Bury Them Deep

by Marie O'Regan

  “How?”

  Her mother was fading now, they all were. But Maddie could still hear her, loud and clear. Bury them, Maddie. Bury them deep.

  Bonus Short Stories

  Ssshh…

  The hallway – large though it was – felt crowded and stuffy; everyone shuffling in an attempt to gain a slightly better position, have a bit more room to move and breathe. Ciara stared around at this motley collection of friends and wished she had some family left that she could have shared this with instead. They would have understood.

  “Can I just…?”

  More shuffling, clearing of throats; everyone looked nervous suddenly, though not knowing why. This was a dinner party; no reason to be anxious, surely.

  “Excuse me,” Ciara said now, a little steel creeping into her voice. “Can I just ask everyone to listen, please?”

  The room was silent now, bar the odd nervous cough or the rustle of clothing as hands were shoved into pockets, dress adjusted.

  “Firstly,” she went on, “I’d like to thank you all for coming. I know the invitation must have seemed a bit… odd.”

  There were murmurs of agreement, the odd embarrassed giggle. A formal Hallowe’en dinner was hardly Trick or Treat.

  Ciara was warming up now, getting into her stride. She was having fun, her initial nerves forgotten. “You all know how much I love this time of year, how much I love the traditional parties and things… well this is a bit of an older tradition. I thought we could give it a try, maybe bring back some of the gravitas this occasion had before candy and clown costumes took it over.”

  Someone laughed outright at that. Was it Olly?

  “Nothing wrong with candy,” someone boomed from the back to the accompaniment of much louder laughter, nerves being loosened a little now, not strung so tight. Definitely Olly.

  “Quite,” Ciara said, and smiled – or maybe she just bared her teeth. Her eyes glittered in the near dark as if shooting poison at the man who’d dared bring humour to her speech. “And there’s a gorgeous dessert, trust me, so no need for some tawdry plastic bucket of sweets. Still. As I was saying, before we had Hallowe’en, we had… older, more serious traditions, and does anyone know what this time was called then?”

  She’d gone into full-on teacher mode, she knew, and she could feel the embarrassment levels rising once again.

  Suitably chastened, Olly raised a hand like a child back at school. Ciara nodded, her smile real this time at the sudden reversal in his demeanour.

  “Was it Samhain?” he asked.

  “Why yes,” she said, her voice warm with approval (what a clever boy, Olly). “It was. But it wasn’t said like that. It was pronounced more like ‘Sow’en’. One of the rituals of Samhain was something called a Dumb Supper.”

  “What’s that?”

  That voice was higher, more nasal – Sarah?

  Ciara grinned, the candlelight glinting against her teeth, lending her a vulpine aspect. “It was what it says, love, I explained in the invitation. No one speaks, not once. There’s a place set at the table for the departed, called the Spirit Chair, and the meal is an offering to what are commonly known as the sidhe; they’re older creatures than us, pagan. Not what you typically think of when you talk about fairies. And traditionally they’re offered tribute at this time. The meal serves as tribute, you see.” She paused to let that sink in, saw confusion on the faces staring back at her. She was losing them; they wanted dinner, and then they wanted to talk. She took a deep breath and carried on. “I hope you’ve all brought questions for your departed loved ones? You place those on the Chair.”

  “And then what?”

  “Olly again, is it?” Ciara was gritting her teeth now, annoyed at having her grand moment questioned. “According to the ritual, you’ll get your answers if the ancestors are willing to attend.”

  “And how will we get them, exactly?” Olly pressed.

  Ciara sighed. “That’s why Minerva’s here. I can’t do it.”

  She indicated a small, fifty-something woman with dark hair and bright eyes who looked and behaved like a bird, nodding quickly at those around her, a nervous smile on her lips as her head dipped and rose, dipped and rose, acknowledging each of the guests in turn.

  Another voice piped up. “And Minerva is…?”

  “Minerva is a medium, Sally,” Ciara said, her tones now noticeably clipped. “She can receive and pass on the messages we are given.”

