Shallow Graves (6 page)

The priest stared at the girl in shock. “You're not—”

The girl screamed again, and that time her shout stretched out into a wail, rising louder and louder until it drowned out whatever the priest was saying. His face grew redder, his eyes wider. He touched his hand to his ear, stared at a spot of blood on his finger. He pressed his hand to his chest again.

“What's wrong with him?” Tatiana said. We were all watching the video now, our conversations and wrapping paper planes forgotten.

The girl screamed one more time, and the priest collapsed.

The woman shouted, “Father! Are you okay?” She and the man jostled around the bed and knelt beside the priest. The man said, “Go call 911,” and the woman sprang to her feet. She knocked the
camera askew as she went by, so that it was pointed at an empty corner of the room, but we could hear the little girl saying, “Is Father Matt okay, Daddy? Is he okay?”

The screen went dark, and white words appeared:
Father Matthew was dead before the paramedics arrived. Officials refused to investigate.

The video ended. There was no
Coming Soon
, no title, no studio name, no credits.

“That's it?” Courtney said. “I can't believe you made us watch that, Di. This is so dumb. It's not even scary.”

“Did your pastor get that off YouTube?” Julie asked. “That was so stupid. Let's watch a real movie now.”

Diane clicked the DVD carefully into its case. “You shouldn't joke about it. A man died
.
”

“Not for real,” Maria said.

“Put on whatever you want,” Diane said. “I don't care.”

She vanished downstairs for a long time. We were most of the way through
Carrie
, the original version with crazy Sissy Spacek, all the way to the start of the prom, before Diane came back to her own birthday party. None of us mentioned the video she had made us watch. We were afraid to find out just how seriously she took it.

Tatiana found the video online a few days later. It had about a million hits. It was widely acknowledged to be a hoax, but there were still dozens of comments asking if anybody knew if the priest had really died, or if the little girl had ever gotten rid of her demons.

I didn't get an invitation to Diane's birthday party the next year,
and the last time it would have been possible I was dead and buried. I wondered if Diane even cared that I was gone, or if years of routine childhood friendship meant nothing in comparison to the triumph she must have felt given the general agreement that I had gotten what I deserved.

VIOLET SHOWED ME
to a bathroom on the second floor. I took my time in the shower, lingering until the water was lukewarm. It had been far too long since I last felt clean. When I was done I toweled my hair dry and dressed in Violet's clothes. The flower-print dress was too big, but the scratchy collar was high enough to hide the bruises around my neck.

I sat down on the closed toilet seat and took my notebook from the backpack. I held the pen over the page for a minute or two, but I couldn't decide if I needed to add demonic possession to the Real list yet. I didn't know what I had seen on the video at Diane's house. I was less willing to dismiss the possibility that it was real now, but
I tucked my pen and notebook away without writing anything. I needed more information.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Violet was nowhere to be seen. I poked my head into the only open room on the hallway. A middle-aged woman sat by the window, knitting a pink baby blanket.

“Hi,” I said.

The woman didn't react. Her wooden needles flashed with astonishing speed. She wasn't watching her hands as she worked; she was staring out the window with wide, unblinking eyes.

“That's really pretty,” I said. “I like the color.”

The woman gave no sign she knew or cared that a stranger was standing outside her room. I watched her for a minute or two, waiting for her to notice me, but she never did.

The stairs creaked as Violet returned. She smiled and said, “You look better.”

“I feel better. Thanks.”

I glanced at the knitting woman, looked to Violet for an introduction, but Violet only said, “It will be a little while before lunch is ready. Would you like me to show you around first?”

“Sure. That would be great.”

I didn't care about the tour and I didn't care about lunch, but I was curious about Violet. I wanted to know how the screaming little girl in Diane's video had ended up at a church in Nebraska.

I remembered that I was supposed to be stranded, so I added, “I do want to go online and check the bus schedule, if I can. I don't even know where the nearest station is.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” Violet said. “We'll get you where you need to be.”

Esme was no longer alone when we went back downstairs. Two men had come in while I was in the shower. One was young and dark-haired and unsmiling. Violet introduced him as Esme's brother, Lyle. He had pulled a chair close to Esme's side. He plucked the towel from her collar and smoothed the blanket, tucked it around her legs, his motions hesitant and awkward; he wasn't used to taking care of her. He glanced up when Violet and I stopped in the doorway. Esme made a sound in her throat. Lyle answered with a soft
shh-shh
murmur.

“And this is Pastor Edward Willow,” Violet said.

