Brandy Nacole

Brandy Nacole is a writer of paranormal suspense and mystery. She's penned the bestselling novel DEEP IN THE HOLLOW, THE SHADOW WORLD TRILOGY and MURDER IS A DEBATE.

She loves keeping readers on the edge of their seats as that's where she likes to stay. Her favorite pastimes are reading, writing, exploring the world, and spending as much time with her husband, kids, and fur babies as possible. If Brandy can't be found, it's okay, she's not lost. She's frolicking in the woods somewhere and will return for tacos eventually.

You can find Brandy Nacole on her website: www.brandynacole.com.

Award Type
Darkness separated them. Death will reunite them.
I Will Bury You
My Submission

Chapter One

It shouldn’t be sunny the day you bury your mother. Not when your soul is heavy, and you feel as if you’re being ripped apart. There’s nothing glorious about it. Yet, here we are, standing under the blue sky this town has seen in months.

The glittering reflection of the sun causes my eyes to water. Wiping away the moisture, I curse the person who decided to place a pond in the center of a cemetery. It has been nothing but an annoyance in the city’s side for decades. Always flooding and causing the soil to soften and the graves to cave in.

Aunt Meredith clutches my arm. Her cry silent. Her face wet with sorrow.

“Alice Ann Kelley was a well renowned spirit, a beloved mother, sister, and friend. She lived her days on the cliffs of northern Newport where she inhaled the sea and exhaled her dreams.”

My nails dig into my right palm, the skin breaking with crescent shapes. I glare at Reverend Mark Eris as he drones on about a woman he’d never met but acted as if he knew her his whole life.

As if he knew her. As if any of these people did. They only crawled out of their homes when there was drama to be seen.

Reverend Mark was paid to perform this service, and at a pretty penny, may I add. Aunt Meredith had called on a friend who had contacted her priest who wouldn’t perform the ceremony because Mama wasn’t Catholic. The priest ended up calling an acquaintance and giving him Aunt Meredith’s name. After giving us a quote and with no other options and the funeral fast approaching, Aunt Meredith agreed to hire the schmuck.

Our neighbor Mrs. Mae wipes at her eyes and hugs her son Alex to her side. I don’t make eye contact with either one of them, but instead keep my eyes on the casket. I can’t look at them. If I do, if I see their sorrow, I will lose the battle stirring inside me, the battle I’m ignoring and keeping shoved down deep. I have to remain strong. Aunt Meredith needs me.

As the sermon comes to an end, I spot a man dressed in all black with a mobster-style hat to match, standing next to the pond. I don’t make eye contact with him but do try making out the small amount of features visible. Strong square jaw with slight stubble. A scar that runs over the right of his lips. Before I can make my eyes wonder to his, he turns and walks toward the parking lot. Intrigue has me stepping out of Aunt Meredith’s grip and toward the man. Who is he and how did he know my mother?

My trance of needing answers is broken when Aunt Meredith stumbles forward and almost falls to the ground. I reach out and grab her frail arms. “Are you okay, Aunt Meredith?” Guilt spears through me as she straightens. I’ve gone nineteen years without answers, no need to kill my Aunt to get them today. One day I’ll know, I hope.

“Fine, child.” She pats my hand with comfort. “Just a little worn out is all.” Giving the man’s back one final glance, I tuck Aunt Meredith’s arm under mine.

“Let’s say our final goodbyes, shall we?” The battle inside starts to win at the thought. My throat burns as a knot of emotions swells up inside of me, but I swallow it down. Not now.

Aunt Meredith offers a kind smile, the lines of her face creasing behind her dark glasses. She pats my arm, somehow sensing my distress. “It’s never final, dear.”

Well, that mark of creepy should keep the weepy tears away. Leave it to Aunt Meredith to get cryptic.