  Someone tittered, and she turned to stare in the direction of whoever had dared to laugh at her plan. “I thought it would be an interesting experiment,” she said. “A chance to observe an older tradition, and a chance to open our minds… at least a bit.” This last statement was directed at whoever had laughed, and now there wasn’t so much as a cough to disturb her.

  She indicated a door on the right, towards the rear of this cavernous hall lit only by candles and a log fire. It was rare these days, to find a house with a fireplace, but she’d been lucky – an aunt had left her this ramshackle monstrosity, and Ciara had been determined to restore it to its former glory.

  Everyone turned towards the door, now held open by a woman in a waitress’s uniform – black dress, low black shoes, white apron, red hair scraped back into a ponytail. The woman said nothing, just kept her gaze firmly on the floor and gestured towards the room’s interior.

  “Come along, everyone,” Ciara said, “dinner is about to be served. Just remember what I said – no talking once the meal starts!”

  Once inside the dining room, no one seemed to even want to talk. Whatever they’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this – the whole room was dark, its walls probably a charcoal grey by day, but lit only by candles and with the curtains drawn tight, they appeared to be black. Likewise, the tablecloth was black, as were the napkins, the plates – only the glasses escaped the colour scheme, and as they were clear glass, it didn’t matter anyway; the effect was depressing in the extreme.

  There were no name cards in front of the place settings; Ciara watched as her friends moved around the table, selecting their positions. The seat at the head of the table – a large, ornate thing made of dark varnished wood – was to serve as the Spirit Chair. Ciara sat at its right, ready to direct the others. Olly, she saw, chose a seat diagonally opposite hers – she smiled warmly at him as he dropped heavily into the chair, smiling nervously at her even as he found his napkin and placed it in his lap. Sarah chose the opposite end of the table, facing the Spirit Chair – not something that was a surprise to Ciara, Sarah always liked to find what she thought would be the best vantage point from which to observe the goings-on.

  Minerva brushed past, and Ciara caught her wrist, forcing her to turn.

  “You’re there, Minnie,” she said, and nodded at the seat opposite her own – the Spirit Chair would be between them.

  Minerva tittered at the shortening of her name and nodded, moving carefully past the empty seat to take her own place opposite her host. Once there she turned to face the vacant chair and tilted her head, her expression blank, almost as if she was listening to someone.

  “Anything?” Ciara asked.

  Minerva shook her head, embarrassed. “Just checking. No, nothing yet.”

  That left four more seats: Angela, a forty-something housewife who lived a few doors down and was the mother of one of her own daughter Ella’s friends; Bernard, Angela’s husband (they chose to sit beside each other, leaving two seats facing their own); Alice, Ciara’s boss at the library, and her husband, Alan, sat down facing them and completed the dinner party.

  “No Ella, Ciara?” Angela asked.

  Ciara shook her head. “She wasn’t interested, wanted to go to the pictures with a friend.” She turned away, cutting that line of conversation off. She didn’t want to talk about Ella.

  “So when do we…” Olly asked.

  “From now, Olly,” Ciara answered, rather more sharply than she’d intended. “The maid will bring the food directly; has everyone left their note on th
e Spirit Chair?”

  They all nodded, or muttered in the affirmative, casting worried glances at each other – no conversation for well over an hour was a daunting prospect.

  “Then we must now observe the ritual,” Ciara said, and lifted a small silver bell that was beside her glass. She rang it, once, and the maid appeared, pushing a serving trolley from which she dispensed bowls of what looked like tomato soup.

  The first course passed in silence, everyone eating quickly in an attempt to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible. The only sound was that of spoons ringing against the sides of the china bowls, and the occasional muffled slurp. The mood around the table was serious, the tension in the room building.

  The second course was put in front of them – some kind of stew. Again, it was eaten quietly but with relish, the sound of cutlery hitting china the only accompaniment. A waiter passed round the table every so often refilling wine glasses, without saying a word.

  It was as the dinner plates were being cleared that they heard the first sound coming from outside. Someone was crying, their sobs muffled but clearly audible to the occupants of the silent dining room.