Pastor Willow wasn't what I expected. Part of me had expected him to be the exorcist in Diane's video, and part of me was looking for somebody gawky and young, like the boy in the photo. But he was middle-aged and clean-cut, his blond hair lightly mussed, his smile warm and welcoming. He wasn't as broad as his father in the picture, but he wasn't skinny anymore either. There was a mist of rain on his hair and a shadow clinging to him that only I could feel. He was a killer.

I smiled and shook Mr. Willow's hand. I didn't let myself grimace when I felt the darkness coiled and quivering inside him. His shadow was small, so feeble it seemed to vanish the moment I noticed it.

“Welcome to our home, Katie,” said Mr. Willow. He clasped my hand with both of his and looked me in the eye. “I'm so glad you found your way to us.”

“I really appreciate the help,” I said. “I feel stupid for getting stuck like this.”

I gave him an abbreviated version of my made-up story: flaky roommate, missed ride, traveling parents. I had repeated versions of the story so many times it was taking on a life of its own. This time I told them my roommate had run off with a girlfriend, not a boyfriend, just to see how they would react. I was a little disappointed when Mr. Willow didn't even bat an eye.

“We'll get you where you're going,” Mr. Willow said, exactly as Violet had said only five minutes before. “How did you find us?”

“Danny,” I said, “not Daniel. I met him in Omaha. He told me if I needed a place to crash, I could come here.”

A quick glance passed between Violet and Lyle, but Mr. Willow wasn't looking at them. He grinned and said, “You were lucky to run into him. Danny's always felt very strongly about paying forward the kindness shown to him by sharing it with others. Is lunch ready yet, Violet?”

“Not yet. Maybe half an hour, if that's okay? I thought I'd show Katie around first.”

“That's just fine,” said Mr. Willow. He touched Violet's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You know how we appreciate everything you do for us.”

Violet ducked her head and stepped back, her cheeks pink. I glanced away. I wasn't the only one averting my eyes; Lyle was staring fixedly at the floor. He only looked up when Esme made a small, animal sound in her throat. She lifted her head and turned slowly, so very slowly, to look at me.

Lyle took her hand and held it. To me he said, “You're upsetting her.”

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

“She doesn't like strangers,” Lyle said.

“Esme is closer to angels than most of us ever will be,” said Mr. Willow.

It sounded like a non sequitur, but his voice glowed with so much fondness, so much pride, it was like a father praising his daughter for an unexpected accomplishment. If it weren't for his shadow cowering and quivering, tucked away like a rodent in a burrow, I would have sunk into the warmth of it.

Mr. Willow's tone was familiar, almost conspiratorial, when he turned to me and said, “It is her gift and her curse, because it means she's closer to demons as well.”

I blinked.

“We're so glad you've found your way to us, Katie,” he went on. “Even if only for a little while. Go on with Violet and have a look around. The sun is coming out.”

He knew.

I didn't know how. I had no idea what he saw when he looked at me.

I had to look away first.

He
knew
.

It was impossible. Nobody knew what I was. I had hitchhiked halfway across the country without anybody noticing. I was being paranoid. Paranoid and stupid and irrational.

I might have convinced myself of it too, if I hadn't seen what
Mr. Willow couldn't see.

Behind him, behind his open expression and relaxed posture, his kind smile and kind eyes, Lyle was clutching Esme's hand so hard their joint grip was trembling, and his face was pinched with rage. Esme's lips worked but no sound came out. A shiny line of drool gathered at the corner of her mouth. Her upper lip pulled back in a snarl, revealing white teeth in red gums.

Violet touched my arm. “Come on, Katie.”

At once Lyle's expression cleared, the anger replaced by a mild mask. He wiped his sister's mouth and patted her knee.

“I'll show you the church,” Violet said. “How does that sound?”

I tried to smile. “That sounds great.”

THE RAIN HAD
stopped and the sun was shining through the clouds in bright rays. The prairie smelled fresh, clean, not a hint of a manure or fertilizer. Violet skipped between the driveway puddles, stopped after a few feet, looked at me, and laughed. “I'm sorry. I'm just tired of being stuck inside. It's hard to get used to being all the way out here, where it's so quiet.”

“Have you been here long?” My voice was steady, but my throat was tight. I didn't let myself look back to see if Mr. Willow was watching.

“Not long. We used to have a church in Colorado,” Violet said. “In Boulder. That's where the congregation started. But it was . . .
It's a little remote here, but it's better. I like it.”

On the playground the kids had moved from the swings to the merry-go-round, and the woman's umbrella was folded up and tucked under her arm. Beyond the playground, the old man in the brown hat was still standing by the church graveyard. He hadn't moved at all.

The woman turned toward us as though she was going to say something, but her gaze flicked over me and she spun away.