We place the two black roses on Mama’s casket, alongside the red ones the Mae’s brought. As the reverend gives Aunt Meredith a mouth full of fake sorrow and words for a brighter tomorrow, I stare at the velvety, blood-red petals. The sinister colors blend, the symbol of love and death. A tear rolls down my cheek, but with an angry swipe, it’s gone. Telling Aunt Meredith to stay put, I walk over to the bouquet of white roses sent by the gardening club and pluck the longest stem. I place it on top of the crimson and black roses. The symbol of life ceasing the battle of pain inside of me, if only for now.

“How lovely.” The reverend’s wife steps away from her piano keyboard, sympathy heavy in her eyes. “The mark of death, love, and beginning of a new journey. I love the gesture and I’m sure your mother would too.”

Anger boils inside of me. This woman knew nothing about me or my mother, let alone her thoughts on beginning a new journey.

“It’s to symbolize the life she lived, which was a good one. Life, love, and death.”

Done with the fake smiles and ready to be in the comforts of our home, I guide Aunt Meredith away from the cemetery and back to the parking lot.

“Those people,” she chastises as we stroll toward our black Altima. “There’s common courtesy, sure, but that was just plain over the top creepy happy.”

I laugh. Aunt Meredith never was one not to speak her mind. “I know, right? Did you pay extra for that?” I spot the car and pull the key fob from my purse. The lights flash as I unlock the doors and lead Aunt Meredith to the passenger side. Once she’s settled, I slow my pace as I walk around the car to the driver side. A small moment to breathe in the quiet, it’s all I wanted.

“At their price, I’m sure it comes with the package,” she scoffs, picking up our conversation where we had left off.

The drive up the coast is bright and winding. I again curse the day for being so sunny and cheerful. My mother is dead. Why does the world not weep with my sorrow? I’d always believed the elements of the earth somehow aligned with my spirit. As a child, I believed this so much that when it stormed, I would lash out in anger, claiming the wildest of stories. And when I calmed, the storm did as well. Now that my mother is gone, I am sure it will never be right again.

“I’ve been thinking, dear, about your college future.” It breaks my heart Aunt Meredith considers even thinking about anything other than Mama. Screw cancer and the havoc it has wrecked on our lives. If it weren’t for the cancer that took Mama, neither one of us would have to worry about the life I would leave in Boston. While Boston University has been a dream of mine since I learned about the East Coast, there is no way I can go back to college and pick up where I left off knowing Aunt Meredith is all alone. Talk about guilt shaming.

“Aunt Meredith, please don’t worry about that. I’m not leaving you.” I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t suck. I love everything about Boston University. The city. The quick drive to the country. The atmosphere. It is charged with a different air than what seems to weigh down Newport. Whereas this town is full of nosey neighbors and stern looks. In Boston, I can walk the streets and keep to myself and no one is the wiser.

“That’s nonsense. You most certainly will.” Aunt Meredith dabs the tissue she has wadded up in her hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath. The moment feels like a final breath, as if whatever she is thinking is final in her mind. No more internal debate about it. It’s intimidating, considering it has something to do with me and it is obvious I am getting no say in the matter. “The moment I got off the phone with you after your mother passed, I knew what I had to do. I called Cliff Manor.”

My stomach plummets at the mention of that place, a knot forming in my throat again. She is out of her mind if she thinks I am going to send her to a retirement home. “Forget it. That is not an option.”

She crosses her hands on her lap, content and looking as if she is arguing with a five-year-old who is not about to get her way. “Lucky for me it is not up to you to decide. All has been settled.” The need to argue rises in me as I pull up our drive and put the car in park with a bit of force. But Aunt Meredith beats me to the debate. “Ann, I can’t, for the sake of my own peace of mind, let you ruin your life for me. I’ve lived my life. It’s time you live yours. You’ve already got a head start in Boston. You need to finish it, dear.”

I’m not going to lie to myself and say it isn’t what I want, but in good conscience, I can’t just send my Aunt away to rot in a retirement home just because Mama died and can’t take care of her. She is still young at the beautiful age of fifty-eight.

