Page 4 of Grave Expectations

CHAPTER TWO

“This is a useless task,” Roz told Albie as she raked the leaves into large piles. “I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that if you leave them, they like…help. You know, the environment. Bugs. That sort of thing.” Albie opened a single eye to regard her. Seeing that her piles were not large enough for him to jump in and scatter, he returned to his nap.

“Fine, I saw it on social media. But it was from someone who knew what they were talking about!” she added quickly. She should hire a maintenance company, but then what would she do all day? Knit and stare at the gravestones, hoping a ghost would appear?

She slowed her pace as she approached the series of large, black headstones that made up the center of the cemetery. The Graves gravestones (hah!), seven in a row, every one stronger than Roz. Great Aunt Francesca raised ghosts like most people raised chickens. Roz? She mostly raised headaches.

She pulled a dead leaf off the top of Aunt Franny’s grave, her fingers lingering on the stone. She closed her eyes and tried to focus, tried to concentrate just as Aunt Franny had taught her.

Breathe in, breathe out. As you do, channel the energy that runs through you, through your core. That is your magic.

Her voice reverberated in Roz’s head as she reached for that invisible thread. Sometimes she swore she felt it, mostly it just slipped through her fingers. She couldn’t commune with the dead, she couldn’t see spirits, she couldn’t do anything.

So she became an outcast in a family of outcasts—left to tend the cemetery while her family continued the real work without her.

Well, except her twin Delia, who could create rot.

Roz pressed her fingers into the cold stone, digging deep for the memory of Aunt Franny—her voice, her face, the way she brewed tea. Her brow furrowed as she focused, drawing deeper and deeper.

She opened her eyes, half expecting to see her aunt standing there. Instead, she was alone, a dead leaf crumpled in her hand.

“Better luck next time, I guess,” she muttered, though at thirty-two, she’d seen plenty of “next times,” and they all ended the same. She kicked at a rock before trudging to the next set of graves.

She saved Alaric’s for last.

His site was often littered with notes or flowers, which necessitated daily upkeep. She placed all the letters into a box that was stored in the office for the mortuary, and tried to repurpose the flowers as best as she could. Food, she left to the elements. It was rare for a raccoon or squirrel to take anything from his plot. Even the animals respected the dead founder.

She went through the flowers, moving the older ones to the back and the newer to the front. She pruned a few of the dead ones, deciding to dry them and make decorations for the Pumpkin Festival. So what if she went alone? It wasn’t 1693, women were allowed to be places without a chaperone! She didn’t need a partner to enjoy some festivities!

“Yeah, I’m i-n-d-e-p-e-n-d-e-n-t!” she sang to the empty cemetery. She added a quick little shimmy, which caused the toe of her boot to catch the lip of the stone. She braced to catch herself, pitching forward right into the statue.

She held her breath for a long, perilous minute. What if she knocked the damn thing over? And it broke? And she wasn’t just the useless necromancer, but the one who destroyed the statue of the beloved founder?

Oh goddess. She was going to vomit.

She took several deep breaths before adjusting herself, careful not to use the statue for too much support. Her gaze slowly traced up the figure, sighing when it remained exactly as it always had.

“It’s been here three hundred years, dummy,” she told herself. She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress, wincing at the sting. Roz raised her hands to appraise them, sighing at the blood that collected had on them.

“Well, no more sweeping leaves, I guess,” she said. She was about to turn to clean up when a slow movement caught her eye. It was her blood, dripping down the edge of the statue, painting the front of the nameplate.

ALARIC BLACKWOOD

BELOVED FOUNDER

SAVIOR OF PUMPKIN HOLLOW

1661 - 1693

The words were now covered with her blood as it congealed and filled in the cracks. Why was there so much blood? The cut was shallow, more a scrape than anything else, but her blood flowed readily off her fingers and onto the ground.

“That is going to be a bitch to clean,” she groaned.

Albie rose from his resting position, his head low, his lips pulled back to expose his teeth. Roz blinked at him, frowning. “Albie?” she asked. The dog ignored her, his gaze still intent on something just beyond the statue.

“Alopecia Murray Graves! What is your deal?” she asked, resorting to using his full government name. He ignored her, taking a slow step forward, his entire body set to lunge. Roz opened her mouth to scold him when an errant breeze whipped through the cemetery, scattering the offerings before the gravestone. Roz reached for them uselessly, cursing as the flowers scattered and the candles fell over, breaking into pieces. Several offering dishes cracked, their contents joining the melee.

“Listen to your dog, he’s a smart one,” came a male voice. Roz jumped, turning in a circle to try to locate the voice. It was everywhere and nowhere, carried on the breeze as it finally settled.