Where She Buried Him

Flowers grew over the ground where she buried him.

She groaned, rolling over in her mass of blankets, alarm-clocked awake by the shrill beeping. She slapped wildly at the damn off button. Finally making contact, her arm slumped back to the bed as she exhaled, exhausted. Mouth dry and bleary-eyed, she groaned again, clutching her eyes and forehead in one last frustrated huff before her heart rate began to slow. She blinked, eyes darting about the room between her fingers.

Satisfied, she sighed and thrust the blankets off, swinging her feet over the side of the bed. She stretched, arms overhead, her toes pulling in various directions as every muscle in her body tightened deliciously.

She yanked her ponytail holder out, letting her tousled brown hair fall to her shoulders, shaking it loose with a yawn.

What else was there?

Flowers grew over the grave where she buried him. That much was clear.

She stood, bare-legged in an oversized tee, torn at the neck revealing her slender shoulder. She headed to the bathroom.

“No fucking way,” she murmured under her breath. “Not today.”

She closed the door behind her and turned to the small bathroom suspiciously. Sitting down quickly, she slipped her panties to her knees and relieved herself, eyes darting about the room. The shower curtain was open, per usual, and her towel from the night before hung, still slightly damp.

She wiped quickly, yanking her panties up as she stood. She thrust her hands under the cold faucet and splashed her face. Water dripped into her shirt, her nipples hardening, the hair on her legs standing on end at the sudden cold.

She froze.

Grasping for her hand towel, she dabbed her face dry. With her face still covered, she counted in her head.

One… two…

On three, she peeked into the mirror.

She stared first into her own eyes. They looked bored, wary; dark circles betrayed her exhaustion. Her hair was wild, damp around the front, curling slightly around her face.

She grabbed the toothbrush sitting out on the counter.

Walking back into her bedroom, she grabbed the crumpled jeans from the ground and shook them out. She slipped one leg in with a wobble working them up over her hips. She glanced into the corner of her room where he sat, hunched on the orange chair.

As she tucked her tee into her jeans, she contemplated her bra. She fucking hated bras.

Screw it.

Her cropped black jacket would be enough.

She grabbed her socks and sneakers, pulling them on in a hurry, and, in a last-minute decision, tied her hair into a top knot, leaving a few tendrils to fall around her face and chin.

“Alright, let’s go,” she said out loud, resigned, as she pulled her backpack on. It was loaded with the usual necessities. She called it her “go bag.”

He stood obediently, head down, as if he were trying to avoid peeking as she dressed.

“Oh, suddenly you’re shy?” she asked incredulously as she held open the door.

"Where was this quiet, polite you when I was trying to sleep."

He walked through, seemingly confused. As he passed her, he lifted his head to face her. His right eye was a gaping, bloody hole. The back side of his head was missing—pieces of brain and flesh dangling out the back.

“Flowers grow over the ground where she buried me,” he repeated.

“I fucking know,” she replied, more bored than irritated. “Let’s go get this bitch so I can get some sleep.”

The worst thing about helping the dead was that they were like toddlers stuck in a loop.

Life would be a dream if they could just tell her what the fuck had happened and, better yet, what they wanted. Nope. Most didn’t even have the wherewithal to acknowledge that they were dead. They just kept looping the same scene, same line, same words.

This guy, though—he showed some promise.

He had infiltrated her dreams, showing her a few images: a woman with blonde hair, a wedding ring, the flowers, a gun—and, of course, he repeated his favorite phrase.

So, who was this guy? Where was he from? Who the fuck murdered him?

If she could figure it out, he’d resolve. That’s what she called it—when they disappeared to wherever the they went, then she could finally get a decent night’s sleep before another one found her.

At least he'd stayed out of the bathroom.

If she could resolve him, she could sleep.

He was handsome enough, dressed in a suit, young. His destroyed eye was a shame. She supposed so was his death.

She tried to engage.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she drove.

He sat silent.

Hmmm, she mused, thinking of him like an arcade game. Where do I put the coins? Which buttons do I push to turn this thing on?

She tried again. “I’m Ally,” she said.

Before she could continue, he spoke.

“Ally.”

Well, fuck me sideways.

A shiver ran down her spine.

It speaks.

“Who killed you?” she asked.

“Ally,” he repeated.

She sighed, her newfound hope fading quickly. “Right,” she said, retraining her eyes on the road.

She figured her best bet was to drive until he reacted without her prompting. She couldn’t trust that he wasn’t just repeating her, and that kind of behavior would lead them in circles.

She decided to head to the library.

In the library, she searched recent news records—missing persons, obituaries, anything that might help. He loitered in the background.

About an hour in, she came across an article.

“Man, 28, Missing.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the picture of the young man smiling back at her. She turned to look at him, then back to the screen.

“Mike?”

He raised his head.

“Mike... you’re missing,” she said matter-of-factly.

His face darkened grew angry. The lights in the library flickered.

Ally glanced at the girl across the way. “Shit wiring in this old building,” she said, grabbing her bag and papers from the printer.

“Let’s go.”

In the car, she read the article. Mike had been missing for two years. Family was mentioned. A reward offered.

She pulled out her phone and entered the number.

The phone rang.

Ally held her breath, biting her lower lip.

Beep.

Voicemail.

A cheerful woman’s voice filled her ear.

“Hi! You’ve reached Ally. Leave a message.”

The line went quiet.

She slowly pulled the phone away from her ear.

What were the odds?

She looked from the phone to Mike seated next to her.

He turned slowly to face her.

His destroyed eye fixed on her.

She watched, horrified, as the hole darkened and widened. Bugs and maggots began pouring from the ruined socket and then from his gaping mouth.

Before she could unbuckle, the car filled with dirt and insects. They crawled over her, biting her flesh. The space filled rapidly, as if soil were being poured over them. It packed into her mouth, her nose.

She reached for the door handle in vain.

She blinked one last time -

And everything went black.

Her mind raced as she choked, her chest heaving in desperation for air.

She thought of her mother.

Her birthday with her cousins.

Her graduation.

Her first kiss.

Her laughter—her own voice, light and real.

She saw her wedding day. The flowing gown. The bouquet.

She saw Mike.

He turned to smile at her-

A sudden blast.

His expression collapsed in shock. His right eye gone. Blood streaking his face.

Her arm fell.

The gun still clutched in her hand.

She placed her bouquet into the mound of dirt covering his body.

She succumbed to the darkness.

The shrill alarm jarred her awake.

She groaned, pulling the pillow over her ears as her other arm flailed to turn it off. She sighed, peeking out from beneath the pillow.

He was seated in the orange chair.

Head down.

His voice echoed in her mind.

“Flowers grow over the ground where she buried me.”

She sat up, stretched and trudged to the bathroom.

Another day of helping spirits resolve.

She shot him a look as she shut the door.

“Stay out here,” she commanded.

She wasn’t sure if he was a looper yet.

She just wanted to pee in peace.