“It will be fine,” Aunt Meredith says. “It’s a nice facility with game nights and trips to the beach during the summer. I will be well taken care of and entertained.”

I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. Mama had a lot left to live for too. “I appreciate the consideration, but I can’t possibly–”

“You can and you will,” she says, interrupting me. Her gentleness leaves and instead is replaced by the demanding woman I see so often. “I will ask that you stay here and help me pack up the house. I’ll leave it to you as to whether you keep it or not, but the materials inside are good and should not be left to rot. A donation truck will be here in two days. The antique store in town is expecting a delivery Friday. After that, all that’s left is for you to take me to the Manor. Then, you can see that it’s a wonderful facility and have some peace of mind before leaving for Boston.”

So many emotions roll through me, knowing it’s what I want but feeling guilty for it. It’s all so much – so final. Boxing up Mama’s belongings. Selling the furniture to the antique store. Putting Aunt Meredith in a retirement home. Too fast. It is all too fast.

The battle inside starts to win and a lump forms in my throat again. My mind screams in panic. I rush out of the car, feeling as if I’m suffocating so I take in deep, harsh breaths.

“You okay, dear?” Aunt Meredith stands out of the car, her eyes void, but her concern deep. She must have heard the slight wheeze in my drastic breaths.

I take her hand, hoping to calm her worries. “I’m fine.” My voice is still wobbly, but I hurry her up the walk in hopes she doesn’t question me further. The second step creaks as it always has. The screen door’s hinges protest seconds later. Oh, how we’ve needed a handyman but never could afford one. Every last dollar Mama made sewing went toward the bills and groceries. Lest I forget my therapist. She costs a fortune. She would flip her lid if she knew I quit taking my meds after joining a holistic group in Boston. As would Mama and Aunt Meredith. In order to become a pure member, I had to get rid of all the things that were intoxicating my body. Antidepressants aren’t exactly pure. Three months clean and I can honestly say I feel fine.

Aunt Meredith settles into her chair by the fireplace and flips on a switch by the side table. The pop of her electric fire logs starts to hum, the electric wires warming. Mama had found them not long after Aunt Meredith’s accident. Aunt Meredith loved sitting by the fire and reading her books daily. Mama had vowed to give Aunt Meredith as much normalcy as she could, including her fireplace. There was no telling how much Mama ended up spending on the electric logs. Nonetheless, Aunt Meredith loved them and they were easy for her to work on her own.

Retrieving her headphones and iPad off the mantle, I tuck her in nice and tight with her mysteries before heading to the attic.

Aunt Meredith stops me as my foot touches the bottom step, her headphones dangling from her fingertips. “I wouldn’t spend too much time going through the things in the attic. A quick glance should do. I don’t want you wasting time on nothing but junk your mother couldn’t part with.”

I know a fishy story when I hear one, but I agree anyway, now more intrigued about what is hiding amongst all the clutter. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Leave me be until dinner. I’m curious to know if Rowena dies or not.”

I laugh, the first time in days, as Aunt Meredith puts in her ear buds and hits play. There are many things Aunt Meredith enjoys but none as passionately as she does her cozy mysteries. It had taken years to convince her to give audiobooks a try after losing her sight. She would often complain about missing her books and would sit around all day holding them. The scene was heartbreaking, but not as much as the memories to waking up and finding Aunt Meredith still curled up next to the fire sleeping at three in the morning with the book open. Mom and I finally devised a plan to sucker Aunt Meredith into listening. I started it by playing an audiobook over the surround sound. Once Aunt Meredith was hooked, Mama came in complaining about the noise and said she couldn’t take it. She gave Aunt Meredith an ultimatum, headphones or no stories. Headphones it was.

The musty smell of all things old and locked up attacks my senses as I open the attic door. I flip on the light switch next to the door. A small light hangs from the center of the room. Boxes tower over me along the walls, all the way to the window at the south end of the house. Dear God, this is going to take forever.