“That's Gail,” Violet said. If the woman heard, she gave no sign. “She's still getting used to it.”

“Getting used to what?”

“To who she is now,” Violet said. “It can be hard to give up something that's hurting you, even if you know how much harm it's causing. Mr. Willow is letting her stay here for a while, until she's feeling better. The children help, I think. She likes watching them.”

Drugs, I thought. She was talking about drugs. The coded language, the damaged people with blank stares, all the unsmiling photographs in the hallway. This was a halfway house for addicts. That's what Danny had seen when he looked at me, unwashed and bedraggled and alone in my ill-fitting clothes, stranded at a truck stop between nowhere and nowhere. He had looked at me and thought, hey, there's a girl who needs to break a really bad habit. That's what Mr. Willow and Violet thought I was.

The merry-go-round creaked as the kids pushed it around. They were a boy and a girl, about the same age, maybe twins. They weren't talking or laughing or making any noise at all. There was only the faint squeak of the merry-go-round.

“Where are their parents?” I asked.

“Their mother isn't ready to give up everything she's holding on to,” Violet said. “She's a danger to them, for now. They're better off with us.”

When I glanced back, I saw Gail's face in profile: sharp, almost birdlike, the briefest flash of teeth when she hissed at the children, hidden again when she fell silent.

“How long have you been with the congregation?” I asked.

“Long enough that it feels like I never belonged anywhere else,” Violet said. “Here we are.”

She climbed the steps of the church and reached for the wide wooden doors. I was right behind her, but I stopped as soon as the doors were open.

There was no movement in the air, no change in pressure, but I felt something flowing out of that church like breath from a gaping mouth, so sudden and so strong I backed down one step and caught the railing for balance.

“Katie? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said between gritted teeth.

Still holding the railing, I started up the stairs again. Goose bumps rose on my skin and I grew nauseated with the effort.

“It's okay,” Violet said. There was a mournful edge of disappointment in her voice. “You only have to come as far as you can.”

If I had been paying attention, I would have realized what a strange thing that was to say.

But all I could think was: I shouldn't be here.

I was as certain of that as I was of all the other new truths in my
world. I had been dead and now I wasn't. My heart could stop and it wouldn't hurt me. I didn't need food or drink or sleep anymore. Murderers dragged shadows of guilt behind them for the rest of their lives.

I could kill with a touch.

I shouldn't be here.

“It's okay,” Violet said again.

I was breathing heavily when I reached the top of the steps. Six broad church steps and I felt like I had sprinted up a hill.

“Can you come inside?”

My throat was raw. “I'd rather stay out here.”

“I think you should come inside. This is our way of being sure.”

Violet reached for my hand.

We stood side by side, backs to the road and the endless prairie, looking at those open church doors. There was a smear of reddish-brown paint across the threshold, stretching from one side to the other.

When Violet stepped over the threshold, I did too, suppressing the quiver of nausea that rolled through me. There were boxes and chairs stacked inside; the vestibule was being used for storage. Sunlight slanted through high stained-glass windows, illuminating a room cluttered with old furniture and crooked pews. Nobody had held services in that church in a long time.

“I know it's frightening,” Violet said. “You have a darkness in you.”

A darkness. I almost laughed, but I couldn't make a sound. The darkness wasn't inside me. No priest standing over my childhood
bed could call out demons while my parents watched in fear and hope. There was no voice whispering in my mind, no being controlling my body.

“It's like a cancer,” Violet said. “It's inside you, this terrible thing. Maybe it feels like it's part of you, but it isn't. It isn't, Katie. That's the lie it's telling you. You won't be free until you cut it out. Whatever you are, we can help you.”

“I don't need help.” My voice was hoarse. “I'm not—”

I had seen beneath my own skin. I had opened wounds in my own guts. I knew what was there. Inside of me was flesh and blood and bile and bone, same as it had always been. The darkness was all around, in the endless sky, in the crumbling soil of an empty grave, in the grasping shadows that clung to people who had done terrible things.

“I'm not
possessed.
” I spat out the word, but if I expected it to hit Violet like a blow, I was disappointed. “I don't have a demon inside of me.”

“I know you don't,” she said. “That's only an easy way to think of it, for people who are too scared to understand. But you don't have to be scared. Just because you've always been this way doesn't mean you have to stay like this. Let us help you, Katie.”

I thought: but I haven't always been this way.

And I thought: that isn't me.

But what I said was: “How? What can you do?”

Violet was quiet for a long time. Clouds drifted over the sun. The inside of the church dimmed, darkened, brightened again.

“We all used to be like you,” she said.

