Page 64 of Stay Buried

Malcolm laughed. “I thought the dolls were kinda cool. It’s a really sweet tribute, actually, having a doll for each person who’s died.” He was quiet a second, then said, “You know, I bet if we got her on Etsy or maybe built a website for her, she could make some money selling those dolls.”

“Um… dolls modeled after dead people?”

“Not necessarily, just regular little clothespin dolls, you know? People are really into that whole Americana folk art thing. We could sell them at the bed-and-breakfast, have a whole page devoted to them on our website—”

“Mal?”

“Yeah?”

“I admire your vision for this bed-and-breakfast, but can we just put a pin in the idea for right now? Focus on what we’re doing here. Trying to find our great-grandparents’ headstones. Frankie’s too. Anyother family.”

It felt good to have a mission. The same mission she knew her mom would have had when she’d been here.

Ifshe’d been here.

“Right,” Mal said as he shone the light from his phone onto the path ahead of them, then used it to read the names and dates on the granite headstones. The stones cast shadows that seemed to move, tilting and writhing.

Ashley looked up toward the woods.

In the distance, a twig snapped.

Probably nothing. A squirrel maybe.

Her brother noticed her jump a little. “You wanna come back tomorrow?” he asked, voice slightly mocking. He’d always teased her for being so easily scared when they were kids. He loved to torture her with ghost stories, plastic spiders in her bed, jump-scaring her whenever he got the chance. He was obsessed with horror movies and would dare her to watch them with him, and Ashley, not wanting to seem like a scaredy-cat to her younger brother, always said yes.

“We will. But let’s take one quick look around tonight.”

He nodded. “Looks like the oldest ones are back at this end.” Mal was leaning down to make out the writing on the old worn stones. “Here’s one from 1894… 1899.” He moved away from the fountain toward the back of the cemetery, reading the stones along the roadway. Then he wandered off to the left among the grave markers. Toward the woods. Ash followed him, but stayed on the path. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out:Don’t go down there! Stay where it’s safe.

The woods were full dark now. She sensed a stirring in them, a slight movement that was more than just the wind rustling the leaves; more than just the squirrels heading to their hollowed-out dens for the night.

“Here we go,” he called. “These are from the fall and winter of 1918.”

He moved farther toward the woods. “Wow! Every grave backhere is from March of 1919. There’s a lot of them, Ash. Come take a look.”

She could see the light from his phone glowing, held up in front of the headstones so he could read the names and dates.

She wanted to see, really she did, but her feet wouldn’t move. Try as she might to go forward, she stayed where she was, feet firmly planted. She imagined she was like one of the trees at the edge of the woods: strong, well-rooted. Nothing was going to budge her.

“I don’t see any Endicotts. What was our great-grandmother’s maiden name?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Ash’s heartbeat picked up, her breaths becoming short and shallow.

Trying to ground herself, she thought about what Mal had asked. She had no idea. Had never asked. She was sure her mother must have told her when she went down the genealogy rabbit hole, but Ash hadn’t really been listening. Hadn’t taken any interest and was just waiting for her mother to predictably lose interest in the project too, leave the family tree half empty, abandoned. Now, unless there was something in those papers in the trunk Gram had hidden, Ashley might never know her great-grandmother’s maiden name. It was all gone. She’d have to rely on Josephine and her little dolls.

“Oh, wait, here it is. Look!” He shone the light from his phone on the front of a granite stone:

DR. THOMAS ENDICOTT

HUSBAND AND FATHER

JULY 9, 1879–MARCH 16, 1919

REST IN PEACE

“And look, right beside him—Margaret Endicott! She lived until 1962!” Mal read. “?‘Beloved wife and mother.’?”

Ashley’s feet finally moved before she could think about it; she feltherself being pulled toward the stones of her ancestors, drifting through the cemetery like a ghost. She stood in front of them, looking down at the names, at Thomas and Margaret Endicott’s final resting places, side by side.