Bury Them Deep Read online

  Maddie’s mother had taken two steps back, still clutching her daughter. “She’s mine, Frank. Leave us…”

  She hadn’t had time to say anything else. The man had roared, and Maddie had screamed, terrified, and then he was on them. He’d hit Mummy, and Maddie had sobbed as she felt her mother stagger backwards; then his hand was in his pocket and when he brought it back out he was holding something shiny, waving his arm in arcs from side to side as he tried to get closer.

  Maddie had screamed just once more, when her arm lit up as if on fire when he swept his arm left to right, and the shiny thing in his hand had opened up her forearm from wrist to elbow. Blood welled out of the cut, and Maddie’s eyes went wide at the sight of so much of it. It was dark, and it was hot, and it was pouring out of her arm and spraying the ground, the man holding something that was less shiny now (a knife, it was a knife, her mind whispers; and as she touches the scar she knows damn well that it was a knife), something that was red now, and wet, and looked somehow hungry.

  Then her mother was running, running, as fast as she could manage with her shocked daughter in her arms, desperate to get away from this man, get help.

  Maddie didn’t remember much after that; she remembered shouting, and the man was gone, and then bright lights and a nurse cleaning her arm. Maddie had vomited while the lady did that; the sight of all that blood turning her stomach and making it roll. There had been stitches, lots of them, but the only thing Maddie remembered about that was her mother holding her tight, her voice very small as she whispered words of comfort, and the desperate need to go to sleep, to forget, to be home and safe with her mother.

  “Frank.”

  What?

  Maddie turned to face the skull sat on the table, her expression serious. “I remember now. When he cut my arm, you called him Frank.”

  Did I?

  Now her mother was being evasive; Maddie could feel her tension, the air in the room felt thick with it. How hadn’t she remembered this until now?

  “Do you know him, Mum? I always thought he was some random crazy; you know, a stalker, obsessed with you.”

  Silence.

  “But he isn’t, is he. Not entirely. You know him.”

  Silence.

  “Mum, I need to know. Please. I’ve spent my life running away, I’ve lost you… I need to know why.”

  The air felt heavy now, Maddie could feel her mother’s sadness overshadowing everything, and she sank back onto the bed in a daze as the room started to fade, and – finally – her mother let her see.

  Maddie was in a disco – lights were flashing, music was pounding – and there was her mother, laughing. She was laughing, dancing and giggling with a group of friends. That wasn’t something Maddie had seen often in her life, even when happy she’d always had a watchful look, a wistfulness that never went away. Now she looked carefree, as she should always have looked, and she was beautiful.

  Now a slow song started to play, and people started to drift off to the sides of the dance floor, Maddie’s mother included, still talking to her friends. As she reached a table beside the dance floor, someone took her hand, and Maddie watched as her mother turned to see who it was, smiling up at a tall, thin young man with dark hair and a serious expression. He murmured something and she nodded, and then he led her on to the dance floor, wrapped her in his arms and they started to sway. Her head was on his shoulder, his arm around her waist – this wasn’t the first time they’d met, Maddie could see that. Maddie turned to the table her mother had been about to sit at, and saw two other girls, one dark-haired, one a redhead who looked like a smile was her natural expression – but she wasn’t smiling now. Both of them were frowning, watching Maddie’s mother dance. She got the impression they didn’t approve of this boy; not really a man, not quite yet, she saw.

  The song ended and Maddie’s mother led her partner back to the table; her friends managed to smile at him stiffly before making their excuses and heading for the Ladies. Now he leant in, kissed her neck, and wrapped his arms around her waist before kissing her properly. The lights came up, signifying the club was closing, and Maddie’s mother eased him away, smiled and said her goodbyes, went to find her friends.

  He watched her go, and there was something in that look, something not quite right. Maddie realised she’d been holding her breath (can you do that in a dream, she wondered?), and let it out slowly as her mother’s friends stood either side of her, shepherded her away from this man, this threat (it was quite clear that they saw him as such, and looking at him, Maddie couldn’t say that they were wrong) and out into the night, to get a cab home.

