Grave Girl

by Amy Cross

  She turns to him, filled with the sudden realization that this strange old man might actually have the answers to all her questions.

  "It does move," he continues. "When I was in the mausoleum, I could hear the grinding as it shifted on the roof. Sometimes it even gets down and goes for a little walk. There's no need to be scared, though. He's not here for you. I doubt he views you as anything more than a distraction from the tedium of his main job."

  "Main job?" Sam replies, pausing for a moment. "And what's that, exactly?"

  Faraday smiles. "Well, that's what we're here to talk about, isn't it?" He pauses for a moment. "He's scared. Terrified, actually. I know you might not be able to see the signs on his stony face, but I can assure you that right now, Death is absolutely petrified."

  "This is a cemetery," Sam says. "It's not that weird that there'd be a statue of the Angel of Death."

  "A statue?" Faraday says. "That's not a statue. That's Death himself, perched up there on top of that little stone house. And why do you think he's here, huh? Of all the cemeteries in all the world, why do you think he'd be sitting around this one?"

  Sam swallows hard, trying but failing to quell a feeling of panic that's starting to spread through her body. As she looks at the statue, however, she suddenly realizes that it's moving; slowly, ominously, it turns its head to look directly at her. For a moment, the pair of them make eye contact, before Sam turns away and feels a shiver pass up her spine.

  "This is the most important cemetery in the whole world," Faraday continues. "And why do you think one cemetery would be more important than all the others? I'll tell you why. It's because of who, or what, is buried here. Death usually hangs around a place 'cause he wants to claim a life, but that's not why he's here this time. He's here because he wants to make sure that what's buried in Rippon, stays buried."

  Sam glances over at her spade. There's a part of her that wants to hang around and listen to this guy, but there's also a part of her that wants to get the hell out of here. While she was glad of the job when she arrived, she's starting to feel as if she's got in way too deep. Even as she considers her escape route, she's wondering whether she could just run out of the cemetery, out of Rippon, and back to the civilized world. It's pretty typical of her luck, she realizes, that just when she finally finds a decent job, it turns out to be full of fucked-up people.

  "You can't run away," Faraday says suddenly.

  "What?"

  "You can't run. I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking of getting out of here. I don't blame you, but it's not an option. You're a gardener now. In fact..." He steps closer and looks deep into her eyes. "You're not just any gardener. You're the last gardener, and that's a problem, because if there are no more gardeners, there'll be no more cemetery, and if there's no more cemetery, it means that whatever's been buried here will rise again. This cemetery exists for a very precise reason, and I'm afraid that reason can't just be ignored."

  Sam takes a deep breath. "Maybe we should go and talk to the mayor..."

  "Trust me," Faraday continues, "all the people in Rippon know exactly what's going on. Well, they know enough to know they don't want to ask any more questions. That's why you so rarely see any of them out and about in the streets. It takes a certain kind of person to carry on living in this town after the things that have happened over the years. The sixties, in particular, were a very difficult period. Lots of pain. Lots of death. Things have settled a little since then, and no-one wants the nightmares to return. They think they can just ignore the problem and it'll go away. They're wrong, of course. It's returning, and it's going to be much worse than ever before."

  "It was you," Sam says as she realizes what's been happening. "You've been hiding here all along, haven't you? I knew there was someone else in the cottage. I kept finding bowls and stuff you'd left out."

  "Sorry," Faraday replies. "I had to come inside occasionally. I always waited until you were out there, getting on with your work, or asleep in your bed. I wanted to work alone and without any interruptions, so I figured it was better to just get on with what I needed to be doing."

  "You freaked me out," Sam says.

  "My apologies."

  "So you were living in the mausoleum?"

  Faraday nods.

  "That's the most fucked-up thing I've ever heard."

  "It wasn't so bad. Not once I got used to the company, anyway." He pauses for a moment. "So you're not going to ask?"

  "Ask what?" Sam replies nervously.

  "What's causing all of this."

  Sam takes a deep breath. "I just -"

  "You're not curious?"

  "It's not that," Sam says firmly.

