Grave Girl

by Amy Cross

  "You've gotta admit," Sam whispers in mocking tones, "that's a pretty impressive piece of meat right there."

  "It's not that I don't want to," the girl says.

  "You're twenty-one, Anna. Twenty-fucking-one. Do you wanna be a virgin forever?"

  "It's not that."

  "Then what is it? I've got so much love to give you, baby, but you have to let me in. You need to let me through your sweet, velvet curtains and into your warm embrace. I need to know that you want me. I'm burning up here. A guy's got urges, and I need to get 'em fulfilled somewhere. Do you know how many girls I've turned down in the past week alone, just 'cause I've had my eye on getting something hot and meaningful with you?"

  Sam lets out a brief laugh, before quickly putting her hand over her mouth.

  "What the hell was that?" the female voice shouts. "Don't tell me you didn't hear that, Dean. It was loud as a fucking foghorn. There's someone out there!"

  "No there isn't," the guy replies with a sigh. "It was probably just that owl catching a mouse or something."

  "Owl's don't laugh!" the girl says.

  "Sure they do. When they find something funny."

  "There's someone out there," the girl says firmly.

  The guy sighs before suddenly walking straight toward Sam. Panicking as she ducks down behind a gravestone, Sam holds her breath. Peering around the edge, she can just about make out the shape of the guy, silhouetted against the dark night sky. He looks first one way, then the other.

  "There's no-one here," he says, before walking back over to the girl. "Come on, baby, that's half the fun of a place like this. You've got all those creepy noises, all those shadows, but there's nothing to be scared of. It's literally just a big old garden with a bunch of stones."

  "And a gardener," the girl points out.

  "The place is empty."

  "No," the girl continues. "I heard they got a new one."

  "Well, he's probably fast asleep. Besides, what business is it of his if we have a little fun? I'm not suggesting anything too daring, but I could sure go for a quick one right now. What do you say? Just perch your behind on this old chunk of stone, open your legs, and let me prove to you that I'm the man you need. I can fill you to the brim."

  Sam puts a hand over her mouth again, determined not to laugh. In some ways, she feels kind of guilty for letting this drag on for so long; then again, she's also enjoying listening to this wannabe-Romeo as he tries to seduce his Juliet.

  "I'm not feeling it," the girl says.

  The guy sighs again. "Well, could you at least suck me off? I mean, I had to walk up a hill to get here. I'm tired. I don't wanna leave empty-handed."

  "I think you'll have something in your hand before the night's over," Sam whispers.

  "I want to go home," the girl whines.

  "Let's just stay a little longer."

  "No, I want to go home," she says, sounding as if she's about ready to stamp her foot and have a full-blown tantrum.

  "Come on, let's stay just a few more minutes."

  Sighing, Sam decides she's had enough, so she stands up and starts walking toward the voices. Although she could happily have stayed hidden for a while longer and listened to this train wreck of a date, she figures it's late and she should probably drive these two kids away before things get out of hand. The last thing she wants is to clean up a used condom in the morning. "Hey!" she calls out, affecting her toughest voice, with her spade slung over her shoulder, "what the hell do you two think you're doing in here?" As if to prove her point, she raises the spade high above her head. "Get out!"

  Instantly, the girl lets out a terrified scream and starts running, while the guy mutters something indecipherable and bolts straight after her. Turning, Sam watches as the moonlight picks out the two figures racing toward the gate, and she sighs with satisfaction as she realizes that she just successfully scared off her first two interlopers. The guy leaps up and grabs the top of the wall, hauling himself out of the cemetery and disappearing down into the street, leaving the girl to make her own way up. Struggling to climb, the girl continues to make a series of rather desperate leaps while Sam wanders nonchalantly over to the join her.

  "Hey," Sam says, unlocking the gate and swinging it open. "You might as well go out the proper way."

  Without saying a word, the girl races through the gate and out into the street. Sam leans out and watches as she runs as fast as she can into the distance, tottering slightly on high heels.

