His eyebrows furrow for a moment. He looks very confused.
Then he looks down at the book in his hands.
“Oh,” he says.
Without another word, he hands the book over to me and walks off, moving as if he’s still lost in a dream.
I watch him go.
“What was that all about?” I whisper.
When he’s a block away, I turn and head toward my own street.
I take the long way home.
Past houses all lit up with families sitting inside for dinner, barely talking to one another. Past the old, abandoned factories that no longer house workers. Past the long, winding road leading toward the mountains that gave our town its copper and its name. I walk the long circle that forms the perimeter of our town, and it takes me all of an hour to do it. By the time I get to the road leading home, I’m tired and using a flashlight to see.
The gravel drive winds its way through the forest that makes up my kingdom. There aren’t any lights to guide the way, but I know this road by heart. Heavy summer heat filters through the trees, carrying with it scents of mulch and leaves and something metallic. The smell always makes me think of coming home.
Not that I really like coming home.
For one thing, we’re the only family that lives in a trailer.
It sits on an empty plot of land at the end of the drive, trees stretching up all around it. There are two plastic chairs and a table out front under a tattered awning, as well as an old barbecue pit we sometimes use to make fires and roast s’mores over.
And that’s pretty much it.
The trailer itself is painted a pale green that Mom says is called avocado, but it has so many rust patches the avocado looks like it’s gone moldy. No lights on inside, and for some reason, it looks even smaller tonight, like the forest is pushing in on it.
I shine my flashlight over the trailer and squint my eyes and try to imagine it’s something else.
A submarine, readying to go on a top-secret mission to Antarctica.
A green rocket about to be tilted up and launched to Mars.
An elevator car that will descend into mines filled with glowing gemstones.
I want to take the helm and go on a late-night adventure … but instead all I really see is my dinky old trailer. Empty. Probably stuffy and hot because we never run the air conditioner.
Home sweet home.
I swallow my disappointment and trudge the rest of the way to the front door. Up the single cinder block step.
The whole trailer sways slightly when I step inside. Sometimes I pretend it’s rocking on the sea, especially when Mom gets home late. Tonight, it’s just annoying.
I flick on the lights and set my book on the tiny counter, trying not to look around so I don’t depress myself. Not that there’s much to see—the queen bed at the far end that my mom and I share. The tiny table with two benches where I do my homework and where we sometimes eat together but mostly I eat alone. The shelves and drawers filled with a few books and clothes and a couple of my toys. The small kitchenette—a sink, a hot plate, and a mini fridge. The door leading to our tiny bathroom with its standing shower and sink so close to the toilet you could sit on it while washing your hands and showering off your feet.
I grab a box of spaghetti and plop some into a pot, humming some song from the radio. As my dinner cooks, I flip open the book from the library and scan the first few pages.
I can already tell from the table of contents that it’s incredibly dry. I probably won’t finish it, but hey, at least I’ll have skimmed a book on our history. I’ll probably know more than most of the adults—no one ever answers when I ask questions about our town. Our history class covers things like the Civil War and all that, but nothing local. I tried asking the teacher but got a blank stare. And when I tried asking my mom about the mansion in the woods, she looked like I’d started speaking another language. I stopped asking questions about our history a long, long time ago.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s the reason my dad left. Or if maybe no one talks about our past because he used to be a part of it.
Something thuds near the bed.
I don’t think anything of it. Maybe a falling acorn or a kamikaze squirrel jumping onto our roof. Steam starts rising from the pasta.
Then, like fingers tickling down my spine, a chill washes over me.
It feels like I’m being watched.
My hand slowly makes for one of the butter knives in the sink.
Even though it’s probably just a cat outside. Or maybe even Alicia or James playing a joke. I live out in the woods … anything could be out there. My imagination explodes with possibilities.
Not one of them is good.
I turn my head
ever
so
slowly.
There, sitting atop my pillow and staring straight at me, is a doll with a terrifying smile and a locket around its neck.
Across its dress, written in dripping black ink, are two words:
Bury me.
The words scream in my head like a curse. My heart hammers so loud in my chest that I don’t even think I’d hear myself if I did scream. But I don’t. I am perfectly silent, too shocked to make a noise; it takes all my effort just to keep standing.
The doll just sits there, wearing a beautiful crimson dress, the single light above my bed casting a spot directly on it. Its head is cocked to the side, just slightly.
It looks like it’s been waiting for me.
Deep down inside, I know this is true.
I know this from the way she stares at me.
I don’t move, and neither does the doll. Though my fingers do shake, and the pasta hisses and steams beside me. I don’t turn off the burner. I just stare at the doll.
Her eyes are deep brown and her hair falls past her shoulders in black ringlets. The locket on her necklace is rusted shut with age, hanging heavily from a leather cord. And her dress … her crimson dress is more intricate than anything I’ve ever seen, let alone worn. Who would ruin such a beautiful thing by painting those words? Who would leave it here?
