Grave Girl

by Amy Cross

  Matthews groans as he gets up. As he walks over to the door, he glances down and spots something on the carpet. "Where do you think that came from?" he asks, peering at what appears to be a fine sprinkling of stone dust. He looks up at the ceiling, but there's no sign of a crack. "There's some more on the stairs," he continues, "and on the mat in the hallway."

  "I wouldn't go complicating things if I were you," Dr. Wellington replies. "I think this is going to be a fairly open-and-shut case. Let's not go worrying about a bunch of silly little side matters and old wives' tales."

  "Sure," Matthews says, "but -"

  "Do you really want to go waking Mayor Winters up at this hour? Seriously? And then what? Drag him down here just to show him that an old lady dropped dead after giving herself one late night fright too many?" He pauses for a moment. "I'm more than happy to sign the death certificate and say that, in my professional opinion, Ethel Mayberry died of a heart attack. Can't we just leave it at that?"

  "It's your call," Matthews says, leaning down and grabbing Mrs. Mayberry's ankles. "You ready?"

  Hauling the dead body up between them, the two men carefully carry her out the door. As they go, they step through the small pile of stone dust, tramping it out onto the landing, down the stairs and ultimately all the way out to Dr. Wellington's waiting van. As the body is loaded into the back of the vehicle, Dr. Wellington notices that he has forgotten one small but important part of the process. Leaning into the van, he places a hand over Mrs. Mayberry's face and gently closes her eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Opening her eyes, Sam stares up at the ceiling and struggles - just for a moment - to remember where she is. It's only when she realizes that her alarm is ringing, and only after she's grabbed her phone and switched it off, that she notices the time. It's 7.30am, which seems to her to be an unnaturally early time to get up until she remembers that she's supposed to unlock the gates of the cemetery in half an hour, and then get to work putting the place back into some semblance of order.

  She sits up in bed and looks across the room. It's so bare in here but, in a way, that's kind of how she likes it. No distractions. No temptations. No laptop and no internet, no DVDs and no video games. Just an empty wooden room and a cemetery outside that needs some urgent attention. She thinks back to that time, about a year ago, when she briefly worked in a coffee shop. If she was late to work back then, the worst that would happen would be that a bunch of stressed commuters would have to wait slightly longer for their lattes. Here, however, the grass is going to keep growing day and night, whether or not it gets cut. Nature provides a less flexible, and more important, deadline.

  "Morning, Sparky," she says, glancing over at the window. As the morning sun shines through the glass, Sam can just about make out the silhouette of Sparky, who has been chained to the drainpipe since the early hours. Having suffered the indignity of letting the teenagers push the stone angel toward her without being caught, Sam was determined to end their fun, so in the middle of the night she grabbed a chain and a padlock from the shed and secured Sparky to the side of the cottage. At least this way, she's certain that the kids will have to come up with some other way to torment her.

  After getting dressed quickly and eating some bread, Sam steps out the front door and looks out at the vast untamed cemetery. She's decided to tackle it systematically over the course of three days, starting by mowing the grass and trimming the borders. It's a big job, and it won't be easy, but in some way she's actually looking forward to doing something constructive. After the events of the past six months, she feels like losing herself in a task that doesn't require too much thought. The old Sam Marker would have hated the idea of working in a cemetery and spending her days as a gardener, but the new Sam Marker thinks it's a splendid task, and one that should keep the old Sam Marker from come back to cause trouble.

  "My kingdom," Sam says, walking over to the edge of the grass before turning and looking back at the cottage. "And my castle," she adds. Although it might seem like a strange, quiet life, she's starting to get used to the idea of living here. After all, there aren't many people who get to live in a place like this. It's tempting to think of her old friends, still out partying and living life in the fast lane back in Leeds; for a moment, she feels a pang of nostalgia for the days of sleeping 'til noon and job-hunting, and the nights of stumbling out of nightclubs with Nadia in the early hours. Still, even if she wanted to go back, it wouldn't be an option. Not now, and maybe not ever. Those days are over.