  "You're scared?"

  "I'm not sure this is real," she continues. "No offense."

  "None taken. But it is real. Everyone in this town is ignoring the problem, Sam. Don't be like them. It never works. You can't run away forever."

  "I can try," Sam replies.

  "Is that how you got here?" Faraday asks. "Were you running from something?"

  Sam shakes her head, but she knows that the look in her eyes must have given away the truth.

  "What if I told you that the Devil himself is buried in Rippon?" Faraday says, with all traces of humor suddenly gone from his face. "What if I told you that someone built a cemetery, in fact someone built a whole town, on top of the most significant and dangerous grave in the world? What better way to hide one grave than to put a whole set of other graves on top? Of course, you can't expect to keep something like that buried forever, can you? Things have a way of leaking and pushing themselves back to the surface." He pauses again. "Tell me something, Sam. Have you felt anything strange beneath your feet while you've been here? Any tremors?"

  "I..." Sam starts to say, before realizing that she can't handle this any longer. She feels as if she's about to explode, and although she hates the idea of running, she knows that there's only one thing she can do right now. "I'm sorry," she says, hurrying through to her bedroom and starting to throw her few possessions into the backpack she brought with her. She doesn't have much, and she wants to travel light, so it only takes a moment to get some clothes together. "I'm really, really sorry, but I think maybe I shouldn't be here."

  "You can't run," Faraday says, watching her from the door.

  "This is way too much for me," Sam continues, fumbling as she tries to get the backpack's zip closed. "I can't do this. Moving statues, living in a cemetery, Death sitting outside... I think I bit off a bit too much. Actually, I think I'm losing my mind, so I'm going to get out of here." She throws the backpack over her shoulder, accidentally knocking a cup off the bedside table in the process; the cup smashes to the ground, but Sam hurries past Faraday and heads for the door. She has no idea where she's going, but she's filled with a desperate need to get out of this place as fast as possible.

  "You won't make it," Faraday calls after her. "You won't get away from Rippon."

  "Good luck," Sam says, glancing back at him for a moment. "I mean that. Good luck with..." She glances around the cottage, briefly feeling a twinge of regret at the thought of losing her new home so quickly. She'd actually started to think that she could make a new life for herself around here; still, she knows she can't stay, not with all this weirdness happening. It's got beyond the point where she can't lie to herself and pretend it doesn't bother her. She came here for a quiet, uncomplicated life, and instead she feels as if she's landed in the middle of an asylum. "Good luck with all this, okay?" she adds, before opening the door and stepping out of the cottage.

  "What the fuck?" she says, stopping dead in her tracks.

  She stares at the figure that's standing right in front of her in the early evening gloom.

  "Help me," Anna says, looking pale and blooded. Pieces of flesh are missing from her face, exposing gleaming sections of skull, and a thick red autopsy incision is showing from under the top of her burial gown. Her eyes are blood-shot and slightly yellowed, and she's staring at
Sam with a look of total shock. "You've got to help," she continues, stumbling toward Sam. "I think something's wrong with me."

  Chapter Eight

  "Something must be wrong with me," Matthews mutters as he wanders along the dark, lonely street. He should have been home hours ago, but instead he's walking through Rippon and trying to work out why he's the only person in the entire town who seems to be opposed to the arrangement. Having left the mayor's office an hour ago, he managed to stop by the local shop and pick up some beer, which he's drunk surprisingly quickly; he's now nicely sozzled and happily talking to himself. "I should just shut up and stick with the program."

  As he reaches town square, he pauses for a moment to lean against the side of the cafe.

  "Late night?" asks a familiar Irish voice nearby.

  Turning, Matthews sees the unwelcome face of Gabriel Fenroc smiling back at him.

  "I think there might be rain soon," Fenroc continues, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  "What are you doing out so late?" Matthews asks, immediately slipping back into his professional tone of voice. "I might be off-duty, but I can still deal with trouble-makers."

  "You can't deal with anyone," Fenroc replies. "You're drunk, old man."