  The man stood in the club’s doorway, watching as the three young women got into a cab, chatting and giggling, eager to go home. As the car pulled away, he pulled the collar of his jacket up in protection against the rising wind, and walked off in the opposite direction – shoulders hunched, head down. Alone.

  Now Maddie was watching her mother as she walked along a street, she didn’t know where – it was nowhere they’d been together. The street was wide, trees spread wide across the road, leaves hanging low and sheltering those who walked beneath. It was beautiful, and Maddie felt a pang as she wondered where it was; she had a feeling they could have had a good life there, if Frank hadn’t happened.

  She was walking a little way behind her mother, watching as she stepped slowly along the pavement, head down. She didn’t look happy, not like she had at the club. As she reached a corner, Maddie saw the same young man appear from the side road and try to speak to her mother, only to be rebuffed. Maddie saw her mother push him away, and turn back to walk in the direction she’d come from – and now Maddie’s eyes widened. Her mother was crying. The man was walking behind her, half-running in his attempt to keep up with the pace she was setting, and he was arguing with her, remonstrating. He grabbed her mother’s wrist and pulled, hard, forcing her to stop and turn back to face him.

  Maddie gasped. Was he going to hurt her? Then she saw her mother’s other arm, the one swinging round fast in an arc, and heard the resounding slap as her hand connected forcibly with the side of his face. She felt a swell of pride; even then, her mum had been strong.

  He let go and stood there, shocked, rubbing his rapidly bruising cheek.

  “It’s over, Frank! For God’s sake let me go!”

  Then her mother was running, tears shining her face as she ran away, ran home.

  Frank shouted after her, just once. “You think you’re so hot! I’ll show you! I can get whoever I want!”

  And then Maddie was watching her mother run inside a house, a large rambling Victorian house with rose bushes lining the path leading to it and hanging baskets swinging gently either side of the front door. Oh, she loved the look of that house – why hadn’t she ever seen it?

  The light changed, and Maddie got her answer very quickly. She was standing outside the house still, but it was night – and that beautiful house was on fire. Flames leapt for the sky from the upstairs window and smoke billowed up into the night sky, telling anyone who cared to look from miles around that a house was in the process of being destroyed – a family’s lives and hopes, shattered.

  Maddie saw an ambulance parked just up the road, her mother sitting up inside it, the door open to allow the night air in. Another ambulance was loading two black plastic bags on stretchers into its depths, and Maddie started to cry as she realised they must hold her grandparents. So much loss. She moved towards her mother, who sat unmoving, unblinking, almost catatonic – and quite visibly pregnant.

  “Now you know.”

  Maddie blinked. She was back in her grubby little room, sitting on her bed, slumped against the pillows. She sat up, shaking her head, feeling slightly sick.

  “Frank did that?”

  Silence.

  “And you went out with him,” Maddie went on. “That was who you saw at the disco; that was the man you hit.” Her eyes widened and her skin turned the colour of curd cheese as she realised something else. “You were pregnant. Oh my God, he’s my dad, isn’t he?”

  Silence.

  “And he burned the house down. He was trying to kill you.”

  He always was a sore loser.

  “No shit,” Maddie whispered. “Thank God he didn’t manage it.” The reality of where she was sitting, and how she was communicating with her mother hit, then, and she started to cry. “At least not then. So it was because of me?”

  No. He burned the house down, he killed my parents, because I broke up with him. He tried to get me back but I wouldn’t listen, so he set the fire. He didn’t know about you. I broke it off as soon as I found out; he’d already become violent by then and I didn’t want him to hurt you.

  “So why all the others since?”

  No answer. But once again, Maddie found herself sinking into a fugue state – and this time her mother showed her Elsa; so similar to her in looks, utterly different in character.

  He met Elsa not long after he set the house on fire; very tall and willowy, self-assured, she was more glamorous, more beautiful… and far more dangerous.