  At 8am precisely, Sam unlocks and opens the front gate, swinging it back and propping it open with a small rock. She glances out into the street, but there doesn't seem to be anyone around. In the early morning sunlight, Rippon doesn't seem so bad, and Sam relishes the peace and quiet after spending her formative years in the hustle and bustle of Leeds. She's so used to loud noise, it rather amazes her when she realizes she can hear her own footsteps as she makes her way back along the shingle path toward the cottage. Going around the back, she continues to enjoy the simple noises of her job: the slide of the rusty latch on the shed door; the clanking of the mower as it's maneuvered out from the back; even the mower's wheels as it's pulled across the grass in preparation for the day's work to begin. Finally, Sam stands and smiles as she prepares for a hard day's work.

  At the last moment, just as she's about to start pushing the mower, she pauses and listens to a new sound. Something's banging nearby, as if some kind of metal is being repeatedly struck against another surface. Walking around to the front of the cottage, Sam's heart sinks as she wonders whether the teenagers from last night have returned. The banging sound continues as she makes a complete circuit all the way around her little home, before finally she reaches the other side of the cottage and the banging abruptly stops just a couple of seconds before she sets eyes on Sparky, still chained to the drainpipe. Pausing for a moment, she stares at Sparky's face as a kernel of suspicion begins to form in the back of her mind. Curious, she reaches out and grabs hold of the chain, before banging it against the drainpipe in the manner of someone who's trying to get free. To her shock, Sam realizes that this is exactly the same sound she heard a moment ago. She glances around the next corner, but there's no sign of any kids.

  "Careful, Sparky," she says, turning back to the statue. She pauses for a moment, almost as if she expects a voice to reply. Staring at Sparky's blank stone eyes, Sam leans a little closer and reaches out to poke the side of the statue's face; when this produces no results, she reaches down and once again bangs the chain against the drainpipe. Finally, she smiles, realizing how easily she allowed herself to be spooked. "Don't worry," she says, patting Sparky on the shoulder, "I'll find somewhere to put you soon." Turning and walking back over to the mower, Sam tries to ignore the wild ideas taking root in her subconscious. As she pushes the aged, clanking mower toward the spot by the tree where she intends to start her work, she can't help but glance back over at Sparky and stare for a moment at the chain that runs over his torso, through the gap under his arm, and around the drainpipe. Although she'd planned to unchain the statue first thing this morning, she decides to wait a little longer. Just to be safe.

  Part Two:

  Gone to Hell

  Prologue

  One year ago

  Stumbling out of the nightclub, Sam stops for a moment and tries to get her left shoe to stay on properly. The damn thing's been bugging her all night, constantly coming off while she's dancing. Just as she thinks she's got it sorted, some asshole comes bounding up behind her and sends her tumbling down onto the damp pavement, grazing her knee and left wrist on the gravel. Before Sam can get back up, she sees a guy stomp past her, crushing her shoe in the process.

  "Thanks a lot!" Sam calls after the guy. She gets back onto her feet and sways for a moment, as the whole world seems to spin around her. It's weird, but she didn't feel too drunk while she was inside, but the cold night air has really clipped her wings. Shivering in her tight, short silver dress, she stands
completely still and tries to focus on staying upright.

  "You alright?" asks a familiar voice nearby. Making her way precariously out of the club on high heels, Nadia thrusts a small silver bottle into Sam's hands. "Drink that. What time do they close at the Meadows?"

  "Three," Sam says, taking a swig of what turns out to be vodka. "Or four. Or never."

  "Come on, then," Nadia replies, grabbing Sam's arm and dragging her unsteadily along the street. "You're wasted," she adds with a laugh. "You can't even walk straight!"

  "In case you haven't noticed," Sam slurs, pulling free from Nadia's grip and stopping for a moment to lean against the window of a nearby shop, "I've only got one fucking shoe." After letting out a hiccup, she reaches down and removes her other shoe. "At least now I'm even," she mumbles, steadying herself in preparation for the journey to the next club.

  "You know what you need?" Nadia asks, clapping enthusiastically at Sam's attempts to stay upright. "You need more vodka. If you start sobering up, you'll feel like shit. Trust me. You need to keep drinking."