I felt a spark of wild hope. “You?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly like me?” The painful shrieks, the bloody ears. I couldn't do that. Whatever Violet was—or had been—it wasn't the same.

“Oh, no. Not exactly. There are so many different kinds of darkness.”

“But you—” I swallowed. There was a sharp, sour taste at the back of my throat. “But you're not anymore? You're not . . . what you were?”

“Mr. Willow helped me,” Violet said. “I'm not anything but ordinary now.”

I had a dozen more questions, a hundred, clamoring and clashing in my mind. What Violet was telling me, if it was true, was fantastic. It was incredible. There were other things like me in the world. I hadn't dared imagine it might be possible, but that's what she was saying. Ever since I had woken up I had assumed that dying was like walking through a one-way door. I had come out the other side as something else, something inhuman and different, and most of all alone.

It hadn't occurred to me there might be others.

I hadn't thought I might go back.

Violet was still holding my hand, so tight I felt my bones grind. Her palm was damp. There were tears in her eyes.

If it was true.

“That's what he's done for all of you?” I said.

“That's what we do. We can help you too.”

“What about Esme?” Silent Esme, growling Esme with the towel tucked into her shirt. Had they done that to her? Was that their idea of help? “Did Mr. Willow help her too?”

Violet didn't answer.

“And that woman upstairs? Those kids out there? What did you do to them? What kind of help? You have to tell me
something.
Violet. Please.”

“Mr. Willow helps them,” Violet said.

“How? What does he do?”

“He doesn't do it himself. He's not alone. None of us are alone. He takes them—us—to a friend. A very special friend. Not here,” she added, when I glanced around the church. “She stays somewhere else, where she can be safe. Whatever we are when we go to her, we come back better.”

“Mr. Willow? He used to—”

“Oh, no, no, not him. He's human. He only wants to help.”

“What about Esme? What did she used to be?”

“She was—” Her voice caught, choked with an emotion I couldn't identify. “Dangerous.”

I thought of all the photographs in the house, the vacant expressions, the empty eyes. Decades of photographs. Dozens of people, if they were even people anymore inside those blank shells. Charming Mr. Willow was human. Helpless drooling Esme was dangerous. I was cancer and darkness. None of us were special or alone. That's what Violet was telling me.

I remembered, suddenly, with a painful shiver, the day my father took me to an empty parking lot to teach me to drive, to
change a tire and check the oil, and how he had laughed when I drove over the curb trying to parallel park, and laughed again when I hit my own nose with the jack handle. He had reached over to muss up my hair—I had squirmed and protested, “Dad, don't!”—and he had said, “It's all right, Breezy, at least we know you'll always have your brains.” He couldn't have known how right he was. I might be dead, I might be walking around with a heart that didn't have to pump and a touch that could kill, but I was still
me
, and I didn't like the picture Violet was drawing.

I couldn't know how many of Mr. Willow's people were like Violet, functional and sensible, and how many were like Esme or the silent children on the playground. I wanted to believe it was possible. I wanted to believe Violet was proof of that. But what would it matter, to have flowing blood and sucking breath again, if it turned my mind to mush? What would it matter, to discover I wasn't alone, if all I could do with that knowledge was watch silent children drift listlessly on rusty swings? I didn't trust those odds.

“The only help I need,” I said, speaking slowly, “is a ride to the bus station.”

I expected her to argue, but Violet only squeezed my hand. “If you're sure.”

“I am.”

She lifted her free hand to my face, and I flinched. She touched my jaw and leaned close to whisper, “You have to run.”

I looked at her in surprise. “But—”

“You have to run. You can't go back to the house.”

“My stuff,” I began.

“Forget it. You can't go back. He won't let you leave.” She released my hand to take my elbow, turned me around to face the church doors again. “You have to go now.”

But when we emerged from the church, Mr. Willow was waiting.

“I was wondering where you went,” he said. He smiled up at us, so warm, so convincing. His combed hair had been teased out of place by the wind. “It's time to come in and talk about your plans, Katie.”

“We'll be right in,” Violet said.

Willow's hands were tucked into his pockets. He looked up at the sky, squinting in the patchy sunlight. “It's turning into a beautiful day, isn't it? There'll be plenty of time to talk after lunch.”

Violet let go of my elbow. “In a minute, Edward. We're looking at the church.”

Mr. Willow looked at me, and at once I saw what I hadn't seen before, the subtle shift in expression that before had made me think he knew more than he was saying.

He was afraid of me.

Nobody had ever been afraid of me before.

“Come in now,” he said, and his smile was gone.

If I gave him a chance, he would take that away.

Violet said, “Katie.”

I jumped down the church steps in two bounds. I stumbled at the bottom, recovered, and I ran.