4: She Should Be Decaying And Eaten By Bugs

ASHTON

I stand in the doorway of the backdoor. I watch the trees bend and sway in the wind that whips at their branches. I listen to the rain pelt the ground so hard that little holes are drilled into the soil by the fierce drops. “I wish I had an umbrella.” I groan to myself as I step out into the open.

By the time I reach the path that’s in the treeline leading to the cemetary I’m soaking wet. Cracks of lightning force me to a halt, rumbles of thunder drown out the deafening drumming of my panicking pulse.

It takes longer than it should to get there. I want to believe that it’s the weather, the creaking trees, falling branches, severed by lightning, but truthfully...it’s my own legs. They keep locking up as if trying to stop me from continuing. Is it weird that my knees are smarter than my brain?

I almost collapse as I reach the first makeshift headstone. No turning back now.  It’s been a while since I’ve been here. I’m not even sure how many rows there are anymore. All I know is that Number 6’s grave will be in one of the last rows. Rows upon rows of graves.

The night sky isn’t so dark as I walk down the not so beaten path. Almost on hands and knees I examine the little wooden crosses at the head of each grave for the number etched into the wood. My clothes are uncomfortably stuck to me, my hair matted to my face.

After four graves I come across the number 6. Tabitha. The shadowy figure is nowhere to be seen, but then again...she could be right next to me and I just can’t make her out from the rain streaming down my face, running into my eyes.

With one deep breath I drop onto my knees and start to claw at the dirt. Several times I pause, grossed out or it’s common sense taking over my limbs, but I push through and dig.

Dig. Dig. Dig.

Dirt clumping up under my nails, worms wiggling through my fingers. The rain streams off the tip of my nose. There’s a few times my hands mindlessly wander up to my face to clear the trail of water blocking my nostrils. Streaks of mud are left behind.

I come to a dead stop when I touch something solid. As I brush dirt away the knob of a knuckle peers out like an encrusted gem. Just like I thought, the body isn’t too far down. A shallow grave. Apparently there aren't any wild wolves lurking because they could easily have dinner on us. 

Cautiously, I push dirt away from where I expect her face to be. My stomach is tossing. I could vomit at any second. Tabitha has been dead for three years. Three years without being buried in a coffin. I can only imagine how the body looks. I bite my tongue keeping my potential gag from exiting my mouth.

The collar of the dress she died in peeks out first, then her neck, then the tip of her nose and the hairline. With each swipe a sliver of skin is revealed. My excavation suddenly becomes frantic. I stare down at Tabitha, specks of dirt on her cheeks, half of her body still buried.

She looks like she’s sleeping, which is impossible. She should be decaying and eaten by bugs. Not have a head full of hair and perfect creamy skin.

“What the hell.” I whisper to myself as a loud crack sounds behind me jolting me around. “Seraphina?” I call out. There’s no way of knowing if she’s truly here. I’m frozen from the inside out from the rain and wind, from my own fear freezing the blood in my veins.

“A little help would be nice.” I call out into the dark. Seconds later the sound of more wood snapping straightens me up. Still on my knees, crouched over the grave, I pear down to look at the preserved corpse of Tabitha to notice that her marker, the wooden cross, is now broken in half.

Maybe I should’ve bought Addison with me. She would at least be able to decipher Seraphina’s clues. I can’t help but to feel the pressure of being found out. The look of hatred on Winston’s face as she expresses how pissed she is with me. I’ll no doubt be locked up for a really long time. Double locks maybe. Triple locks, who knows.

I huff in annoyance, “How is that supposed to help me with what to do next?” My hands slap at my wet thighs.

As I’m peering into the darkness. I see it. A shadow slightly darker than the angry gray sky. The rain falling onto it, creating a blurry outline as if it were an actual person that happens to be invisible. It stands one grave away, but in the blink of an eye it rushes at me, plowing into me. I can feel the force of it, like slamming into a brick wall. I barely remain on my knees, but that’s it, nothing else happens. She doesn’t absorb into me or enter my body like she did with Phoebe.

“That kind of stuff really doesn’t work on me.” I don’t mean to taunt her but I do. “I’m kinda immune to dark...creepy things such as yourself. Tabitha.”

I can feel the static in the air. Please don’t let me get struck by lightning, I say to myself. But this is worse, much worse. The shadow becomes more tangible, solid as it hovers next to her corpse and then her corpse’s arm moves, like really moves.

It pushes the rest of the way out of the dirt to latch onto my arm pulling me closer. Inches away from her face, her open, milky hollow eyes. I thrash out of her grasp, but she’s strong, the shadow now feet to feet with her, one with her.

Tabitha is the shadow and the shadow is giving Tabitha’s body strength. Shit.

The corpse’s strong fleshy hands wrap around my neck. A hoarse throaty plea escapes my mouth. “Seraphina.” I cry, “a little help.”