  "Not bad," Sam says quietly to herself, carefully locking the gate. "The death of romance." Turning and wandering slowly back toward her cottage, she realizes as she gets to the door that the cemetery seems to be getting a little lighter. Turning, she sees the first rays of sunlight starting to appear in the distance, and she's suddenly and rather inexplicably filled with a desire to stay up and get to work. Even though it's only 6am and she could grab another hour and a half in bed, she figures she might as well just stay up. Smiling, and a little freaked out by her own productivity, she leans the spade against the side of the cottage and heads around to fetch a scythe from the shed. As she passes Sparky, she pats him on his stone shoulder.

  "See?" she says. "I'm getting the hang of this job already. Easy as pie."

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Mayberry's bones makes a loud ripping and cracking sound as her ribs are slowly forced apart to reveal the chest cavity. As he prepares to take another blood sample directly from the heart, Dr. Wellington notes that there appears to be some distension to the liver, which is probably due to the old lady's habit of drinking brandy before bed, but which he figures should nevertheless be examined as the autopsy progresses. He slips the tip of a needle into Mrs. Mayberry's heart and carefully pulls the plunger back, filling the syringe with a nice clean blood sample.

  "So," he says with a wry smile, "you did have a heart after all. Not that anyone would have known when you were alive, you old bag."

  Once the sample has been taken and correctly labeled, he grabs some cutting tools from the bench and prepares to start removing, one by one, the old lady's organs so they can be weighed, measured, inspected and ultimately put back inside her body.

  "Knock knock," says a voice over at the door, and Dr. Wellington immediately recognizes the soft Irish tones of Gabriel Fenroc. Having arrived in Rippon a couple of months ago, Fenroc has spent most of his time meandering along the narrow streets, showing no inclination to actually do anything other than observe the town. There's been a great deal of speculation regarding his true intentions, with the most commonly supported theory being that the man is simply a wastrel. Others, though, are convinced that there must be a reason for his presence.

  "You'll be wanting next door, I imagine," Dr. Wellington says, carefully making an incision at the base of Mrs. Mayberry's bronchial tree. "This is a surgery, Mr. Fenroc, not the betting shop. If you want to put a tenner on the 3.20 at Knapton, I'm afraid I'm not your man."

  "It might not be a betting shop per se," Fenroc replies, loitering over by the cabinets, "but a man can place a bet anywhere he goes, can't he? Even in a church. Even in a surgery. All he needs is something to bet on and someone to take his bet, and the deal's sealed, so to speak." He pauses for a moment. "For example, I'd bet an even tenner that you're gonna mark this dear old lady's death up as a common heart attack, aren't you?" He waits for a reply. "Tell me I'm wrong, Doc."

  "I can't help you," Dr. Wellington says, making some more incisions in preparation for the removal of Mrs. Mayberry's right lung. "As you might have noticed, I'm rather busy performing the full autopsy that's required before I decide upon a cause of death."

  "Aye," Fenroc says, "I'd noticed you've got something on your hands there. What happened to the poor old dear, if you don't mind my asking? I saw her yesterday afternoon and she seemed just fine. Did her ticker really just give out on her, as the old grapevine's been suggesting all morning?"

  "If I knew what happened to her," Dr. Wellington says, carefully lifting the right lo
be of Mrs. Mayberry's lung out of her chest and placing it on a weighing scale, "I wouldn't go to the very great trouble of performing an autopsy, now would I?"

  "Aye, I suppose you wouldn't." Fenroc pauses for a moment. "She was a grand old dame, you know. Sharp as a rake, with a waspish tongue and no time for idiots. Reminded me of my grandmother back home in Donegal. God knows what old Mrs. Mayberry thought of the likes of me, but she was nice to my face at least, and that's more than I can say about everyone 'round these parts. Then again, there were some dark rumors surrounding the death of her husband, were there not?" He pauses again, as if there's something on his mind. "Dr. Wellington, do you mind if I ask you something?"

  "You can ask," Dr. Wellington replies with a sigh, "but I wouldn't count on getting an answer."

  "Have you seen there's a new young lady in the town?" Fenroc continues. "Working up at the cemetery, like. The new gardener, no less!"