  "Has my make-up run?" Sam asks, wiping her cheeks and finding clumps of mascara on her fingers. "Fuck, how bad is it?"

  "Come on," Nadia replies, laughing. "It's hot. Seriously, Sam, you're a fucking state when you're drunk." She steps closer and leans in to look directly into Sam's eyes for a moment. "Don't sober up on me, girl. It's only two o'clock, we've got way more drinking to do tonight. I don't get many nights off, and I wanna enjoy them when I can."

  Sam nods, taking several deep breaths in an attempt to clear her mind. "I just need to get my second wind," she murmurs.

  "Hey," Nadia continues, reaching out and gently slapping the side of Sam's face. "What's wrong with you? Are you tired?"

  Her eyelids drooping slightly, Sam shakes her head. "I'm okay," she says, although there's an ominous gurgling sensation in the pit of her stomach. It feels as if someone has reached into her guts and grabbed hold of her intestines, and is now slowly twisting them into a knot.

  "If you need to be sick," Nadia says, "just be sick. Don't hold it in."

  Sam nods, still trying to calm herself down by taking deep breaths.

  "Seriously, Sam, just get on with it. There's no-one around." She pauses for a moment. "How much have you had to drink tonight, anyway?"

  "Just..." Sam starts to say, before pausing as a brief stabbing pain jolts her brain. "More than you," she says softly, closing her eyes.

  "Hey!" Nadia says, giving her a quick shake. "Don't fall asleep on me here! Come on, Sam! Don't turn into a fucking lightweight, okay?"

  With no warning at all, Sam suddenly turns and throws up, spraying the window of the shop with a mixture of vodka, fruit juice and half-digested kebab meat. Dropping down onto her hands and knees, and putting one of her knees in her own mess, she takes a deep breath before being sick again. As yet another load of vomit comes up into her mouth, a small voice at the back of her head keeps nagging away, telling her that she can't keep doing the same thing every single night of her life. Something has to change.

  "This time in a year..." Sam whispers, before throwing up again. "This time in a year... I'm gonna be better..."

  Chapter One

  Today

  It starts with a brief noise, far away and insignificant. Someone laughing in the middle of the night.

  The noise is carried across the dark cemetery, through the bars on the cottage window, past the fluttering curtains, and into Sam Marker's bedroom. Barely registering the noise, Sam rolls over and continues to dream of her old life.

  An hour later there's another little burst of laughter, lasting a few seconds longer. This time, Sam's eyelids flutter open for a moment; she's not awake, exactly, but her mind has stirred just long enough for her to wonder if something's wrong. After a moment, she falls back into a deep sleep.

  More time passes.

  Finally, there's another noise. This time, it sounds like a scream, but not in a bad way. It's the happy, uncontrolled scream of someone who was just tickled or surprised. It's enough, though, to make Sam sit bolt upright in bed, her heart racing and her eyes wide open.

  "What the fuck?" she mutters out loud.

  She waits. She knows she heard something, and she knows it's more than possible that some kids might have climbed the cemetery wall again. She listens out for any sound that might seem out of place, and eventually it happens: another brief burst of laughter, followed by a muffled shout. Sam blinks, realizing that she's not definitely imagining any of this. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sighs as she grabs her clothes from the floor and starts to get dressed. Eventually, she steps over to the window and looks out across the cemetery. All she sees is darkness, and the top of the wall running around the perimeter; above, the moon is bright and full, its calming light picking out the edges of just one or two gravestones. It's a peaceful scene, still and restful, but Sam knows better than to be lulled into a false sense of security. This is only her second night in Rippon, but she knows that there are bored kids in town. Kids with nothing to do, and all day to do it; kids who sleep away their days and then emerge at night, driven by hormones and frustration. They bothered her last night, chasing her with a stone angel and making her feel like a fool, and it seems they're back for more.

  She smiles. This time, she's ready for them.

  Glancing over at the dressing table, Sam spots the unopened bottle of wine that she found in one of the cabinets. It's so tempting to open it up and take a quick swig before she goes out to find the source of the noise, but she reminds herself that she doesn't really need that kind of fake courage. Not these days.

