Grave Girl (13 page)

Behind her, unseen, the shadows in the corner of the room seem to shift for a moment, before falling still once again.

Chapter Two

"Get away!" Father Jones shouts, running out of the church just in time to see a motorbike screech away, kicking dust up into the air. "Hooligans!" he yells after the teenagers. "May the Lord have mercy on your souls and teach you the path to righteousness!" He watches as the bike disappears around the nearest corner, leaving the sleepy little town square to settle. "Idiots," the old man mutters. "Stupid, youthful idiots."

Taking a deep breath, he pauses to let him body recover from the exertion of racing along the aisle. He can feel his heart racing, and his tired old knees are suffering from the rush. Just a few moments ago, he was carefully arranging the hymn books when he heard the tell-tale sound of a spray can being used outside. By the time he made it out of the church, the vandalism was already complete and the most disgusting image had been painted on the fine old oak doors.

"Teenagers," Father Jones says ruefully, turning to look at the crude outline of a naked woman. Painted in bright pink, it's an absolutely obscene creation, showing a figure who appears to be reclining in a highly pornographic manner. This is the third time in a month that local vandals have chosen to target the church in this way. For Father Jones, this is yet another sign that the social bonds of Rippon are starting to weaken. The local children have no respect whatsoever for the old institutions that have served the community so well. An old man, Father Jones finds it harder and harder to remain optimistic about the future of the town. As far as he's concerned, the whole place seems to be going straight to Hell.

"I know your parents," he mutters as he shuffles back into the church. "Don't think I don't know exactly who you are," he continues, although he's talking only to himself. Making his way back over to the hymn books, he finishes tidying them before going through to his office. He starts drawing a bucket of hot, soapy water, ahead of the burdensome task of washing the graffiti from the doors. He'd hoped to spend the afternoon working on his forthcoming sermons, but he simply cannot allow the church's facade to be decorated in such a disgusting manner.

After a moment, however, he hears a strange sound from the main part of the church. At first, he assumes that someone has come inside to pray, but after a few seconds he realizes that it sounds as if something is sizzling nearby. Pausing, he feels a knot of rage in his gut as it occurs to him that perhaps the teenagers have come back. After all, so few of the local citizens ever visit the church these days; the only people who come through his door are idiots and vandals. Hurrying back out of his office, he looks around and sees no sign of a visitor. Still, the sizzling sound is impossible to ignore, and it seems to be slowly moving toward the altar.

"Hello?" he calls out.

There's no reply. The sizzling sound continues until finally it seems to have reached the area around the altar, where it persists for a moment.

"I'm afraid I can't see you!" Father Jones continues. "Are you..." He walks over to the confessional box, but there's no-one inside. "Hello?" he calls out again. "I can't help you if I don't know where you are!" He waits for a reply. "If this is another prank, I'd advise you to cut it out! This is the house of the Lord, not a playground for bored delinquents! Do you hear me? You've already done enough!"

He waits, but the only disturbance is the faint sizzling sound as it continues to move toward the altar.

Scared to get too close, Father Jones makes his way cautiously between the pews until finally he gets to the central aisle. Looking down, he sees that a series of footprints have been burned into the stone floor. With a mounting sense of dread, he follows the footprints until finally he reaches the altar. The sizzling sound stops, just as Father Jones sees two large burn marks nearby, almost as if someone has been kneeling. After a moment, he realizes that there's a curious smell in the air.

Sulfur.

Overcome by fear, the old man turns and runs.

Chapter Three

"And that's another thing," Sam says as she continues to scrub the side of the mausoleum, "I don't get where everyone
is
all day. I mean, you go into town, and the streets are deserted. It's like people just spend all their time sitting around in their houses, apart from a few who head out at night and spend a couple of hours in the bar. I know Rippon isn't the biggest place in the world, but you'd think there'd be some kind of social life going on. As far as I can see, there are barely a dozen people who actually get off their asses and step outside. Doesn't that strike you as being a little strange?"

Turning, she sees Sparky the stone angel still handcuffed to the drain outside the cottage.

"You're not the greatest conversationalist in the world, are you?" Sam continues. Pausing for a moment, she contemplates the fact that she's now at the stage in her life when she's content to spend her time chatting away to a statue. Having always worried about her sanity, she briefly considers the possibility that she might have lost her mind. "Just don't start answering back," she mutters eventually. "Then we'd
really
have a problem."