  Ciara stared around the table, saw worried glances in her direction even as the sobbing died away and all was quiet once more. She smiled and shook her head in an attempt to reassure her guests, then rang the bell for the next course.

  Dessert was indeed gorgeous, as she had promised. Ciara watched as her companions tested the mousse with worried expressions, then set to with gusto, relishing the rich dark chocolate flavour. She smiled, dipping her head so they wouldn’t see, and wondered what course the conversation afterwards would follow.

  A door banged somewhere in the house and she laughed aloud as everybody jumped, but immediately slapped her hand over her mouth and let silence fall once more, her eyes wide. Did laughing count? Had she ruined it all? The wind rose and battered the windows, accompanied by the sound of rain suddenly lashing against the glass – were the sidhe angry? No one else believed in the old ways, she knew, but her family had held the traditions for centuries amongst themselves. And they’d prospered; this house alone was evidence of that. But this year… this year strangers had been allowed to take part, and she was unsure of the outcome, unsure if they’d be accepted.

  The dessert plates were cleared and coffee served; everyone sat back, looking around the table before settling their gaze on Ciara, waiting for permission to speak.

  She smiled, nodded, and clapped her hands once for effect. “Okay everyone, you can speak now. The ritual has been well observed.”

  Olly cleared his throat and pushed his chair back, freeing his not inconsiderable bulk. Wiping his chocolate-smeared mouth on his napkin, he said, “So what did that do, then? We were quiet, as you asked, but why?”

  “Yes, why? It didn’t seem to do anything but make us uncomfortable,” added Sarah, frowning. She looked to her peers for support, but the others kept their gazes firmly away from her own.

  Ciara sighed, her fears about using strangers for the ritual rising once more. “The silence is a mark of respect to the spirits. So no one felt anything? No one saw or heard anything that might be a sign of the other world encroaching on ours?”

  “Other world? Don’t be ridiculous,” Olly said, and laughed as he raised his half-empty coffee cup to his lips. The cup shattered in his hand even as he tried to take a sip, and he cursed as a shard of china embedded itself in his lower lip. “For Christ’s sake!” he shouted, and then sat, wide-eyed, as the wind screamed its displeasure, pelting the window with what sounded like fists but could only have been rain, or hail.

  Sarah leant in to help him, her hands shaking as she gently removed the shard of china and pressed a clean napkin to his mouth to stem the flow of blood.

  “Ow! Careful!”

  Sarah winced. “Sorry, Olly, I’m just trying to stop it bleeding.” She eased the pressure slightly and chanced lifting the napkin to check on the wound. “It’s stopping, I think,” she said, and the tension in the room started to ease.

  “How old are those cups?” Alan asked, and laughed – glancing nervously at his own as he did so. “Don’t you have anything a bit sturdier?”

  Ciara glared at him. “They’ve always been fine,” she said. “Perhaps Olly made something angry.”

  “Bullshit.” That was Bernard; solid, dependable Bernard, only one step removed from the original Doubting Thomas. “There’s nothing else, Ciara, and you know it. The cup was clearly cracked before hot coffee got poured in it.”

  “I assure you it wasn’t,” she answered, but Bernard just huffed, unable or unwilling to consider anything less prosaic.

  Sarah handed the napkin to Olly, content that the bleeding was slowing enough to ease the pressure. “Careful,” she said, “keep that up against it for a bit.”

  “Great,” Olly muttered, but he patted her hand in thanks, and kept the napkin in place as he’d been told.

  Ciara motioned to the maid, and the lights were turned on. In this brighter, harsher light, her dinner companions looked more than uncomfortable; they looked scared. “Let’s sort the questions,” she said. “I hope you remembered not to sign the notes.”

  Several muffled no’s and of course nots could be heard as she turned to Minerva, who was now looking distinctly tense.

  “Are you ready, Minnie?”

