What we Buried

Logically Monica knows that betraying her family is wrong, but what her father has gotten away with for the past couple decades...it's was time for it to come to a stop.

She entered her father's run down home and stood in the foyer. The smell of smoke was as strong as it had been when she'd left for college, if not stronger. Closing the door behind her she flicked the light switch and the dim lighting lit up what meager furniture was in the space.

The moth eaten couch in front of a old tv. A small wobbly table in the kitchen.

Walking further into the house Monica peered into the kitchen to see a pile of dried vomit on the kitchen counter, making her stomach churn. Turning away she made her way through the rest of the house careful not to brush up on anything, or even breathe.

She honestly had no idea how her mother can still stand living in this filth, although, to be fair she has nowhere to go given that her parents died when Monica had been younger and she's burnt all the bridges with the friends she thought she had.

Stopping in front of the master bedroom, the smell of lavender reached her nose and it make her want to throw up.

Lavender.

She hated it.

The scent clung to the hallway in thick waves, artificial and sweet, failing to cover the deeper smells buried underneath—mildew, stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and something faintly rotten. Her father used lavender plugins obsessively, as if masking the filth somehow erased it. As if perfumed air could hide what he was.

Monica swallowed hard and pressed the sleeve of her jacket against her nose before pushing the bedroom door open.

The hinges groaned.

Dim yellow light from the hallway spilled across the room, revealing heaps of clothes scattered across the floor and overflowing ashtrays balanced precariously on every available surface. The curtains were drawn shut despite it still being early evening outside, turning the room into a suffocating cave.

And there he was.

Her father sat in the recliner near the bed, motionless except for the cigarette dangling between two yellowed fingers. The television across from him hissed static, casting pale flickers of light across his face.

For one terrible second, Monica thought he was dead.

Then he smiled.

“Monica,” he rasped, sounding almost pleased. “I remember when you used to run into this room cryin’ after nightmares.”

Her stomach twisted.

She had nightmares because of him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly.

He chuckled, taking another drag from the cigarette. “Funny. This is my house.”

House.

The word felt generous.

Her eyes drifted toward the dresser where a stack of old VHS tapes sat beside empty beer bottles. She recognized the labels instantly despite the faded handwriting.

Family Vacation ‘08.

Monica’s eighth birthday.

Christmas Morning.

Her chest tightened painfully.

Evidence.

Years of it.

Her father followed her gaze, and the smile slowly slipped from his face.

“You been snoopin’?” he asked.

Monica didn’t answer.

The static from the television crackled louder in the silence.

“I’m sorry…” he said suddenly, though the words sounded rehearsed, worn thin from years of manipulation. “I did the best I could.”

Something cold moved through Monica then—not anger anymore, not even fear.

Just certainty.

Because monsters always said that.

They said they tried.

They said they loved you.

They said they were sorry.

But they still left bruises.

Still locked doors.

Still made children afraid of footsteps in the hallway after midnight.

Monica reached into her bag and wrapped her fingers around her phone.

One call.

That was all it would take.

Years ago she would have hesitated. Years ago she might have convinced herself her mother needed him, or that exposing him would destroy what little family they had left.

But standing in that room now, breathing lavender and smoke and decay, Monica realized there had never really been a family here at all.

Only survivors.

Her father suddenly laughed.

Not the dry, smoker’s laugh she remembered.

This one was quieter.

Almost nervous.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” he asked.

Monica frowned. “Remember what?”

The old man leaned forward slowly in the recliner, cigarette ember glowing bright orange in the dark.

“The fire.”

Her blood went cold.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” He smiled again, but this time it looked afraid. “That’s why your mother stayed.”

Monica shook her head once. “Stop.”

“You were thirteen,” he continued softly. “You came home early and found him in your room.”

The cigarette trembled between his fingers now.

“And when he touched you…” He swallowed hard. “You killed him.”

Monica’s ears began ringing.

“No.”

“You stabbed him twenty-three times with my hunting knife.” His eyes locked onto hers. “Your mother helped me bury the body under the shed.”

The hallway seemed to tilt sideways.

“That’s not real,” Monica whispered.

But suddenly—

Flashes.

Blood soaking into carpet.

Her own screaming.

Lavender burning in an oil diffuser nearby.

Her mother scrubbing red from Monica’s shaking hands while whispering over and over:

“You don’t remember this. You hear me? You don’t remember.”

Monica stumbled backward into the wall.

Her father crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.

“I spent twenty years making sure nobody found out what you did,” he said quietly. “Every filthy thing you think I am?” His eyes darkened. “I let you believe it because it was easier than the truth.”

Monica’s phone slipped from her numb fingers and hit the floor.

Then from somewhere outside—

A knock at the front door.

