Page 3 of Mania

The questions ran cold in my veins.

“Need a refill, honey?”

I startle, the cup clinking against the saucer as I swivel my head back to peer up at the waitress. She has one hand on her hip, the coffee pot in the other as she waits for me to answer. I have no intention of drinking any more coffee, but something about saying no feels rude. I smile, it’s weak at best, and nod.

“Would you happen to know of any job vacancies in town?” I ask while she pours the coffee. I know I can live off my savings for a few weeks, or maybe even a month if I’m careful, but eventually my small nest egg will run out.

She hums as if thinking before straightening up. “Mr. Ambrose might have something for you,” she says with a smile.

“Ambrose?” I reply. “Like the hotel?”

“The one and only, dear. Ask for him at the front desk, I’m sure he’s around.”

I thank her, and she walks away. Staring at the swinging doors through which she disappeared, I consider returning to my room.

To hide.

A chill comes over me, and my attention falls back on the church and half-hidden graveyard.

I let the coffee grow cold again instead.

The soundof cicadas seems to intensify the closer I get to the churchyard. It’s late summer, the weather sticky and humid, the heat sinking into my skin. Sweat rolls down my back under my tank top, and a few strands of hair loose from my bun stick to the back of my neck. The gravel crunches under my feet as I walk the small path leading to the graveyard.

I can’t shake this feeling.

I need to see it for myself. A reminder that last nightdidhappen.

My chest constricts when I round the corner of the church, and the rows of tombstones appear, guarded by a busted old wooden fence.

The sensation of being buried alive returns, still so fresh in my mind. Every molecule in my body seems to remember how it felt to wake up entombed.

It only takes a few steps into the rows of tombstones for the dread lingering heavy in my stomach to travel up my throat and turn into bile.

The singing cicadas grow louder as my breathing shallows.

I turn on the spot, looking around me and across the graveyard, my rising anxiety making my eyesight tremble as I squint from the blinding late morning sun.

How is this possible?

I stop in my tracks when I catch a golden glint from the corner of my eyes. Swiveling around to face it, I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down.

I narrow my eyes.

My heart sinks.

It’s a bell.

On a tombstone near the end of the graveyard.

The one closest to the forest.

I stalk toward it in hurried steps but slow down when I get close, an unnameable fear now coiling itself around me.

Fighting against my apprehensions, I crouch down and read the inscription on the stone.

Eloise Bellechance. Beloved daughter. 1825-1845.

“You’re trespassing.”

---