Although she desperately wants to go back into the cottage and climb into bed, Sam decides to force herself to work through the nap barrier. Since she arrived in Rippon, she's begun to take great pride in working long, back-breaking days. She feels as if she has to maintain a punishing pace, or she runs the risk of breaking and going back to her old ways. The old Sam liked to sit around in bed all day and barely lift a finger, before eventually rising around dusk and heading out to get drunk with Nadia at the nearest club; the new Sam, the Sam who has been in charge since she arrived in Rippon, feels as if she has to keep pushing all the time. There's no time to rest, no time to stop and smell the flowers. She has to keep running, or her old self will catch up to her.

"I don't know what's worse," she says out loud. "Talking to you, Sparky, or keeping my mouth shut and talking to myself in my head. I guess opening and closing my mouth probably burns a few extra calories, though." Stepping back, she admires the work she's done so far. The side of the mausoleum is much cleaner now, and free of all those little pieces of dirt and grime that had accumulated over the years. "What do you think, Sparky? Did I do a good job?"

She drops her sponge into the bucket and starts walking around to the next side of the mausoleum. As she goes, however, she happens to glance up at one of the holes at the top of the wall, just as something seems to slip out and fall toward her. Instinctively, she turns away, just as something small, hard and jangly hits the side of her head and drops to the ground.

"What the fuck?" she asks, looking down. She doesn't see anything, so she tells herself it must have just been a piece of loose stonework.

"Great," she mutters, soaking the sponge before starting work again. "I guess this is how I'll die. Brained by a bit of falling masonry." Glancing over at the ground, she spots something glinting in the sunlight; she steps over and sees that it's a key. Once she's picked it up, she realizes that it's more than just
a
key; it's an old key, big and rusty like something out of a horror movie. Turning it over in her hand, she glances back up at the hole in the top of the mausoleum. How, she wonders, did a key manage to come shooting out of that thing and hit her on the head?

"This is too perfect," she says, walking around to the big metal door at the other end of the mausoleum. Before slipping the key into the lock, she pauses for a moment. It would be one thing for the mausoleum to randomly eject any old key, but if this turns out to be the missing key to the door, she might have to rethink her opinions on coincidences and spiritual intervention. Taking a deep breath, she slips the key into the lock, turns it, and feels the bolt slide away.

"Great," she mutters. "Of
course
it turned out that this was the missing key. In this crazy-ass place, how could it
not
be the key?"

She glances over her shoulder, to make doubly sure that she's alone.

"What do you think, Sparky?" she asks, staring at the now-unlocked door. "To go in, or not to go in? That's the question." She thinks back to Mayor Winters' agitated insistence that she should, under no circumstances, go through the door, even in the unlikely event that she got it open. He was most definite on that subject; at the same time, she feels as if the key's serendipitous arrival must mean something, and that it wouldn't hurt to at least open the door and peer inside, even if she doesn't actually enter. "Keep this between us, Sparky, okay?" she says quietly, before grabbing hold of the heavy door with both hands and forcing it open. It's not an easy job, and the hinges creak like mad, but eventually she manages to get it open just a couple of feet.

"I'm going in," she says out loud, affecting the tone of voice of a soldier who's about to embark upon a deadly mission, before grabbing a torch from her work-belt and shining a beam into the mausoleum's dark interior. The light picks out nothing but bare walls at first, although eventually she spots what appears to be a long stone box pushed to one side. Leaning a little further in, she's surprised by the dank, cold air, and by the huge mass of ivy that has grown all over the place. She steps forward, keen to see the rest of the place, even if she knows deep down that she's already come way too far.

"Hey," she says, her voice sounding so small in the empty stone space. "I'm the new gardener," she continues. "Just thought I'd introduce myself." She takes another step forward, and now she's fully inside the mausoleum. She keeps one hand back, resting on the inside of the door; it's not like it's light enough to blow shut, but she still feels better if she can make sure there won't be an accidental entombment. Reaching up, she pulls at some of the ivy, shining the torch along its thick branches until she sees that one strand, at least, seems to have grown straight through the side of the stone coffin. "Nice," she mutters, turning and shining the torch over to the other side, where she sees another coffin. "Mr. and Mrs. Petersen, I presume," she says, before realizing that there should be three more coffins. After all, the Petersens are buried in here with their children, but the beam from the torch shows nothing but bare stonework in the rest of the mausoleum.

