Grave Girl Page 11

  Suddenly there's a slight tremor; Sam looks down at the floor, but the vibration soon passes, leaving Sam to wonder what could have caused the whole town to rumble.

  "Great," she mutters. "An earthquake."

  Feeling a strange sensation over her shoulder, she turns and looks back into the cottage. There's nothing, of course, but at the same time, she can't shake the feeling that she's not alone. It's weird, but the first few nights after she arrived in Rippon, she felt totally comfortable in the cottage; she wasn't freaked out by the cemetery at all, and she slept like a log. And then something changed. All of a sudden, after she'd been here for three days, the atmosphere became different. She knows it sounds crazy, but she can't shake the feeling that there's suddenly this extra presence in the cottage, like a malevolent, unseen housemate who makes everything feel slightly 'off'. Obviously there's not an actual extra person in the place, but that's what it feels like. Sometimes, she even thinks she can feel the subtle vibration of someone walking across the room.

  Setting the cup of tea down, she walks over to the kitchen table. Right now, this is where the strange sensation feels strongest. It's as if there's someone sitting here right now, staring up at her. She can feel his, or her, or its eyes drilling into her, fixing her with a persistent gaze. She can't see anyone, of course, but she swears she can sense the presence, and it's as real as anything she's ever felt before in her life. It's as if, every time she walks into a room, someone has just left, leaving behind a kind of wake in the air. She's by no means a superstitious person, and she definitely don't believe in ghosts, but this thing seems so real, and Sam can't help but keep glancing around, in case she might spot... something.

  "Anyone there?" she asks tentatively. She feels really dumb for saying the words out loud, but at the same time she also feels as if she need to at least try. She's under no illusion that some spirit is going to suddenly materialize and start chatting away, but she feels she should at least acknowledge what she's feeling. It's not as if anyone else can see her; the worst that can happen is that she'll feel a little dumb.

  "Hello?" she calls out again.

  She stands in silence, listening to the lack of noise around her.

  "I know I probably look pretty puny," she continues, "but you should know that I'm kinda tough. I can handle myself, okay, so..."

  Silence.

  "Huh," she mutters. "Well, if you are here, you'd better just keep out of my way. I don't mind sharing, but don't go making freaky noises or doing stuff in the night, okay?" She pauses for a moment, as the absurdity of her situation sinks in a little deeper. "For God's sake, Sam," she continues with a sigh, "get a grip. You're talking to yourself again."

  Hearing a crunch from outside, she looks over at the door just in time to spot Mayor Winters bumbling across the grass, headed straight for the cottage. Sighing, she grabs a shirt and puts it on over her vest, before washing her hands and making sure that the place is tidy. Since the mayor is effectively her boss, she figures she needs to make a good impression whenever possible. After all, she definitely can't afford to lose this job right now. She has nowhere else to go; no friends, not much money, and no dreams. She's in limbo.

  "Ms. Marker!" the mayor says as he reaches the door. He's his usual jolly self, which immediately puts Sam on edge. There's something very fake about this guy's levity, as if he's desperate to seem friendly. "It's another glorious day," he continues. "How wonderful to see the cemetery in all its splendor, as God intended. It's been many years since the place looked so good. You've put your predecessors to shame, Ms. Marker. I hope you're proud of your achievements. You're to be commended for your wonderful work, and I'm certain I speak for the whole community when I offer you my deepest, warmest thanks. In fact, I've been thinking that we might even consider putting together some kind of informal ceremony to mark our great esteem for your work."

  Sam smiles awkwardly.

  "Of course," he continues, "that's a subject for another day. I'm here on a rather different matter. Could you follow me for a moment? There's something I need to show you."

  "Sure," Sam says, heading out the door and walking with the mayor as he makes his way slowly around the cottage. They walk in silence for a moment before they come to the large mausoleum that stands over by the beech trees. "This old thing," the mayor says, tapping the stone with the end of his cane. "Honestly, have you ever seen anything so morbid? A whole family, resting together in eternal slumber. Two parents, plus three children. One can only imagine the bond these people must have shared, to be willing to spend their deaths in such close proximity."

  "Huh," Sam says, not really sure what he's trying to say. The mausoleum is certainly big, the size of a truck, and above the entrance there's a statue of Death, staring down with a grinning, bony expression, reaching out toward all visitors with a skeletal hand.

  "This is the door," Mayor Winters continues, tapping the large metal gate set in the nearest side of the mausoleum. "There used to be a key, I believe, although I haven't seen it for many years. Just for show, of course. It's not as if anyone would ever need to go inside, not since the final resting spot was taken more than a century ago. The whole idea of the mausoleum is that the dead should be undisturbed, and that's just how we like it. However, we also have a duty to ensure that the place looks good, so I wanted to be sure that you'll pay particular attention to the thing." He raises the cane and taps the top corner of the mausoleum, where a strand of ivy emerges from a small hole. "Things like this. We can't be having it. There are dead people in this place, and I'm sure they went to their grave with the belief that their final resting place would be tended for with the utmost respect. I need you to remove any outgrowths and fill in all the gaps, and generally ensure that the entire structure is presentable. But whatever you do, don't go inside. I cannot stress this enough."