  Maddie could see it. In quick succession she saw Elsa flirting with a tongue-tied Frank; Elsa kissing him; Elsa getting angry if he looked at anyone else, and Frank being drawn ever deeper under her influence. Then Elsa playing it cool, driving Frank to distraction, only for her to capitulate and allow him to take her out for the evening; Elsa laughing as Frank led her to a hotel room – when the door opened he’d filled the room with red roses and there was an ice bucket on a side table with champagne and two glasses; Frank lying in bed and staring at Elsa as she slept, unable to believe his luck, watching as she woke and got out of bed, walking naked to the bathroom, well aware of her effect on him.

  Then Maddie was standin
g outside a cinema, watching as Frank came running towards Elsa – a laughing Elsa who stood there flirting with some random guy, just because she knew it would make Frank jealous. Except it had made him more than that. Maddie saw him take a flick-knife out of his pocket, saw him stab and stab and stab again, the man collapsing onto Frank and being lowered to the ground, covered in blood. He died without saying a word, his eyes wide and confused; he hadn’t had a clue that Elsa brought danger.

  She saw Frank lunge at Elsa, saw his hands wrapped around her throat, the life going out of her eyes, the shock on her face that Frank, faithful Frank, had finally been pushed too far. She saw the police arrive, saw them lead him away and shove him into their car and drive off, and the world went dark.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “She looked so like you.”

  She was nothing like me.

  “Well no, clearly she was a bitch, but… her face!”

  Appearances can be deceptive. There have been others since Elsa, long before me – and all were blonde, and tall, and as close to Elsa as he could find.

  Maddie said nothing, and felt the atmosphere lift as her mother went wherever it was she went when she wasn’t talking to her. She’d told Maddie a lot, she knew. But that didn’t answer everything. If Frank didn’t know Maddie existed, why had he kept chasing her? And why had he come after her mother so long after he burned the house down? And why all the others? Elsa had come along after her mother; that much was clear – so why return to the previous girlfriend and make her life a misery, let alone chase more afterwards? She laid down and closed her eyes, feeling the prickle of unshed tears. Her life had been a car crash because a crazed ex-boyfriend of her mother’s hadn’t been made to leave them alone. He’d left her an orphan (she refused to think of him as her father; he’d never been that, not really) at a young age, and now he wanted to snuff her out too. Did he know she was his daughter? Did he care? Sleep was beckoning, and Maddie didn’t want to go; she wanted to think about this some more, try and figure out what she wasn’t seeing, but she was too tired, too distraught, and darkness rushed towards her, taking her away from the sorrow for a while.

  Her name was Carrie. She was twenty, a student, and a loner. Frank was working as a caretaker at the local college, and had seen her floating down the hall, sunlight haloing her blonde curls, on his second day. He hadn’t stopped smiling since. She was tall, this one; tall and blonde, willowy limbs and a carefree manner that he liked. She was friendly to everyone, calling out greetings and exchanging more than one or two hugs every time she wandered down the hall. Everyone liked her, but Frank thought he was the only one that loved her; the only one that could love her the way she deserved.

  She never failed to acknowledge his presence. Most people ignored the guy in overalls, wielding a broom, but not Carrie. She said good morning, or good afternoon, or just plain hi, every single time she saw him – and it was always accompanied by a smile that lit up her face; hell, it lit the entire room.

  Elsa was jealous, once she realised. Frank managed to keep the knowledge of Carrie’s existence to himself for over a month, something that never happened – Elsa always knew when there was someone around that might be suitable as the new host. And much as he’d tried to keep this one secret, in the end she found out – as he’d known she was bound to do.

  He resisted, for a while, watching Carrie every day, liking her a little more every day – he entertained fantasies that she might actually date him, might see him as someone she could like, or even love.

  But Elsa put paid to that. She whispered to him, every night as he lay in bed trying to pray for strength, trying to put her behind him, so he could live and maybe find real love once more. She wore him down, with promises of her love, always, and what she could do for him once Carrie was hers. We can both have her, she whispered, she can be ours. And of course he knew that was true in a way, but that Carrie wouldn’t love him, never could; that Carrie would only be a doll, animated by Elsa, hungry for love. She’d be a puppet, nothing more.

