Authors: Amy Cross
Chapter Eleven
As the day draws to a close, Sam opens the box of chocolates and eats one. Despite a brief urge to have some wine, she manages to stick to chocolates water, and she ends up spending the evening sitting by the window, reading a magazine and occasionally glancing out to watch as the cemetery gets darker and darker. By 10pm, she can see nothing outside apart from some gravestones picked out by the moonlight, and she finds herself thinking back to her old life. This time a year ago, she'd probably have been out partying; now she's perfectly happy sitting in her own little cottage, in the middle of nowhere, staying completely sober and looking forward to an early night. All the grave-digging work of the past couple of days has left her arms, legs and back sore, but she doesn't mind the pain; it's a good kind of soreness.
Just after 10pm, she feels the floor shake briefly. She looks around the room and realizes that there's a strange juddering sensation, almost as if heavy footsteps are passing close to the cottage. Just as she's about to get up and investigate, the sensation stops and everything is still once again.
Glancing out the window, Sam suddenly notices a brief flash of light over by the wall. It only lasts a couple of seconds, but it looks like some kind of brief flame. Immediately getting up and going over to the door, Sam stares out into the darkness, waiting to see if it'll happen again. After a couple of minutes, she grabs a torch from the kitchen drawer, picks up her spade for self-defense, and steps outside. The beam from the torch picks out the tips of the gravestones, and Sam finds herself reflecting that this seems to be an almost nightly occurrence.
"Kids," she mutters under her breath, annoyed that yet again she has to come out and chase some idiots away. "Okay," she calls out, "I know you're here, so let's just get it over with, yeah? Go home and we can all just relax. There's got to be somewhere better to hang out, right?"
As she gets over to the spot where she saw the flash of light, she shines the torch at the wall and realizes she's standing close to the fresh grave. A few meters away, she sees the bench, but this time there seems to be something a little unusual about the wood. Walking closer, Sam realizes that there's a large burned patch, extending across the seat and up the back of the bench, with smoke rising slowly into the night air, as if there was some kind of flash-fire. Reaching out, Sam finds that the wood is still too hot to touch.
"Huh," she says, starting to wonder whether this is really the kind of thing that kids would do. Standing back, she realizes that the burned pattern is in a particular shape: it's almost as if someone was sitting on the bench and burst into flames, leaving behind a charred shadow. There's also an unusual smell in the air, like a kind of sweet sulfur. Taking a deep breath, Sam turns and makes her way back toward the cottage, figuring she might as well wait until morning before she checks out what really happened. It seems for all the world as if someone spontaneously combusted while they were sitting on the bench but, as Sam gets back inside the cottage and shuts the door, she reminds herself that something like that would be impossible. She glances one more time out the window, to make sure that there's nothing strange outside, and then she draws the curtains. Pausing, she gets the feeling that something's changed, almost as if she's not alone in the cottage. She goes through and double-checks that the door's locked, and then she glances quickly into every room. Finally satisfied that her mind is just playing tricks on her, she heads through to bed.
Epilogue
One year ago
"You alright there, love?" asks a voice, emerging from the darkness that surrounds Sam as she sits slumped in the shop doorway. "Hello? Can you hear me?"
Looking up slowly, Sam opens her eyes and finds to her shock that the night has passed and the first rays of dawn are lighting up the street. She blinks a couple of times, before wiping dried mascara from her eyes and focusing on the guy who's standing next to her, wearing a bright yellow fluorescent jacket. It takes a few seconds before Sam realizes that the guy's a street cleaner, with a rusty old cart next to him.
"This yours, is it?" the guy continues, looking down at the puddle of vomit that runs from the door of the shop, over Sam's legs and down onto her feet. "Made quite a mess, haven't you? Maybe it's time to go home and sleep it off, yeah?"
Sam takes a deep breath before slowly trying to haul herself up. As soon as she moves, her head starts to pound with a sharp throbbing pain and her stomach seems to flip upside down.