But she doesn’t come. She doesn’t help. I stare down at my death. Killed by a dead person. How ironic. Then my eyes land on the snapped off cross, it’s jagged pointy edge. Seraphina did this for a reason. This is her helping me help myself.

My numb fingers can barely grasp the wood let alone jam it into Tabitha’s chest, but her body isn’t as undead as it appears. The wood easily stabs into her heart, her ribcage immediately crumbling to dust from the puncture, my hand sinks into her rotting body. Her skin starts to eat itself away and her bones start to shrivel, fingers snap off as I pry her hands off my neck.

Sitting in the mud, rain still coming down in heavy sheets, panting for breath, I search for the shadow, but it’s nowhere to be seen. I can only hope she’s gone and never coming back.

I recover the grave as best as I can. There’s no denying that a few bones or flakes of skin won’t be mixed in or peeking through. All I can hope is that Winston doesn’t visit or let any of the other girls visit either.

Unlike getting out here, I nearly run back to the manor. The universe wordlessly punishing me for what I did. My hysteria on full alert and my mind wandering to crazy things. Like the universe is really punishing me.

But as I quietly shut the back door, a small gruff clearing of a throat sounds behind me, I know true punishment is to come.

“Ashton.” Her cold, calculated voice sends a chill through me.

“I was just…”

“Just what? Taking a walk through the woods in a storm?”

“I was doing something for Seraphina.” I spit out.

“Back to your room before I decide to punish you.” She crosses her arms over her chest glaring at me, waiting for me to retreat.

And I retreat, quickly. What time is it? Two...three in the morning? Her pajamas are as professional and cold as her day clothes.

As I creep back into my room I debate about telling Addison what happened, but I’m sure Seraphina told her or maybe she’s sleeping. Either way, I decide to leave her alone.

The satisfaction I feel as I peel off my soggy, wet clothes is almost thrilling. I hadn’t realized how uncomfortable it was to be wearing soaking wet clothes until finally taking them off. There’s a sloppy squelch as I toss them into a pile on the floor, neglecting them for a later day.

My hair is still wet and my skin is still damp, but I snuggle into the not-so-plush, but seems really plush at the moment, blanket, I don’t care how crazy my hair’s gonna look in the morning or how the still wet dirt on my face will no doubt stain the sheets.

I try to sleep off another job survived, but all it does is bring back unwanted memories. For the first time in a long time, my own nightmares plaque me.

“He’s paying double Ash.” My mother stands in the doorway of my closet-sized room. Her hands on her hips, her hair is a mess and dark circles encompass her eyes.

My defiance comes out full force. “Because he wants to summon a demon. I thought we were done summoning. It’s too dangerous.” Bodies were piling up too quickly. The townspeople ridicule us and The Order is bound to catch on.

“You will do as you’re told.”

“Dad would never have allowed this?” I know bringing him up is asking for a beating, but I don’t care. I still have unhealed slashes from other blood lettings.

I watch her lips press together as she debates what to do. Sometimes she uses her words. Sometimes she uses her fists. “You will not bring your father into this again. He’s gone. Left me with you. Now you. Will do. As. You’re. Told.” She opens the door, eyes locked onto me. “Now.”

Reluctantly, I obey orders, because that’s what my life has succumbed to. Being a slave. It doesn’t take long to get the kitchen seeing as our two bedroom house is the size of a cheap New York apartment.

My mother stands at the round dining table where a man sits and waits. She jerks her head, ushering me forward. Silently ordering me to take the seat across from him.

There’s no denying the jitter in my hands, the weakness in my legs. Dropping onto the torn seat cushion is like accepting my final breath.

The man looks at me with embarrassed red flushed cheeks. It’s like he knows he shouldn’t be here, but he is. His hair is starting to gray, his stomach a little rounder than his shirt is fit for. “His name is Draven.” He mutters out.

“He has a name?” I blurt out. “And what exactly do you want with Draven?”

My mother interrupts me, “we don’t ask questions, Ashton. We do what is asked of us. You are to draw him forth and Mr. Newbury will claim ownership.”

“Where he will be granted three wishes.” I joke, but neither of them find it funny. “O-kay.” I pick up the kitchen knife and hand it to Mr. Newbury. “Blood binds thee.”

It all is a little blurry. The ingredients, the words of the spell. My mother had everything all laid out, words of summoning memorized.

I slide my sleeve up my arm, revealing several red cuts. Some are scabbed. Some are still bleeding, but I take the knife and bring it down on a patch of untouched skin. I don’t even flinch at the sting as the blade drags across my flesh. Emotionless, I watch droplets of my blood mix together with the other ingredients and Mr. Newbury’s blood. “And my blood summons thee.”

My sleeping body is unaware of the tears that run down my face, mixing together with the drying dirt. That summoning started a torment none of us were prepared for.