I’m not wrong. At least I don’t feel wrong. Three hours later and all I have managed to do is move a few boxes of antique dishes to the garage and collected three trash bags of clothes for donation. There are still twenty or so boxes to go through, not to mention the bits of furniture, paintings, and other various items that hung along the walls.

The dark shadows that linger in the corners stretch until most of the attic is consumed by a tiny sliver of moonlight and the dim bulb in the center of the room. The weight of the day aches in my muscles and I decide to call it a night. I’ll have to hit it hard tomorrow if I’m going to get it all done by Friday. It’s times like these when having a sibling would have been nice. Someone to not only help but also reminisce with along the way.

It’s not going to be the same without her. I often called her when doubt was heavy or my thoughts felt overwhelming. She was my sounding block. The person who brought me back from hysteria. Where will I end up without her? That fear scares me the most.

A loud bang jerks me out of my loathing fears. Three repetitive bangs are followed by Aunt Meredith screaming my name. She’s in her room using the handle of a broom, I’m sure, to get my attention. It took a while for her to be able to walk from room to room on her own, let alone up the stairs. I was often woken in the middle of the night from fallen pictures and overturned furniture.

“Everything okay, Aunt Meredith?” I tilt my head, straining to hear what she says.

“Are you ready for dinner, child? I’m starving.” The sun setting should have spurred me into the kitchen as she has a strict eating schedule. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. It’s not doctor ordered but more her need for routine. When I had arrived in Boston, I had been ecstatic to get out of the everyday rhythm Mama and Aunt Meredith had set for me. Breakfast on the go. Lunch at two in the afternoon. Midnight dinners on the rooftop. It was heavenly.

“I’ll be right down,” I yell, hoping she can hear me while my stomach growls with encouragement.

I click off the light and leave the mess for later. As I turn around to head downstairs, something flutters to the floor in front of me. The darkness is almost too much for me to make it out, but I find a piece of paper with dark scrawlings. Tired, I ignore it until a flash of light from the neighbor’s headlights reveals a bright blue coat drawn on the stark white paper and I pause. I’ve seen this before.

I pick up the portrait to get a better look. The blue printed lines of the binder paper cuts through the drawing of a stick figure wearing a navy coat and sitting in a swing. A woman stands behind the coated figure with a huge smile on her face. At the top, in sloppy handwriting is written “I love you, Mom”. Odd. I never called Mama “Mom”. She preferred Mama, always had. The real disturbing part, the harsh angry red scribble over the whole portrait.

I stand, knocking into a worn leather-wrapped chest that sits in the walkway. A faint light gleams around it while the drawing in my hand grows heavy. You’re overthinking this. It’s a chest and a weird drawing that could have easily been Alex’s. As neighbors, Mama often watched Alex when he was a kid while his mother went to do errands. Why would she keep his drawing?

My stomach drops as I step closer to the chest. My heart is pounding so hard a film of sweat makes my skin cool.

Bam! Bam! Bam! I jerk around, considering maybe Aunt Meredith dropped something or perhaps fell down the stairs to come see what I was doing. The darkness answers my gasp. Nothing is in the room but my immense paranoia. I shove the picture into my pocket and turn back toward the chest with tremendous curiosity.

Rust is thick on the hinges. The neighbor’s headlights go out and I’m plunged back into darkness. Pulling out my phone, I turn on the flashlight and look around for something to pry it open with, but there’s nothing strong enough to break the bolted silver lock on its front. My phone rings, causing me to jump. I turn the screen around to see that it’s Aunt Meredith. Oh, that woman.

“Yes?” I answer while running my finger over the dust covering the top of the chest. What’s hidden inside of you?

“What’s taking you so long?” she snaps, irritated. “You said you were coming down thirty minutes ago.”