  Then one day Frank saw Carrie with a boy, just talking, nothing to worry about, he told himself. Until she went on tiptoe and kissed him, lifted her hand and stroked his hair back before linking arms with this boy and walking off, away from Frank.

  That was when he decided. No spotty kid could have her; she was too good for that. Elsa knew what to do, how to love him; and if he helped her, if he prepared Carrie for her, they could both enjoy her love, while she lasted.

  That night he’d followed her into the locker room, broom in hand, ready to claim cleaning duties if she asked him what he was doing. She turned around too late, the smile slipping from her face as she saw the cosh in his other hand descending; the light flying from her eyes as the weapon smashed into the back of her skull and killed her.

  Frank was restless. He’d laid low for over a week now, not looking for the girl, allowing her to feel safe… but Elsa was getting impatient, he could feel it. She was there, under his skin, like an itch that would never heal. He could hear her whispering as he went to sleep; he could feel the rage as she invaded his mind, the touch of her fingers as she plagued him at night, teasing him until he thought he’d go mad. There was no escape. Not until he gave her the girl, like she wanted.

  Today was Friday. He was sitting on a low stone wall on the high street, watching the world go by, huddled into his black wool coat. It had seen better days, that coat; its sleeves were threadbare at the elbows, and hung a bit too long – handy for drawing his hands up and inside when the wind bit cold. The whole thing was a size or two too big for him; it made him look emaciated, with his pallid skin and lank iron-grey hair that hung down over his ears, peeking out from the black wool knitted hat he habitually wore, rain or shine. He was always cold, these days; couldn’t remember the last time he’d been really warm. Perhaps not since Elsa; since he’d felt the heat of rage take him over and he’d choked the life out of her outside that cinema. She’d deserved it, no doubt about that, but she’d never given him a day of peace since. She’d never made a good ghost, never been content to watch and just disquiet; she wanted to come back, she wanted to be flesh and bone, and she wanted to have what she felt she was owed, what he’d denied her. She wanted her life back, and she wasn’t about to let him rest until she had it.

  Over the years there had been many; he’d be walking down the street and see a girl with the same shade of blonde hair, seen her flick it and toss her head in just that way that Elsa used to… and then she’d be there, whispering to him, demanding he procure this one for her, she was perfect; she could come back and then she’d be with Frank once more.

  Except they never were. Perfect, that is. They’d scream and scream once he’d taken them – he’d take them off somewhere quiet: in the woods, maybe, or an old church that was vacant now; then he’d introduce them to Elsa, and the screaming would start – only stilled when they died and Elsa crept inside, took up residence and tried to take up the reins of her life once more.

  And they never lasted long. Every time he closed his eyes he replayed the various deaths, the way each of them had rejected Elsa’s residence in their own way. It all came down to the same thing in the end. Their very flesh seemed to abhor the alien presence it sensed inhabiting it; he and Elsa would have a few days of love, of being together and revelling in being flesh once more… then the decay would start, the skin would blacken and peel, the flesh beneath sagging as the muscles began to die. Until the only thing left alive was the light blazing in her borrowed eyes even as they filmed over, her fury keeping her going until the last moment when, inevitably, the dying flesh would reach a point of no return, sloughing away from the bones in clumps to lie rotting on the ground.

  When that happened Elsa would leave him alone for a day or two; long enough for him to scrape what was left into a stinking bucket and gather up what was left of the bones – even they would decay to varying degrees; the longer Elsa could stay inside the vessel the worse that would be, bones would decay into dust, leaving only fragments behind. He would inevitably dig a hole behind or beside a gravestone in a nearby cemetery (Highgate was his favourite; it had an air about it, although he couldn’t define what that was. He just knew he loved it), or if a funeral was due, he’d even bury them in the neatly dug grave waiting for a coffin, then fling a thin layer of soil on top so that the remains weren’t seen. There was never much to bury, it wasn’t hard.