  Minerva sighed, and nodded her head, her expression far from enthusiastic. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Then let’s begin.” Ciara leant across and took a note from the pile on the Spirit Chair, frowning as she did so – it was a bit more of a reach than she’d expected. Leaning back into her seat she sighed, and unfolded the piece of paper. “‘Is my life going to get better?’” she read, and laughed. “Really, is that the best you could come up with?” No one answered, and all were studiously keeping their expressions blank. She had her suspicions, but no proof. She turned to Minerva once more. “Okay, let’s see what we have.”

  Minerva closed her eyes, both hands placed flat on the table. She started to moan whilst swaying in her seat, and someone giggled. She opened her eyes again, frowning at her audience. “Please. I have to concentrate.”

  “Well can’t you do it without the theatricals?” Alan asked, glaring at her as he leant forward. “Just get on with it.”

  Minerva turned to Ciara for support, but her hostess was absorbed in watching her guests, as if she could glean information just by staring at them. Fat chance. Minerva closed her eyes again, but this time kept from moaning – if they didn’t want theatre, so be it. “I’m getting someone called… Arthur?” she said, and looked around at the expectant faces.

  Nothing. Ciara just stared at her with that stupid quizzical expression, waiting for more.

  “It’s definitely Arthur,” she went on. “He’s an older gentleman, quite stern…” she opened her eyes and stared directly at Bernard. “And he’s standing behind you, dear.”

  Bernard jumped visibly and twisted round in his seat, the expression of terror on his face almost comical to behold. “There’s no one there,” he huffed, annoyed, as he turned back to the table.

  “Are you sure, dear?” Minerva said, and smiled at him, smug now. “Because he’s quite clear. He’s leaning forward…now his hand’s on your shoulder. Can you feel it?”

  The whole room waited for his answer, as sweat popped on his brow and he paled. “I…I can’t feel anything,” he stuttered. He looked as if he was ready to bolt from his seat. “At least, I don’t think I can.”

  The temperature in the room was dropping rapidly, and several of the guests shivered, pulling wraps around shoulders and jackets tighter.

  “Oh, Christ!” Bernard exclaimed, and stood up quickly, letting the chair clatter to the floor behind him. “Bloody hell!”

  “What, what is it?” screamed Alice, shrinking back against her husband, Alan.

  “Get off, Alice!” he muttered, pushing his wife off his shoulder and rubbing it, a moue of distaste cro
ssing his features unnoticed.

  Ciara leant forward, a half-smile on her face. “What happened, Bernard?”

  Bernard stared at her, still casting glances back as if dreading what he’d see, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he took a deep breath, wiped his shoulder without seeming to realise what he was doing, and bent to pick up the chair. “Someone said my name,” he whispered.

  “Sorry?” She kept her face as calm as she could, not wanting to betray her delight that the ritual seemed to have worked after all, regardless of the fact she’d been reduced to using people that weren’t family. Some of them were barely more than strangers.

  “I said: someone called my name!” Bernard answered, cross now that he’d been embarrassed into sharing. “It…”

  “Yes?” Ciara urged.

  “It sounded like my granddad.”

  Minerva interrupted, her voice full of self-importance. “And was his name Arthur?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bernard said. “I just knew him as Granddad.”

  He placed the chair back in its spot and sat back down, still eyeing the vacant space behind him as if it was indeed occupied. Even though the room was well lit now, the light had failed to chase away every shadow; a few still lingered here and there. One such shadow wavered behind the unfortunate Bernard, who was now sweating profusely. His skin had gone a yellowish-white, like wax, and he was trying to loosen his tie so he could undo the top button of his shirt.

  Ciara thought for a moment, then asked, “What else did he say, Bernard?”

  “What?”

  “He said something else, didn’t he? What was it?” She leant forward, eager to know.

  Bernard shivered. He cast a sideways glance at his wife, Angela, and looked quickly away. A tear tracked down the side of his face. “He said…”

  “Go on, Bernie,” Angela said, trying to encourage him. “It can’t be that bad, surely.”

  “You don’t know,” Bernard said, then stopped. He raised his eyes and stared back at Ciara, his face devoid of expression. His voice was utterly flat as he continued. “He said… it will be, when the bitch is dead.”