  "Who are you calling old?" Matthews shouts, stumbling toward Fenroc but tripping on a loose cobble; as he crashes to the ground, Matthews lets out a cry of pain and his bottle of beer rolls away. "I'll have you know," he murmurs, "that it's a capital offense to make fun of an officer of the law. I could march you right down to the station at this very moment!"

  "Go on then," Fenroc replies. "I doubt you could even march yourself down there right now. Look at the state you're in, you pathetic old wanker. I mean, seriously, do the people of Rippon really rely on a fucking drunk to keep them safe?" He wanders over to Matthews and stares at him for a moment. "You're useless, man. Do you know that? You're fucking useless."

  "Right," Matthews mutters, trying to get up. "That's it. You're under arrest."

  "For what?"

  "For pissing off a police officer."

  "Is that an arrestable offense these days?"

  "I'll find plenty to throw at you," Matthews continues, finally getting to his feet. He pauses for a moment as he feels his head start to swim. "Maybe I've had a few beers too many, but I can still put a little fucker like you straight." With that, he lunges at Fenroc and tries to punch him, but his physical coordination is shot to pieces and he simply tumbles against the wall; barely able to stay standing, it takes all his effort to turn back to Fenroc.

  "Jesus," Fenroc mutters, "the state of the modern police force. You should be ashamed of yourself, man. How do you expect to do your job in the morning if you're hungover? You're the last line of defense for the poor bastards around here. I wonder what they'd say if they knew you were stumbling around like a drunk idiot?"

  "Gabriel Fenroc," Matthews says, making an extra effort to sound sober and, as a result, sounding more drunk than ever, "I'm arresting you on suspicion of being a fucking asshole."

  "And what are you gonna do with me when you get me to the station?" Fenroc asks. "Drain my blood? Add it to that big vat that's bubbling away?"

  "Fuck you," Matthews sneers. "Fuck you and fuck everything you've done to this town." He reaches out, trying to grab Fenroc's arm. "Come on! Time to get you down to the station!"

  "You need to get yourself to the drunk tank first," Fenroc says, pulling away. "My God, man, if you could see yourself right now. You're a disgrace to that uniform, and I say that as someone who didn't have a whole lot of respect for that uniform to begin with."

  "What do you have respect for?" Matthews asks, slurring his words. "A man like you... What could you possibly respect?"

  "Myself, mainly. I respect my life, and I respect my intention to keep breathing. I don't respect the world, though. I think it's gone to shit, and we could do with a new one." He pauses. "You might wonder why I've ended up here, in pretty much the most dangerous town on the fucking planet, but I have my reasons. Frankly, my plans are none of your business, and I hope you'll respect that, Mr. Matthews." Smiling, he turns to walk away.

  "Get back here!" Matthews shouts. "You're under arrest, Fenroc!"

  "Whatever," Fenroc says, stopping and turning back to him. "You're in no fit state to be arresting anyone. Besides, I'm pretty sure you won't remember any of this in the morning."

  "Is that right?"

  Fenroc nods.

  "Oh, I'll remember it," Matthews continues. "Don't you worry about that!"

  "We'll see," Fenroc says, taking a step back. "Have a nice walk home. Make sure you don't run into any trouble, and try not to get too hot under the collar."

  "Get back here!" Matthews shouts. "I'll not have some bastard making fun of me, I'll -" He pauses for a moment, as he suddenly feels a burning sensation around his knees. "You'll not get away from me!" he mutters, but the burning is getting worse, and he's starting to notice a strong, acrid smell.

  "You alright there?" Fenroc asks with a smile. "Looks like you're burning up."

  Matthews looks down at his legs and sees that they're on fire. Before he can react, the flames have spread up through his torso and have begun to engulf his chest and head. He lets out a cry of pain, but the heat is quickly becoming unbearable and as he turns to stumble away, he feels his skin start to melt from his bones. He takes a couple of steps toward Fenroc, but the flames have become too intense and his bones, shorn of the muscle and flesh that held them together, start falling to the ground. Opening his mouth and letting out a brief roar of pain, Matthews feels the flames inside his skull, and finally his head drops to the ground and shatters.