  "I'm afraid I don't keep up with the local gossip," Dr. Wellington says, making some quick notes about Mrs. Mayberry's lung.

  "Well, there is a new gardener. A pretty young thing, she is, and hard-working. Got kind of a determined look about her, as if she won't brook any shit from anyone. I walked past the place today, and when I looked through the gate I could see her hacking away at that big old mausoleum in the center." He pauses again, and he can see a flicker of recognition on Dr. Wellington's face. "You remember that mausoleum, don't you? The big one. The stone one with the little hole at the top. The one where -"

  "Is there a point to this idle chit-chat?" Dr. Wellington asks suddenly, with obvious irritation.

  "Just making conversation and seeing what you think."

  Dr. Wellington sighs. "If you're under the impression that a young lady might not be able to perform the tasks required of a gardener, I might begin to wonder if you're perhaps a little behind the times. From what I've read in the newspaper, women are taking on the jobs of men in almost every walk of life these days. The gender divide isn't what it used to be, Mr. Fenroc."

  "Aye, that's true," Fenroc says. "You're right there. I guess I just wanted to see if you thought there might be any kind of connection between Mrs. Mayberry's tragic, early demise, and the arrival of this new girl?" He waits for an answer. "And the uncovering of that mausoleum, of course..."

  "A connection?" Dr. Wellington asks. "Why should there be a connection? As far as I know, they've never even met!"

  "Aye," Fenroc replies, momentarily lost in thought. "Still, there are other types of connection, are there not? Like, for instance, if this new young lady might have antagonized someone, or perhaps upset the delicate balance of the cemetery. Isn't it possible that certain individuals might choose to lash out in another direction and make their feelings known in a very forceful manner?"

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Dr. Wellington says, removing Mrs. Mayberry's second lung.

  "Aye, you're probably right," Fenroc says, heading back over to the door. "I just thought I'd come and shoot the breeze with you for a few minutes, see which way the wind's blowing. I suppose I'm worrying over nothing. After all, if certain individuals were unhappy about the arrival of a new girl in town, surely those certain individuals would take their displeasure out on the new arrival directly, rather than attacking someone else? I mean..." He pauses, unable to keep a slight grin from his lips. "Well, certain individuals in this town don't exactly have a reputation for being subtle, do they? It's not like there'd be anything stopping them from hurting the new gardener, is it?"

  Dr. Wellington focuses on his work, removing Mrs. Mayberry's liver while studiously ignoring his visitor.

  "Then again," Fenroc continues, "does anyone know for sure?"

  Writing some notes about the liver, Dr. Wellington continues to avoid the conversation.

  "Aye," Fenroc says, "well, I just thought I'd see what the news was about Mrs. Mayberry, and let you know that the mausoleum's out in the open, so to speak. Just in case you're interested for some reason. What that reason might be, of course, I have no idea. Just thinking out loud, really. You know, I heard the strangest rumor the other day. There are people who say dark forces are coming to Rippon."

  "You should learn to ignore rumors," the doctor replies.

  "Aye," Fenroc says, "but..." He places his hand flat on the counter. "Don't you feel it? Every so often, there's a faint shudder, like something big and heavy is coming closer."

  "I don't have time for your superstitions," the doctor says.

  "So you don't feel it?"

  "Go away, Mr. Fenroc," the doctor says, focusing on his work. "Bother someone else with your superstitious nonsense."

  Once Fenroc has left, Dr. Wellington forces himself to stay focused on the task at hand. He has a busy morning lined up, and it'll likely take him until lunchtime before he can have all of Mrs. Mayberry's organs out, checked, and then put back into her body. He already knows the cause of death, of course; even if he finds something unusual while he's digging through the old lady's innards, he's absolutely certain that he'll be listing 'heart attack' on her certificate. Anything else would open up too many questions, and would only encourage people like Fenroc to keep sniffing around. Grabbing the old lady's heart from one of the dishes, he carries it over to the bucket and squeezes the organ until ever last drop of blood has been collected. Next, he does the same with one of her lungs, wringing it dry with all his strength until finally the bucket is half full.