"You should get a cab," the guy says as he turns his cart around, ready to clean up the evidence of Sam's sticky night out.
"Nadia?" Sam says suddenly, turning to look for her friend. At that moment, the street cleaning cart starts up, creating a huge swirling sound as it starts removing the vomit. With her head hurting and her feet feeling sore and cold, Sam starts stumbling home, swaying slightly as she realizes that she might still be a little drunk.
The Vigil
Chapter One
Standing in the doorway of the cottage, Sam stares out at the cemetery and feels a curious sensation in her belly. At first, she wonders whether it might be something she ate, but finally she realizes that it's an entirely unfamiliar emotion, something she's heard
others
talk about over the years but which she's rarelky experienced herself: pride.
It's been a week since she arrived in Rippon. In that time, she's worked non-stop twelve-hour days and now the lawns are all mowed, the ivy has been trimmed back to a respectable level, and the piles of dead leaves have been swept away. All in all, she's managed to transform the place from an overgrown jungle to a respectable-looking garden of remembrance, and she can't help but feel
slightly
impressed by herself. This is the first proper thing she's ever actually achieved, or at least it's the first thing that has any kind of permanence. It feels good, even if she's aching all over. As she raises her cup of tea and takes a sip, she realizes that there's nothing wrong with pride, not if it's rooted in a solid day's work.
She hasn't felt this good since the night she managed to drink a yard of ale and was carried out of the pub on her friends' shoulders, while everyone cheered and clapped and... Feeling a cold chill run through her body, she decides that it's probably best not to think back to those days. That other life of parties and clubs and cheap shots seems so far away, and so strange, now that she's standing alone in a little cottage in the middle of a cemetery.
Suddenly there's a slight tremor; Sam looks down at the floor, but the vibration soon passes, leaving Sam to wonder what could have caused the whole town to rumble.
"Great," she mutters. "An earthquake."
Feeling a strange sensation over her shoulder, she turns and looks back into the cottage. There's nothing, of course, but at the same time, she can't shake the feeling that she's not alone. It's weird, but the first few nights after she arrived in Rippon, she felt totally comfortable in the cottage; she wasn't freaked out by the cemetery at all, and she slept like a log. And then something changed. All of a sudden, after she'd been here for three days, the atmosphere became different. She knows it sounds crazy, but she can't shake the feeling that there's suddenly this extra presence in the cottage, like a malevolent, unseen housemate who makes everything feel slightly 'off'. Obviously there's not an
actual
extra person in the place, but that's what it feels like. Sometimes, she even thinks she can feel the subtle vibration of someone walking across the room.
Setting the cup of tea down, she walks over to the kitchen table. Right now, this is where the strange sensation feels strongest. It's as if there's someone sitting here right now, staring up at her. She can feel his, or her, or
its
eyes drilling into her, fixing her with a persistent gaze. She can't see anyone, of course, but she swears she can sense the presence, and it's as real as anything she's ever felt before in her life. It's as if, every time she walks into a room, someone has just left, leaving behind a kind of wake in the air. She's by no means a superstitious person, and she definitely don't believe in ghosts, but this thing seems so real, and Sam can't help but keep glancing around, in case she might spot... something.
"Anyone there?" she asks tentatively. She feels really dumb for saying the words out loud, but at the same time she also feels as if she need to at least try. She's under no illusion that some spirit is going to suddenly materialize and start chatting away, but she feels she should at least acknowledge what she's feeling. It's not as if anyone else can see her; the worst that can happen is that she'll feel a little dumb.
"Hello?" she calls out again.
She stands in silence, listening to the lack of noise around her.
"I know I probably look pretty puny," she continues, "but you should know that I'm kinda tough. I can handle myself, okay, so..."
Silence.
