Desires of the Dead

Fury filled her icy veins, thawing her uncertainty. She knew what she had to do. And the sooner the better.

She closed the flaps, careful not to disturb the lifeless body any more than was necessary. The poor thing had been disturbed enough already.

Violet whispered beneath her breath, too quietly for anyone else to hear, even if she hadn’t been alone. Only the cool air around her mouth seemed to notice, and she could see the misty gusts expelled from her lips.

“Now I lay me down to sleep. . . .” It was the same prayer she’d said for every animal she’d ever buried.

She carried the box, walking purposefully beneath the pale moon, not needing it to find her way around her house, toward the woods.

“. . . I pray the Lord my soul to keep. . . .” It was the only prayer she knew.

A burst of light exploded from beneath the flaps of the corrugated box she cradled, tiny glowing slivers filtered from between the gaps.

“. . . If I should die before I wake . . .”

She reached the darkened entrance to her graveyard, the one her father had helped her construct when she was just a little girl: Shady Acres. And now, in the dead of night, the name seemed more appropriate than ever before. An omen of sorts.

She wasn’t afraid, though. Not here. Never here.

A familiar white noise, the static of so many dead animals who had once called out to Violet to find them, melded together in a peaceful resonance after their bodies were laid to rest.

She stepped inside the chicken-wire fencing meant to keep out scavengers who dared to disturb her lost souls. She knelt in the dirt, beside a spot that had already been dug, a shallow grave waiting to be filled. There was always a space ready in Violet’s graveyard.

She shivered as she opened the box, unable to ignore the hostile temperature enveloping her.

“. . . I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

She tipped the box, letting the small, stiffened corpse drop gently into the soft dirt at the bottom of the grave. She bit her lip, trying not to imagine this poor animal’s death. Trying not to cry as another white flash split the night.

She knelt down, reaching for a pile of soil that waited alongside the superficial hole in the earth, and scooped it with her hands, piling it over the lifeless cat within.

Amen. She mouthed the word without sound.

When she was finished, she sat back on her heels. She could feel the sense of peace washing over her already.

The cat was releasing itself . . . releasing her.

Violet picked up the box and hurried back toward her house without looking around again. She left the empty box outside as she closed the door behind her, making her way back up to her room.

She washed and changed quickly, trying to banish the disturbing sensation that lingered, making her shiver long after the wintry cold had faded. The unsettling awareness that someone had left her a message tonight.

But what was the message supposed to be?

And just who had left it?

Wrath

The girl stood there, hidden among the trees, watching Violet. She was glad now that she’d dressed in black—the heavy black coat, the ski mask that covered her face, the dark gloves—not just for warmth but to cloak her from sight.

She really hadn’t expected to hide within the natural cover provided by the thick bushes and trees surrounding Violet’s house; she’d simply expected to get in and get out.

Drop off her “gift” for Violet and leave.

But Violet had surprised her by coming outside in the middle of the night. And when she had, the girl had stood frozen in place, unable to move . . . or even to think clearly.

She’d been afraid that Violet might see her there. But she hadn’t.

Instead, Violet was fixated on something else, giving her time to react, to escape deeper into the shelter of the woods, where she could watch without fear of discovery.

Before Violet’s appearance, she’d worried that she was going too far. That the message was too harsh. But seeing Violet, watching her, incensed her all over again. The anger she felt was beyond reason . . . beyond explanation . . . beyond control.

She wasn’t sure how Violet had known where to look, but somehow she’d found the box. And when Violet had glanced in her direction, searching the trees, the girl had dropped to the ground, curling into a ball, hugging herself tightly as she waited to be caught.

But Violet never found her.

And, as she lifted her head again, she realized that none of Violet’s reactions were what she’d hoped for. Or expected. Instead of the fear, she saw anger. Instead of revulsion over the mutilated animal, Violet seemed . . . calm.

Suddenly, she wished she’d done more. Upped the ante.

She wanted to see Violet scared. Afraid. Terrified.

Maybe next time.

As she watched Violet carry the box around to the back of her house, she thought she saw Violet’s lips moving beneath the diffused light cast by the moon high above. But who would she be talking to? Herself? The dead cat?

And then Violet moved around to the back of her house and out of sight.

The girl lingered there, in the woods, wondering what Violet might be doing. Wondering if this was her chance to escape, but too curious to see what Violet did next. And too angry to go just yet.

She hated Violet. More at that moment than ever before.

More, even, than she hated herself.

When Violet came back, she was still carrying the box, but it was empty now. She could tell by the way Violet carried it, no longer embracing it against her chest but rather letting it hang loosely at her side as she walked.