  "Oh well," he mutters, glancing back at the old lady's corpse. "At least your death won't go in vain."

  Chapter Three

  Slowly, and with a determined expression on her face, Sam raises the scythe above her head and stands still for a moment, letting sunlight glint off the sharp metal.

  "Prepare to die," she says firmly, before slicing the blade down and then pulling it back. A large knot of viney weeds comes crashing down, revealing yet more of the mausoleum's surface. Sam hacks at the foliage several more times, and finally she's able to read the inscription on the side of the stone edifice:

  Henry Mayhew Peterson

  January 1st 1870 to March 18th 1923

  May he rest in God's grace

  also

  Elizabeth Emmet Peterson

  November 30th 1871 to October 11th 1925

  Loving wife and mother

  Hauling the downed vines into a large plastic refuge sack, Sam notes with satisfaction that she's now cleared almost all the shrubbery from around the mausoleum. When she started, it was hard to tell that there was any kind of building in here at all; it simply looked like a huge mass of knotted foliage, save for a small corner of stonework that protruded from one side and gave the game away. It was pretty clear that the damn thing had been ignored for years. Now, for what must be the first time in living memory, the entire mausoleum has once again been exposed to the sun's warming light. It's a small achievement, but one that seems to Sam to be rather symbolic of all the hard work she's put in over the past couple of days. Already, the cemetery looks so different compared to the overgrown mess that she first encountered when she arrived a couple of days ago: less like a jungle, and more like a place where people would go to mourn their loved ones.

  "There you are!" calls out a familiar voice, and Sam turns to see Mayor Winters making his way across the grass. "My word," he continues with a broad smile on his face, "you've been busy. I haven't seen this old thing since I was a young boy. My friends and I used to climb up the sides and try to peer in through that hole." Raising his cane, he taps a small gap in the stonework, from which a single growth of vine-weed is protruding. "I'd quite forgotten it was still here. Quite forgotten indeed."

  "Did you ever see anything when you looked through the hole?" Sam asks.

  "Oh, no," the mayor replies. "We tried everything, of course. Torches, matches, the lot. In fact, if you go inside, you might find the detritus from our failed attempts. Of course, there's a gate around the side, and we always dreamed of getting hold of the right key and
making our way in to view the corpses. My mother once told me that the bodies of Henry Peterson and his family would be resting on shelves in there. Quite fired my imagination as a child, I can tell you. Yes, I had a few nightmares about this thing, back in the day." He turns and looks out across the cemetery. "I must say, Ms. Marker, you've done an absolutely exceptional job. I don't remember the last time the place looked so good. It's wonderful, quite wonderful."

  "I haven't really got started," Sam says, feeling a rush of pride.

  "Nonsense! I can see you've been busy. You've done more work in two days than your recent predecessors managed between them in six months. I thought industriousness was a trait long gone from today's youth, but you've rather restored my faith, Ms. Marker. Your immediate predecessor, Mr. Faraday, spent more time reading than actually doing any work, whereas you... Actually, that's why I'm here. I'm afraid I've come to give you a new job. Something a little more interesting than weeding. Allow me to show you. Come along."

  Tapping her shoulder with his cane, Mayor Winters leads Sam along one of the paths, and they eventually come to a halt in a small, shady part of the cemetery over by the far wall.

  "I'm afraid there was a death in town last night," the mayor says, poking the ground with the end of his cane. "Dear old Mrs. Mayberry suffered a terminal cardiac event and was found dead on her bedroom floor. You won't have met her, of course, but it's all very sad. Lovely old lady, even if she could be a little terse at times. Anyway, Dr. Wellington has been performing the autopsy this morning, and I'm confident we shall be ready for a funeral and burial ceremony tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. She didn't have much family left, so it won't be a big shindig. And this -" He taps the ground with his cane-tip. "This is Mrs. Mayberry's plot. It was arranged some time ago, you see, so she could be buried next to her husband. You'll need to have it ready for a full coffin service."