"Huh," she mutters. "Well, if you
are
here, you'd better just keep out of my way. I don't mind sharing, but don't go making freaky noises or doing stuff in the night, okay?" She pauses for a moment, as the absurdity of her situation sinks in a little deeper. "For God's sake, Sam," she continues with a sigh, "get a grip. You're talking to yourself again."
Hearing a crunch from outside, she looks over at the door just in time to spot Mayor Winters bumbling across the grass, headed straight for the cottage. Sighing, she grabs a shirt and puts it on over her vest, before washing her hands and making sure that the place is tidy. Since the mayor is effectively her boss, she figures she needs to make a good impression whenever possible. After all, she definitely can't afford to lose this job right now. She has nowhere else to go; no friends, not much money, and no dreams. She's in limbo.
"Ms. Marker!" the mayor says as he reaches the door. He's his usual jolly self, which immediately puts Sam on edge. There's something very fake about this guy's levity, as if he's desperate to seem friendly. "It's another glorious day," he continues. "How wonderful to see the cemetery in all its splendor, as God intended. It's been many years since the place looked so good. You've put your predecessors to shame, Ms. Marker. I hope you're proud of your achievements. You're to be commended for your wonderful work, and I'm certain I speak for the whole community when I offer you my deepest, warmest thanks. In fact, I've been thinking that we might even consider putting together some kind of informal ceremony to mark our great esteem for your work."
Sam smiles awkwardly.
"Of course," he continues, "that's a subject for another day. I'm here on a rather different matter. Could you follow me for a moment? There's something I need to show you."
"Sure," Sam says, heading out the door and walking with the mayor as he makes his way slowly around the cottage. They walk in silence for a moment before they come to the large mausoleum that stands over by the beech trees. "This old thing," the mayor says, tapping the stone with the end of his cane. "Honestly, have you ever seen anything so morbid? A whole family, resting together in eternal slumber. Two parents, plus three children. One can only imagine the bond these people must have shared, to be willing to spend their deaths in such close proximity."
"Huh," Sam says, not really sure what he's trying to say. The mausoleum is certainly big, the size of a truck, and above the entrance there's a statue of Death, staring down with a grinning, bony expression, reaching out toward all visitors with a skeletal hand.
"This is the door," Mayor Winters continues, tapping the large metal gate set in the nearest side of the mausoleum. "There used to be a key, I believe, although I haven't seen it for many years. Just for show, of course. It's not as if anyone would ever need to go inside, not since the final resting spot was taken more than a century ago. The whole idea of the mausoleum is that the dead should be undisturbed, and that's just how we like it. However, we also have a duty to ensure that the place looks good, so I wanted to be sure that you'll pay particular attention to the thing." He raises the cane and taps the top corner of the mausoleum, where a strand of ivy emerges from a small hole. "Things like this. We can't be having it. There are dead people in this place, and I'm sure they went to their grave with the belief that their final resting place would be tended for with the utmost respect. I need you to remove any outgrowths and fill in all the gaps, and generally ensure that the entire structure is presentable. But whatever you do, don't go inside. I cannot stress this enough."
Sam nods.
"I want to be very clear about this," he continues. "If you should come across the key, if by some freak chance you should happen to find it, you are not to open the door. This is sacred land, and I simply will not have the dead being disturbed. Is that understood?" There's a new edge to his tone, a kind of sharpness that seems at odds with his usual ebullient personality. It's pretty clear that despite his happy-go-lucky demeanor, Mayor Winters is hiding a darker, more serious side, the extent of which only becomes apparent when his mask occasionally slips for a moment.
"Totally," Sam says, puzzled by his attitude. He seems very keen to make sure that she doesn't go inside the mausoleum, which of course has piqued her curiosity even further.
"If you find the key, you must bring it straight to me. No dawdling, no telling other people about what you've found. For safety's sake, that key must be in my possession. Okay?"
Sam nods again.
"Not that it's likely to turn up," he continues. "I'm afraid it has been lost over the years. Keys are such small things, so easy to misplace."