Stepping back outside for a moment, she hurries over to the side of the cottage and grabs her biggest scythe. She figures she might as well rip out some of the ivy while she's got the chance; it's not as if anyone's going to know, and it'll make her life a lot easier. When she gets back over to the mausoleum, she reaches inside with the scythe and starts hacking away, pulling as much out as possible. After a few minutes, she's got a fair way through the mass of foliage, but she quickly finds that one of the branches is refusing to budge. Stepping back inside the mausoleum, she follows the root down to the hole in the side of one of the coffins; when she gives it a tug, she feels as if the root is stuck in the coffin itself, which means that every time she gives it a pull, she's probably nudging the dead body, almost as if she's trying to wake it up.

"Sorry," she mutters, as she pulls again, but the ivy just won't budge. "Fine," she adds, figuring that she doesn't have to get every last piece of greenery. Shining the torch over to the other side of the interior, she spots more ivy. She steps forward, ready to pull it down, when she suddenly becomes aware of a noise outside. She looks over at the door, and for a fraction of a second she swears she sees a hunched figure hurrying out of the mausoleum. Before she can react, however, the door swings shut with an ominous thud.

"Hey!" she shouts, but it's too late and there's a creaking sound as the key is turned in the lock. Dropping the scythe and torch, she stumbles past the remaining ivy and starts banging on the inside of the door. "I'm in here!" she calls to whoever's on the other side. Pushing against the door, she realizes that there's no way of opening it from the inside. She tries not to panic as she pushes some more, but it won't budge. "Open this damn thing!" she shouts as loud as she can, worried that maybe she can't be heard properly. "Let me out!"

She waits.

Nothing.

With a heavy heart, it occurs to her that maybe she's been pranked by some of the local kids. "Damn it," she mutters, "how could I have been so fucking stupid?" Figuring that some local teenagers probably saw her coming into the mausoleum and thought it'd be
hilarious
to shut the door, she sighs as she realizes she might be in for a long wait. She knows they're not going to leave her inside forever, but she still finds the whole situation to be extremely creepy, and she's keen to get out before the mayor turns up and discovers her predicament.

"Great," she says, kicking the door. "Fucking great."

Turning, she sees the torch on the floor, its beam still shining bright. Picking her way carefully through the ivy, she reaches down and grabs the torch, which is now wet and grimy thanks to the dirty floor. In fact, thanks to the small holes in the roof, the inside of the mausoleum is generally pretty weather-beaten, with a puddle of cold rain-water having collected over by one of the corners. Frankly, Sam can't help feeling that if she was designing a final resting place for her family and herself, she'd want somewhere a little more swanky. The Egyptians built huge pyramids, whereas moneyed Yorkshiremen of the early twentieth century were apparently happy to accept a cold, barren stone vault.

Shining the torch over at one of the coffins, she reminds herself that there's absolutely no reason to be scared in here. There's no such thing as ghosts, and these bodies are almost a century old, so she doubts there's much to be worried about in terms of maggots or disease. The only danger in the mausoleum comes, she decides, from her own imagination, and she resolves to make sure that she doesn't get to the point where she's magnifying every noise in her mind. Mayor Winters said he'd be back later, so the worst-case scenario is that she'll have to sit around, bored stiff for a few hours, and then sheepishly apologize for having come into the mausoleum when she should have stayed out.

Figuring she might as well keep exploring the mausoleum, she turns and shines the torch toward the far wall. It still strikes her as slightly strange that while there are a couple of stone coffins for the parents, the three children don't seem to be anywhere around. She read the inscription over and over again while she was outside, and it definitely said that the family's three children, who all died young, were buried in here as well. She looks down, but there don't seem to be any slabs on the floor. Feeling a drip on the back of her neck, she realizes that her attempts to turn this lock-in into some kind of mystery are probably doomed to failure. If the children aren't in the mausoleum, it's because of some mundane, long-forgotten decision. Another drip lands on the back of her neck, and she absent-mindedly wipes it away as she walks back to the door and gives it another push.

No luck.

Another drip falls onto her. This time, a little frustrated, she wipes it away before shining the torch up.

And that's when she sees them.

Suspended in mid-air, a few inches above Sam's head, there are three child-shaped bundles, like Egyptian mummies wrapped in cloth, hanging from a series of ropes. They have strange fan-like objects, almost like wings, attached to their backs, and their faces are marked by thick, dark red patches of blood that have soaked through from their eyes and mouths.