  "I need to pee anyway," she mutters, wandering through to the bathroom. Once she's finished, she grabs her shovel from by the door, slides the bolt across, puts her shoes on, and steps out into the moonlight. At least it's not too cold out here, she reminds herself, as she squints in an attempt to get a better view of her tormentors. Looking down at her own legs, Sam realizes she's standing in a bright patch of moonlight, which means she's clearly visible to anyone who's hiding in the darkness. Sighing, she takes a few steps over to the shadow of the beech trees. Now, finally, she can observe her observers from the shadows.

  "Come on," she mutters quietly, "where are you?" Turning and craning her neck to take a look down the side of the cottage, she's relieved to see that Sparky the stone angel is still chained to the drainpipe. "Sorry, Sparky," she says quietly, feeling a little guilty for leaving her only friend restrained in such a harsh manner. Still, she knows she has to work out where to place the angel, and she figures she has a little time left in which to make a decision. That's one of the good things about moving from Leeds to this little town in the middle of nowhere: life's so much slower in Rippon.

  Suddenly she hears the laughter again, and this time she's certain it's coming from the far corner of the cemetery. Making sure to stay in the shadows, Sam creeps slowly over the soft grass, with her spade slung over her shoulder. Her eyes scan the darkness, keen to get any sign of the interlopers' exact location. Finally, she hears whispered voices nearby, and she stops to listen.

  "I don't get why you're always like this," a male voice is saying. "It's the same every night. If you're not careful, Anna, I'm gonna start telling people you're a tease."

  "It's not that," replies a female voice. "I just don't get why you always want to come here."

  "You'd rather go to a bar?"

  "That's not what I mean."

  "Well, where else do you wanna go? Your place? Mine? There's nowhere. At least we'll be left alone here. You're not scared, are you? Come on, you know I'm gonna keep you safe. Feel these big, strong arms around you."

  "Oh, please," Sam mutters under her breath. All this trouble, just for a couple of horny kids. They're not even trying to cause trouble; they're just looking for a quiet, discreet spot where they can do the kind of things that horny kids always do. If it had been left up to Sam, she'd probably just let them get on with it, but she knows she
can't risk this place becoming Hangout Central for every local bonehead who wants to get a little kinky on top of a grave.

  "Okay," the male voice says. "I'm just gonna slip this down and take a look, yeah? Just let me look. That's all I wanna do. I deserve that, right? I mean, I've been patient and all, but you've gotta give me something." There's the sound of fabric being moved aside. "You've got one hell of a body, Anna," the guy continues after a moment. "You mind if I stroke one of 'em, like this? Come on, you can't tell me that doesn't give you a little buzz down below. Why not just untie that knot in your panties and let me show you what you've been missing."

  "I think we should stop," the female voice says, sounding nervous. "What if someone sees us?"

  "So what? I hope someone does see us. If there's one thing kinkier than doing it on a grave, it's doing it on a grave while some limp-wristed asshole watches from the shadows."

  "Limp-wristed?" Sam whispers with a smile.

  "Did you hear something?" the female voices says. She sounds terrified.

  "Relax. It was nothing."

  "I definitely heard something."

  "It was probably just an owl. You know what owls are like."

  "What time is it?"

  "Come on, concentrate on how it feels. I can tell you like it. Your nipples are hard."

  "That's 'cause it's cold."

  The guy lets out a sigh. "Okay, you know what? I've been doing this all wrong. I've been so focused on getting myself turned on, I've obviously forgotten to give you what you want." There's a pause, followed by the sound of a zip being opened. "There. Have a feel of that. Can't you tell what you do to me, baby? Feel how hard you've got me here."

  "That's nice and all, Dean -"

  "Just stroke it. Go on, wrap your fingers around it and feel the thickness. I know it's not all about size, but you've gotta admit, that's a pretty impressive piece of meat right there, baby doll. Doesn't it turn you on, just thinking about what it'd be like to have that inside you? Or maybe in your mouth."