I’ve never seen this doll before.
I run through the possibilities as my brain clicks into gear.
The door was unlocked. Maybe James snuck the doll in while I was walking.
Maybe Mom left it for me. But that doesn’t make sense, because even though she might get me a doll—despite the fact that I’m too old for a doll—she would never, ever get one with BURY ME written on it, and I can’t imagine she would paint it herself. It’s not her handwriting, anyway.
Maybe a burglar came in and—what? Left something rather than stole anything?
No. That doesn’t make sense.
That only leaves … but no, it’s too crazy to think.
There’s no way the doll came in here on its own. No way it climbed up onto the bed and sat on the pillow—on my pillow, like it knows precisely where I sleep, like it’s been watching me.
I tell myself, There’s no way it’s been waiting for me.
I tell myself, There’s no way it’s alive.
I force out a laugh, hoping it will break the tension. If anything, it sounds hollow. It reminds me just how alone I am out here, and how long it will be until my mom comes home.
“Ha-ha,” I say. “Very funny. You can come out now, James. You got me.”
Silence.
“James?” I say. “Alicia?”
More silence.
The pasta boils over beside me and I yelp, jumping a foot in the air. I turn away from the doll and remove the pot from the burner.
Something moves in the corner of my eye.
I look just in time to watch the doll fall over. It tumbles off the bed and lands on the floor. Upright. Its head tilts to the other side now.
The doll
is
moving.
I don’t think. I run over and grab it, trying not to notice how cold it is despite the heat in here, or how it stares at me
with a wider grin than before.
I get to the door and yank it open.
Then I toss the doll as far into the dark forest as I can.
My door is shut and locked before the doll ever hits the ground.
I try to wait up for my mother to come home. For a while, I just sit there, staring at the book I checked out, a baseball bat beside me. When I yawn, I realize an hour has passed and I haven’t even flipped past the first page. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to be caught unawares. But another hour passes and there are no noises in the woods—no crunch of leaves as my mom walks home, no creepy giggles of a doll that should not exist. Finally, my adrenaline fades and I think that Mom has to be coming home soon, and she’ll ground me if I’m up when she’s home so late. I snuggle up in bed and promise myself I’ll stay awake.
I’ll just pretend to sleep. So she doesn’t know.
But she must be working later than usual. Or else I’m just too tired.
I close my eyes. I whisper to no one that I’m not tired.
I can’t help it.
I fall asleep.
* * *
The first thing I hear in the dream is music.
It drifts through my awareness, a string quartet playing some old-fashioned song I know I’ve never heard before. But it’s familiar. So familiar I find myself humming it as I walk down the wide stairs leading to the dance floor.
My family’s friends swirl and curtsy and promenade around me as I move across the glittering marble tile. Candles and lanterns glow brightly on every polished surface, casting a rich, golden light over the crowd. In their fancy dresses and coats and makeup, it is almost otherworldly. Like we are suddenly in the world of fairies. Like I am the Fairy Queen, and these are my loyal subjects.
I like that idea.
I hold on to it as I move across the dance floor, pretending that every bow is a bow to me, pretending that this is a grand ball in my honor, and not for my parents. I spy them on the other side of the ballroom, beside the quartet. They aren’t dancing. They are standing there, watching everyone dance, with drinks in their hands and sour expressions on their faces. When my mother catches sight of me, she frowns even more deeply. I wonder what I have done wrong. Is it my dress? She picked it out herself.
Or is it just me? It’s always me.
I turn away. Pretend that they aren’t my parents, but prisoners, here because of some terrible crime against my Fairy Court, and they must watch everyone dance and be merry while they sulk.
It makes me feel better. A little.
Music swells. The sea of people churns around me. But there is no one here my age to dance with, and although the adults smile at me, no one offers me a dance. I think it is time for me to leave. I have made my appearance, and that is enough to keep my parents happy. Or as happy as they will ever be. I don’t think anything I do really makes them happy.
I think the only thing that makes them happy is money. But they always want more.
I turn toward the stairwell to return to my room. Only, the stairwell isn’t there. I look around, wondering what is happening. I try to press my way through the dancing crowd, but they don’t give space. I try to make my way to the exit.
There are no exits.
I push my way through the crowd, ducking under skirts and past moving legs, and reach a wall.
No doors. Just glittering lights and tall, closed windows and a flickering glow outside. Warm, like firelight. How is it light outside, when it’s night?
The crowd presses closer. They aren’t dancing now. They are watching me. Laughing at me.
Their laughter grows louder and now I see their eyes are glittering.
Glass. Like doll eyes.
No, they are doll eyes. And their mouths are painted on, too. Just like the doll I threw out of my bed.
The dancing dolls laugh, and the music swells so loud my ears hurt.
The last thing I hear over their laughter and the cacophonous music is the sound of my own scream.
“Kimberly!”
Mom’s voice cuts through the nightmare, startling me awake. I nearly tumble off the bed.