  "Huh," Fenroc says, lighting a cigarette as he watches the brief, hyper-localized inferno. "Would you look at that?" he asks in his lilting Irish accent, addressing no-one in particular. "Now are you okay there, Mr. Matthews, or will you be needing some help?"

  A few meters away, where Matthews stood only a moment ago, there's nothing but a smoldering pile of ash, interspersed by a few fragments of bone, while in the middle there's a perfectly untouched, completely undamaged pair of shoes, from the top of which two bright, white ankle bones are protruding.

  "Nah," Fenroc says, grinning, "I really don't think you'll remember this in the morning. Spontaneous human combustion, eh? Such a strange and unusual way for a man to go. Very rare. Very rare indeed. Shame it doesn't leave any blood behind, but I guess we can't have everything." After taking one final, extra-long drag on his cigarette, he turns and wanders away along the road, leaving the steaming shoes standing in the town square, with the bones still sticking out the top, waiting for some poor soul to find them when the sun comes up.

  Part Five:

  The Birthday Party

  Prologue

  One year ago

  "Devil's gonna get you, Sam!"

  Turning, Sam finds Nadia standing behind her.

  "Wow, what's up with you?" Nadia asks, smiling as she takes a seat. "Hangover?"

  Nodding, Sam takes a little nibble at her baguette, although in truth she doesn't feel much like eating right now. Her stomach is still feeling the after-effects of last night's party, and all she really wants to do is go to sleep.

  "You were kind of wild last night," Nadia continues, grinning from ear to ear. "Do you remember that guy?"

  "Which guy?"

  "The guy in the club. The one you..." She pauses, waiting for Sam to remember. "Are you seriously telling me you don't remember?"

  Sighing, Sam waits for Nadia to fill her in. This is part of their routine: for some reason, Sam always gets black holes in her memory after a big night out, while Nadia's memory remains crystal clear. It's a rather annoying situation that always leaves Sam feeling as if she's at a distinct disadvantage, while Nadia evidently takes great pleasure in detailing Sam's indiscretions.

  "I can't believe you don't remember that guy," Nadia continues, laughing. "Fucking hell, Sam, were you really that wasted?"

  "Are
you gonna tell me," Sam replies wearily, "or are you just gonna sit there like an idiot?"

  Raising an eyebrow, Nadia stares at her for a moment.

  "That came out wrong," Sam admits with a weak smile.

  "You pretty much dragged that guy out of the club," Nadia continues. "I was kinda worried about you, so I came to look for you but you definitely didn't need my help."

  "What was I doing?"

  "I think you can guess what you were doing."

  Sighing, Sam looks down at her half-eaten baguette. She'd kind of worked out that something must have happened, since she woke up this morning with no underwear, some soreness, and certain other signs of a sexual encounter.

  "You okay?" Nadia asks.

  Sam nods wearily.

  "You not gonna ask if he was hot?"

  Sam shakes her head, realizing that this must be the hundredth time something like this has happened. She doesn't know why, but guys always seem to go for her when she's drunk. Sober, she keeps her guard up and she usually manages to make it clear that she's not interested, but when she's wasted she lets her defenses down.

  "At least you got some action," Nadia replies.

  "At least you're not a slut," Sam points out.

  They sit in silence for a moment. Nadia clearly wants to keep talking, to go through their usual routine of laughing and joking about Sam's sexual misadventures, but this time something seems different. She can see that Sam's not in her usual mood, and she doesn't want to push her best friend to tears.

  "I've been thinking about getting out of town for a while," Sam mutters eventually.

  "On holiday?" Nadia asks. "You want company? If we both start saving, maybe we could go to Ibiza? Oh my God, can you imagine us in Ibiza?"

  "That's not what I mean," Sam says, unable to shake the feeling that something's seriously wrong with her life. "Not a holiday. More like... I was kind of thinking that maybe I need to get the hell away from this whole place. Start again, you know?"

  "Start again? Sam, life's barely begun, for fuck's sake!"