  Sam nods.

  "I want to be very clear about this," he continues. "If you should come across the key, if by some freak chance you should happen to find it, you are not to open the door. This is sacred land, and I simply will not have the dead being disturbed. Is that understood?" There's a new edge to his tone, a kind of sharpness that seems at odds with his usual ebullient personality. It's pretty clear that despite his happy-go-lucky demeanor, Mayor Winters is hiding a darker, more serious side, the extent of which only becomes apparent when his mask occasionally slips for a moment.

  "Totally," Sam says, puzzled by his attitude. He seems very keen to make sure that she doesn't go inside the mausoleum, which of course has piqued her curiosity even further.

  "If you find the key, you must bring it straight to me. No dawdling, no telling other people about what you've found. For safety's sake, that key must be in my possession. Okay?"

  Sam nods again.

  "Not that it's likely to turn up," he continues. "I'm afraid it has been lost over the years. Keys are such small things, so easy to misplace."

  "We could always change the lock," Sam points out. "Get a new one put in, and then you can be certain where the key is at all times." She reaches out and runs her fingers over the large iron lock that keeps the door secured. It seems like the sturdiest thing in the world, as if it was designed to keep the gates of Hell closed.

  "I don't think that'll be necessary," the mayor replies, pushing her hand away. He seems nervous and agitated, as if he's worried about something. "Just ensure that the mausoleum is adequately prepared. I know it can't be made to look spotless, but I feel it's starting to bring down the tone of the entire cemetery. I'm afraid you've done such a good job of cleaning this place up, Sam, that you've raised the standards immensely. I suppose that's why the mausoleum suddenly seems like such an eyesore. We certainly wouldn't want it to start attracting attention, would we?"

  "Absolutely not," Sam replies with a smile.

  "Precisely," he says, tapping her shoulder with his cane. "Once the mausoleum has been fixed up, I think we'll have a truly fine cemetery on our hands, all thanks to your hard work. The to
wn council has been noting your work with interest, Sam, and..." He pauses to glance around, as if he's keen to make sure that they're not being overheard. "I don't want to get you too excited," he whispers, leaning closer to her, "and I really shouldn't be spilling the beans before anything has been rubber-stamped, but there's a growing and very real possibility that you might be awarded a medallion in recognition of your work."

  "A medallion?"

  He nods, as if this is something that should excite her.

  "I've never owned a medallion before," she replies.

  "Have you not?"

  She shakes her head.

  "You poor child."

  She shrugs.

  "Did you parents never -"

  "Nope."

  "Oh."

  She shrugs again.

  "Well, you heard nothing from me," he says, before clearing his throat noisily, "but you might just be getting one soon. Anyway, I must let you get on with your work. It's a fine day, and I'm sure you have plenty to be getting on with. I certainly don't intend to micro-manage your every move. Just make sure to fix the mausoleum sometime over the next few days. I'm certain that, if they were around to thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and their children would be most grateful for you attention to their final resting place. They were, by all accounts, very proud people."

  "I'm sure they'll be very happy," Sam says.

  "I must say," he continues. "You're a very respectful and honorable young lady. So many members of your generation have a tendency toward bad behavior. It's rather refreshing to meet a young woman such as yourself, who takes things so seriously."

  "I'm just doing my job," Sam replies.

  "You're doing it a lot better than most of your predecessors every managed."

  Sam smiles politely. Unused to receiving compliments, she's finding lately that she blushes very easily.

  "I'll come back and see how you're doing later!" the mayor calls back to her, as he turns and shuffles away. "It's a glorious afternoon! I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time!"

  Reaching up, Sam grabs a piece of the ivy that has grown out from the hole in the wall. She figures that the inside of the mausoleum is probably overgrown by now, with thick foliage filling the space. She gives the piece of ivy a tug, but it seems to be fixed fast to something; she tugs it again, but this time the resistance is stronger. As soon as she lets go, the leaves slip back inside the mausoleum, almost as if someone has pulled them. A more impressionable gardener could really start to believe that things around this cemetery are a little weird, but Sam forces herself to ignore such concerns and focus instead on the practical matters at hand.

  Figuring that she's going to need a proper plan of attack before she gets started on this thing, she wanders back over to the cottage. As soon as she reaches the door, she experiences the same sensation as before: it feels as if there's someone else living in the cottage with her, like a kind of unseen, unheard housemate who remains constantly just out of sight. Sam walks across the kitchen and then she turns, half expecting to find someone behind her. She turns again, and again, as if she's chasing her own tail. Finally, she forces herself to remember that this is all just in her imagination. It's natural that, living in a small cottage in the middle of a cemetery, she should start to think that maybe she's not alone. She figures she just needs to focus on more mundane matters, and that she has to make sure she doesn't get carried away. With that in mind, she fills the kettle and decides to have one more cup of tea before she goes back out to tackle the mausoleum.

  Behind her, unseen, the shadows in the corner of the room seem to shift for a moment, before falling still once again.