My heart hammers in my chest as I try to calm myself down, taking stock of the room. I’m in our home. In bed. Mom is at the kitchen table eating cereal and looking up at me over her book. Sunlight filters through the windows. I’m home. Mom is here. I’m safe.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I swallow. My heart’s still pounding a thousand beats a minute and my breath is hot. But the nightmare is fading fast and so is the fear.
“Yeah,” I say after a while. “Just a bad dream.”
“Poor thing,” she responds. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”
I flop back on the bed and shut my eyes as I hear her rummage around the cabinets for a bowl. What in the world was I dreaming about? All I remember is glittering golden light. And dancing … something to do with dancing …
“I have to work in a little bit,” Mom says. “Another double, I’m afraid. You’ll need to fend for yourself for dinner tonight.”
I groan. Not that I wasn’t expecting it. She seems to always work doubles in the summer.
“Hopefully I won’t be back too late. But could you please pick up your toys tonight?”
Huh?
Something flops on my chest.
“I nearly tripped over this on the front step. I really need to change the entry light.”
I open my eyes, dread flooding my veins before I even see what she’s tossed my way.
The doll sits on my chest. And she is frowning.
“Ew, that’s just creepy,” James says.
We sit outside our secret fort in the woods. The fort isn’t much; its only side is an old wood pallet we found in a ditch, and a ragged tarp stretches above it in case it rains or—as is often the case—it’s too hot out and we need shade. The doll lies in the old fire pit we’ve built in the center, staring up at us angrily.
“You really didn’t leave it as a trick?” I ask.
I watch James’s and Alicia’s expressions carefully, but neither of them look like they’re lying when they shake their heads.
“Pinkie swear?” I ask, just to make sure.
They both hold out their pinkies and shake mine.
That settles it; neither of them left the doll on my pillow. Or set it on my doorstep. Or changed its smile into a frown.
“So … who did this?” I ask.
“Maybe Peter?” Alicia responds.
Peter is the biggest bully in our school. He’s beefy and mean, but he’s not that smart. He’d be more likely to shove a girl than try to scare her with a doll. I can’t imagine he’d be this creative.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “He’d think even touching a doll was too girlie. And it doesn’t seem like something he’d do, anyway.”
“You’re probably right,” James says. “Do you have any enemies? Maybe spies from overseas?”
“This isn’t funny,” I say. Though I appreciate him trying to make a joke out of it.
I think about what he asked: Do I have any enemies? Anyone at school or in town who hates me enough to want to scare me? I can’t think of any. We’ve been out of school for over a month and I don’t talk to anyone but Alicia and James. And maybe Mr. Jones, but I don’t have any late library books so I don’t think he’d try to frighten me either.
“I can’t think of who would do it,” I mutter. “I just wish I knew who was following me around.”
“It’s a little scary to think that they might be outside your house, watching you,” James says.
I hadn’t even thought about that part. Now every time I look into the forest, I’ll wonder if someone is looking back.
“Yeah,” Alicia continues. “Have you told your mom yet?”
“No. I don’t want her to worry. She has enough to deal with.”
The two of them share a look. Clearly, they think I’m out of my mind for not telling an adult. But if I’ve learned anything
from the adults around here, it’s that it’s easier to do things yourself and only bring it up to adults if necessary.
So if it isn’t a prank … what is it?
None of us mention the other option, even though it’s the one thing I’ve been thinking ever since the doll appeared on my pillow:
What if there isn’t someone else involved? What if it’s just the doll?
And what if what it wants is me?
It’s hard to play make-believe after the doll’s appearance.
We try.
We go on a scavenger hunt through the woods, looking for things like rusted paint cans hiding leprechaun gold and broken mirrors that actually reflect another world. But every time we bring something back to our fort, we’re reminded of the doll.
Thankfully, it doesn’t move.
It just sits there, in its painted crimson dress, frowning at the three of us as if we’ve broken a grave rule. The air around it seems colder than outside the fort, though I have to tell myself it’s just the shade.
Part of me wishes it would move. Just as long as it’s moving out of my life.
Since it doesn’t move, I do. For some reason, I keep getting drawn back to the mansion on my search for items to scavenge. No matter the path I take, I always end up there. Alone.
Without my friends, the place is creepier than normal; I don’t want to go inside to search for magical items. It feels like the sky is darker here, and the air colder. I don’t like the feeling that the mansion is drawing me in like a whirlpool. At the same time, every time I see the mansion I get a thrill in my chest. Something about it feels like … well, it feels more like home than my trailer ever has.
When the sun is high, we reconvene at the fort and go over our favorite finds.
Alicia has found a spatula that will levitate any item it flips, along with some marbles that we’re pretty certain will enable us to turn into wolves under the full moon. James has brought back a moldy book filled with ancient spells, but none of us can read them. And I’ve brought back a window frame from outside the mansion, which I think, if installed in a house, will let ghosts in.
Bury Me Page 2