"We could always change the lock," Sam points out. "Get a new one put in, and then you can be certain where the key is at all times." She reaches out and runs her fingers over the large iron lock that keeps the door secured. It seems like the sturdiest thing in the world, as if it was designed to keep the gates of Hell closed.
"I don't think that'll be necessary," the mayor replies, pushing her hand away. He seems nervous and agitated, as if he's worried about something. "Just ensure that the mausoleum is adequately prepared. I know it can't be made to look spotless, but I feel it's starting to bring down the tone of the entire cemetery. I'm afraid you've done such a good job of cleaning this place up, Sam, that you've raised the standards immensely. I suppose that's why the mausoleum suddenly seems like such an eyesore. We certainly wouldn't want it to start attracting attention, would we?"
"Absolutely not," Sam replies with a smile.
"Precisely," he says, tapping her shoulder with his cane. "Once the mausoleum has been fixed up, I think we'll have a truly fine cemetery on our hands, all thanks to your hard work. The town council has been noting your work with interest, Sam, and..." He pauses to glance around, as if he's keen to make sure that they're not being overheard. "I don't want to get you too excited," he whispers, leaning closer to her, "and I really shouldn't be spilling the beans before anything has been rubber-stamped, but there's a growing and very real possibility that you might be awarded a medallion in recognition of your work."
"A medallion?"
He nods, as if this is something that should excite her.
"I've never owned a medallion before," she replies.
"Have you not?"
She shakes her head.
"You poor child."
She shrugs.
"Did you parents never -"
"Nope."
"Oh."
She shrugs again.
"Well, you heard nothing from me," he says, before clearing his throat noisily, "but you might just be getting one soon. Anyway, I must let you get on with your work. It's a fine day, and I'm sure you have plenty to be getting on with. I certainly don't intend to micro-manage your every move. Just make sure to fix the mausoleum sometime over the next few days. I'm certain that, if they were around to thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and their children would be most grateful for you attention to their final resting place. They were, by all accounts, very proud people."
"I'm sure they'll be very happy," Sam says.
"I must say," he continues. "You're a very respectful and honorable young lady. So many members of your generation have a tendency toward bad behavior. It's rather refreshing to meet a young woman such as yourself, who takes things so seriously."
"I'm just doing my job," Sam replies.
"You're doing it a lot better than most of your predecessors every managed."
Sam smiles politely. Unused to receiving compliments, she's finding lately that she blushes very easily.
"I'll come back and see how you're doing later!" the mayor calls back to her, as he turns and shuffles away. "It's a glorious afternoon! I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time!"
Reaching up, Sam grabs a piece of the ivy that has grown out from the hole in the wall. She figures that the inside of the mausoleum is probably overgrown by now, with thick foliage filling the space. She gives the piece of ivy a tug, but it seems to be fixed fast to something; she tugs it again, but this time the resistance is stronger. As soon as she lets go, the leaves slip back inside the mausoleum, almost as if someone has pulled them. A more impressionable gardener could really start to believe that things around this cemetery are a little weird, but Sam forces herself to ignore such concerns and focus instead on the practical matters at hand.
Figuring that she's going to need a proper plan of attack before she gets started on this thing, she wanders back over to the cottage. As soon as she reaches the door, she experiences the same sensation as before: it feels as if there's someone else living in the cottage with her, like a kind of unseen, unheard housemate who remains constantly just out of sight. Sam walks across the kitchen and then she turns, half expecting to find someone behind her. She turns again, and again, as if she's chasing her own tail. Finally, she forces herself to remember that this is all just in her imagination. It's natural that, living in a small cottage in the middle of a cemetery, she should start to think that maybe she's not alone. She figures she just needs to focus on more mundane matters, and that she has to make sure she doesn't get carried away. With that in mind, she fills the kettle and decides to have one more cup of tea before she goes back out to tackle the mausoleum.