look ahead of me.

  More forest. Just like behind.

  Surely I should have hit something now? A highway or another road? I feel like I’ve been running for half an hour.

  I look down at the doll.

  “I’m going to get rid of you once and for all,” I mutter. I look ahead. I’m going to take the doll and throw it on the highway and watch as a car runs it over. Or I’ll toss it in the back of a truck and watch it drive away.

  At least, I think there’s a highway out there. There has to be, right? I’ve never actually seen one …

  I finally gather my breath and begin walking—quickly—in the direction of Copper Hollow’s only exit. Even if it takes all day, I’m getting out of here—and getting the doll out of here, too.

  I keep expecting the sky to grow dark and crows to gather. Instead, the day stays cheery and hot, and after I’ve walked at least another twenty minutes I begin to think I should have brought water. I wonder if maybe I’ve made the wrong decision. Shouldn’t there be cars? Shouldn’t there be someone passing by?

  But there’s no one.

  What if I get lost out here? Worse, what if my friends are back home looking for me? What if they think I’m hurt?

  What if my mom is worried?

  For some reason, I think of my dad.

  He left down this very road, and he never came back.

  Did my mom worry about him when he left? Did he do it to find a better job so we could live a better life? Or did he abandon us?

  My mom’s never told me, and I’ve always been too scared to ask more. I don’t want to upset her.

  I wonder what he found down this road. The thought excites me, that I’ll see what he saw. If only for a moment. Right before I toss the doll away and get her out of my life for good.

  I keep walking.

  The road twists. I can’t see what lies beyond, and that makes me walk faster.

  There has to be a highway out there. I’m almost free of the doll. She’s almost out of Copper Hollow.

  I turn the corner

  and my heart drops.

  I haven’t escaped.

  The road has led me straight back to the mansion.

  Everything goes hazy.

  My head spins and my knees wobble and shadows creep in at the corners of my vision. Along with a giggling that I know isn’t entirely in my head.

  In the past, the mansion filled me with wonder. Now it just fills me with dread.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get rid of the doll.

  I turn around—maybe if I go back the way I came I’ll find the real exit. Maybe I just accidentally took the wrong path.

  The mansion sits before me.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe all of today has been one long nightmare and I will wake up soon.

  I pinch myself. It stings. Nothing changes.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to wake up, for all of this to go away. When I open them again, the mansion is still there. Broken and imposing and demanding my attention.

  I turn around.

  The mansion is there.

  No matter which way I look, the mansion is in front of me.

  I look down at the doll in my hand and receive another shock.

  Her tiny arm is raised, and her finger points directly at the mansion.

  “You want me to go in there?” I ask.

  Very slowly, she nods.

  I know I should scream, but at this point, too many strange things have happened for this to surprise me. I don’t even drop her to the ground. I just swallow my fear and disbelief and stare up at the mansion that has always drawn me near.

  It all adds up: the dreams, the strange reactions of the town and my friends. Even the doll.

  Everything leads back here, to the mansion.

  Everything leads back to a history that no one remembers.

  I look back down to the doll and her dress. BURY ME. And then I know the answer:

  She doesn’t want me to bury her just anywhere.

  She wants me to bury her here.

  “Okay, then,” I say to the doll and whatever ghosts are listening. “Let’s put you to rest, once and for all.”

  This time, when I enter the mansion, I’m not playing make-believe.

  I don’t need to.

  Not when a creepy doll is guiding me forward and every corner is thick with cobwebs and dream memories.

  Not when I feel like I’m caught in a larger story, one that not even my imagination could create.

  I honestly don’t even know where I’m going. I let my feet guide me forward. Through the huge foyer, past the crumbling, curving staircase, down hallways filled with burned and toppled statues. The only sounds are the rustle of pigeons in the eaves and the ceramic crunching beneath my shoes. With every step, the air grows colder. The doll in my hand turns to ice. I know I should want to turn around and run away, but something about this feels … right. For some unknown reason, I feel like I am a part of this place, and now—finally—I’ll find out why. After wandering down more hallways and past more rooms than I can count, after I am definitely one hundred percent lost and unable to find my way out, I find myself back in the grand ballroom.
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  Once more, my dream sweeps into focus, along with the suffocating claustrophobia of being surrounded by so many costumed dancers. I find myself clutching the doll to my chest and spinning on the spot, staring up at the burned window frames and walls with my breath caught in my throat.

  Faintly, I hear the hum of orchestral music, the bubble of laughter. And then I hear the crackle of fire.

  Phantom smoke fills my nostrils.

  Shadows flicker in the corner of my eyes, shadows like twitching firelight.

  I hear the laughter turn to screams.

  Awe turns to panic as the screams and the smoke grow louder, as the music crashes, as the nightmare becomes a reality and I know if I stay in here I’ll be burned alive.

  I run.

  I head toward the far end of the ballroom, down a narrow hall I know I’ve never ventured through before. Cobwebs smear over my face and knobs of wood tangle my feet, but I don’t stop running. Not even as the air grows colder and the hallway tilts darker. Steps tumble down before me, and I take them two at a time, the hall lit by dim light filtering from behind.

  It’s only when the steps turn back into a hallway that the screaming stops. I slow. My breath comes out in heavy puffs as I try to calm down. I need to get out of here. But I know I’m not going to escape. Not until I’ve done what the doll wants me to do.

  “You want me to bury you in here?” I ask in a whisper.

  There’s no answer, and I can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse. I still feel like I’m losing my mind; would hearing the doll’s voice make that go away?

  I know I need to bury the doll. The question is where. I don’t want her coming back again. I don’t want this weirdness getting worse.

  It’s then that my eyes adjust to the darkness. Everything in here is lit by the faint stream of broken light coming down the stairway behind me. I’m in a room—I can faintly see the walls, everything covered in black soot, the furniture nothing more than piles of ash. Everything black and shadowed.

  Something glints.