  Chapter Two

  "Get away!" Father Jones shouts, running out of the church just in time to see a motorbike screech away, kicking dust up into the air. "Hooligans!" he yells after the teenagers. "May the Lord have mercy on your souls and teach you the path to righteousness!" He watches as the bike disappears around the nearest corner, leaving the sleepy little town square to settle. "Idiots," the old man mutters. "Stupid, youthful idiots."

  Taking a deep breath, he pauses to let him body recover from the exertion of racing along the aisle. He can feel his heart racing, and his tired old knees are suffering from the rush. Just a few moments ago, he was carefully arranging the hymn books when he heard the tell-tale sound of a spray can being used outside. By the time he made it out of the church, the vandalism was already complete and the most disgusting image had been painted on the fine old oak doors.

  "Teenagers," Father Jones says ruefully, turning to look at the crude outline of a naked woman. Painted in bright pink, it's an absolutely obscene creation, showing a figure who appears to be reclining in a highly pornographic manner. This is the third time in a month that local vandals have chosen to target the church in this way. For Father Jones, this is yet another sign that the social bonds of Rippon are starting to weaken. The local children have no respect whatsoever for the old institutions that have served the community so well. An old man, Father Jones finds it harder and harder to remain optimistic about the future of the town. As far as he's concerned, the whole place seems to be going straight to Hell.

  "I know your parents," he mutters as he shuffles back into the church. "Don't think I don't know exactly who you are," he continues, although he's talking only to himself. Making his way back over to the hymn books, he finishes tidying them before going through to his office. He starts drawing a bucket of hot, soapy water, ahead of the burdensome task of washing the graffiti from the doors. He'd hoped to spend the afternoon working on his forthcoming sermons, but he simply cannot allow the church's facade to be decorated in such a disgusting manner.

  After a moment, however, he hears a strange sound from the main part of the church. At first, he assumes that someone has come inside to pray, but after a few seconds he realizes that it sounds as if something is sizzling nearby. Pausing, he feels a knot of rage in his gut as it occurs to him that perhaps the teenagers have come back. After all, so few of the local citizens ever visit the church these days; the only people who come through his door are idiots and vandals. Hurrying back out of his office, he looks around and sees no sign of a visitor. Still, the sizzling sound is impossible to ignore, and it seems to be slowly moving toward the altar.

  "Hello?" he calls out.

  There's no reply. The sizzling sound continues until finally it seems to have reached the area around the altar, where it persists for a moment.

  "I'm afraid I can't see you!" Father Jones continues. "Are you..." He walks over to the confessional box, but there's no-one inside. "Hello?" he calls out again. "I can't help you if I don't know where you are!" He waits for a reply. "If this is another prank, I'd advise you to cut it out! This is the house of the Lord, not a playground for bored delinquents! Do you hear me? You've already done enough!"

  He waits, but the only disturbance is the faint sizzling sound as it continues to move toward the altar.

  Scared to get too close, Father Jones makes his way cautiously between the pews until finally he gets to the central aisle. Looking down, he sees that a series of footprints have been burned into the stone floor. With a mounting sense of dread, he follows the footprints until finally he reaches the altar. The sizzling sound stops, just as Father Jones sees two large burn marks nearby, almost as if someone has been kneeling. After a moment, he realizes that there's a curious smell in the air.

  Sulfur.

  Overcome by fear, the old man turns and runs.

  Chapter Three

  "And that's another thing," Sam says as she continues to scrub the side of the mausoleum, "I don't get where everyone is all day. I mean, you go into town, and the streets are deserted. It's like people just spend all their time sitting around in their houses, apart from a few who head out at night and spend a couple of hours in the bar. I know Rippon isn't the biggest place in the world, but you'd think there'd be some kind of social life going on. As far as I can see, there are barely a dozen people who actually
get off their asses and step outside. Doesn't that strike you as being a little strange?"

  Turning, she sees Sparky the stone angel still handcuffed to the drain outside the cottage.

  "You're not the greatest conversationalist in the world, are you?" Sam continues. Pausing for a moment, she contemplates the fact that she's now at the stage in her life when she's content to spend her time chatting away to a statue. Having always worried about her sanity, she briefly considers the possibility that she might have lost her mind. "Just don't start answering back," she mutters eventually. "Then we'd really have a problem."

  Although she desperately wants to go back into the cottage and climb into bed, Sam decides to force herself to work through the nap barrier. Since she arrived in Rippon, she's begun to take great pride in working long, back-breaking days. She feels as if she has to maintain a punishing pace, or she runs the risk of breaking and going back to her old ways. The old Sam liked to sit around in bed all day and barely lift a finger, before eventually rising around dusk and heading out to get drunk with Nadia at the nearest club; the new Sam, the Sam who has been in charge since she arrived in Rippon, feels as if she has to keep pushing all the time. There's no time to rest, no time to stop and smell the flowers. She has to keep running, or her old self will catch up to her.

  "I don't know what's worse," she says out loud. "Talking to you, Sparky, or keeping my mouth shut and talking to myself in my head. I guess opening and closing my mouth probably burns a few extra calories, though." Stepping back, she admires the work she's done so far. The side of the mausoleum is much cleaner now, and free of all those little pieces of dirt and grime that had accumulated over the years. "What do you think, Sparky? Did I do a good job?"