Three slow knocks.

Her father looked toward the hallway.

And smiled.

“That’ll be your mother,” he said. “She finally dug him back up.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, though her voice cracked halfway through.

Her father rubbed a hand over his mouth. For the first time since she’d entered the room, he looked genuinely unsettled.

“Your mother gets strange around anniversaries,” he muttered.

“Stop speaking in riddles!”

“She talks to him.”

The room went silent.

Monica felt nausea crawl up her throat.

“No,” she whispered.

“She goes out there every year.” He pointed vaguely toward the backyard. “Sits by the shed. Brings flowers. Lavender.” He laughed weakly. “Always lavender.”

The smell.

Dear God.

Monica’s knees weakened.

Another knock echoed downstairs.

Her mother had never liked lavender before that summer.

Monica remembered that suddenly.

She used to complain it smelled like funerals.

Yet after the incident—

After the blank spot in Monica’s memory—

the entire house became drenched in it.

Candles.

Plugins.

Detergent.

Perfume.

Like her mother had been trying to preserve a grave.

Her father looked toward the bedroom doorway, eyes distant now.

“She said if we buried him deep enough,” he murmured, “eventually even God would forget where he was.”

Monica couldn’t breathe.

The memories were coming faster now.

Mud.

Rain.

Her mother crying while shoveling dirt.

A pale hand sticking out briefly before being covered.

Monica backed away from the recliner.

“No…”

The knocking downstairs stopped.

Silence swallowed the house.

Then came the sound that truly terrified her.

The slow creak of the front door opening.

Neither of them moved.

Heavy footsteps crossed the foyer below.

Unhurried.

Wet.

Monica’s father stared toward the hallway with sudden panic tightening his features.

“That’s not your mother,” he whispered.

The footsteps began climbing the stairs.

continue....

The footsteps were uneven.

Not limping.

Dragging.

Like something heavy was being pulled across the stairs one step at a time.

Thud.

Drag.

Thud.

Drag.

Monica’s body locked in place.

Her father surged upright from the recliner so quickly it sent ash spilling across the carpet. The cigarette fell from his fingers unnoticed.

“That’s impossible,” he whispered.

The hallway outside the bedroom darkened as the stairwell light flickered weakly.

Thud.

Drag.

Closer now.

Monica’s breathing became shallow, frantic little pulls of air that did nothing to stop the crushing pressure building in her chest.

Her father grabbed her wrist suddenly.

“We have to go.”

She yanked herself free instantly, horror flashing across her face. “Don’t touch me.”

The footsteps stopped just outside the bedroom door.

Silence.

Then—

A wet smell drifted into the room.

Earth.

Rot.

Rainwater.

Monica slowly turned toward the doorway.

At first she saw nothing but darkness stretching down the hallway.

Then a shape moved.

A man stepped into view.

Or what had once been a man.

His clothes hung in shredded strips from a body swollen and gray with decay, patches of muddy flesh slipping from exposed bone. Wet dirt clung to him in thick clumps, spilling onto the floorboards with every movement. One side of his face had partially collapsed inward, exposing yellow teeth beneath torn skin.

But the eyes—

The eyes were alive.

Cloudy.

Wide.

Fixed directly on Monica.

“I remember…” he gurgled.

Monica couldn’t move.

Her father made a strangled noise behind her.

The thing in the hallway tilted its head with an audible crack.

Then its gaze slowly shifted toward the old man.

“You said,” it rasped wetly, “she’d forget.”

Her father stumbled backward. “Stay the hell away from me.”

The corpse took one dragging step into the room.

Mud smeared across the carpet.

Monica’s stomach twisted violently because despite the rot, despite the ruined flesh—

she recognized him.

Mr. Bennett.

The neighbor.

The man everyone thought had disappeared twenty years ago.

The man who used to bring Monica candy when her parents weren’t home.

The man whose face suddenly burst through her fractured memories in horrible flashes—

His hand over her mouth.

His weight pinning her down.

The hunting knife.

The screaming.

Her screaming.

The corpse smiled.

Skin split at the corners of its mouth.

“You were always daddy’s favorite liar,” it whispered.

Her father suddenly lunged for the dresser drawer, yanking out a revolver with shaking hands.

Monica barely had time to gasp before—

BANG.

The gunshot exploded through the room.

The corpse jerked violently as the bullet tore through its shoulder.

But it didn’t fall.

It only looked down slowly at the hole in its body before lifting its eyes back toward Monica’s father.

And smiling wider.

“Oh God,” her father breathed.

The lights went out.

Complete darkness swallowed the room.

Then came the sound of something moving impossibly fast through the black.

A scream ripped through the darkness—

her father’s scream—

cut off abruptly by a wet crunch.