Thirty minutes? Maybe thirty seconds. The impatience and dramatics of that woman is unbelievable. I look at the time on my phone to prove her wrong, but she’s not overexaggerating. Did I zone out? It’s the one and only side effect of not taking my meds that I’ve noticed so far. I hate that I can’t call Dr. Shelby to ask if it’s a normal side effect. If she knew I wasn’t taking my medicine, she’d be knocking on our front door within the hour.

“I need to drop something off in my room, then I’ll be down.” Before she can question me further or complain about my slowness, I hang up and tuck my phone into my pocket. The chest is light compared to what I was expecting. I hurry to put it in Mama’s room, shut the door, then go to the kitchen.

“Turkey or ham?” I ask, opening the fridge.

“Turkey and use the wheat bread. It’s going to go stale if we don’t eat it.” Not sure how that’s a bad thing – never been a fan – but I give her a salute and get to work on the sandwiches. The whole time, I can’t help but wonder what’s hiding inside the chest upstairs.

“What are you thinking about?” Aunt Meredith asks once we’re seated at the table with our food. “Your silence is loud.”

There’s an expression I’ve heard a lot. Never did I understand how loud silence can be until Aunt Meredith went blind. Then, it became an everyday complaint. When I was ten, Mama went through a spell where she didn’t speak for six months. I would cry and tell Aunt Meredith that I missed speaking to Mama and how I hated the silence. Meredith would always say Mama’s silence was louder than our words. I didn’t know why Mama was silent all those months, but I began to understand what Meredith meant. Whatever Mama had been dealing with had been bigger than what she could express.

“I found something while in the attic,” I say, pulling out the folded drawing. “It’s a drawing of a child sitting on a swing.”

“Sounds lovely,” she says between bites.

“It would be, but someone drew all over it with a red crayon. It ruined the picture.” I stare down at the red scribble, entranced.

Meredith drops her spoon with a clank against her teacup. “Where did you find this picture?” she demands, her words anxious.

“It was lying on the attic floor next to a chest.” I flick my gaze from her back to the ruined yet familiar drawing.

I faintly hear Meredith say, “Your mother told me she got rid of that chest years ago,” before I’m spiraling into the red lines of the picture in front of me.

I could hear Mama’s sobs and eased the door to her room open to better eavesdrop on the commotion. Mama’s sitting on the foot of the bed. Her head is in her hands. Her shoulders shake as she sobs, tears running down her wrists and arms. Meredith stands next to her with a scolding look on her face.

“I told you it was too risky. The therapist said not to do anything to trigger a memory. That memory was of Grace, not Ann.”

“I know,” Mama screams. She picks up her head from her hands and looks at Aunt Meredith. Sadness and pain tearing through her expression. “I didn’t do it to harm anyone. The few memories I have are precious to me.”

Aunt Meredith walks to the dresser and snatches a piece of paper. “It doesn’t look to be as precious for her.” She holds the paper with red scribble lines all over the page. She flips the drawing over so Mama can see it. There is a drawing of a girl at the park underneath all the scribbles. “She’s obviously furious.”

Mama slumps in on herself. “I know,” she whispers.

“We have to call Dr. Shelby now. She needs to see Ann right away. They may have to up her dosage and increase her therapy sessions. It was too easy for Grace to come out this time.” I slide down the frame of the door and gently pull the door closed. With little sound, it shuts.

“Grace,” I whisper, my face scrunching up with confusion. Who is she and why was my mother so upset about her? What did she have to do with my therapist? Again, there was Mama and Dr. Shelby center stage.

“What did you say?” Meredith snaps.

A cold fear rushes over me as I stare across the table at my aunt. They may have to up her dosage. You provoked her. That’s what Meredith had said to my mother. She’d been furious with her. Why? What were they hiding?

“I said it was eerie up there.” I fold the paper back up and slide it into my pocket. “I’m going to go get started on Mama’s room. Let me know if you need anything.”

Aunt Meredith reaches out and grabs my arm. “White rose.” I smile at the nickname. It’s a name she gave me when I was little. “Are you sure you are well?” Her blank eyes search the air between us.

I lay my hand over hers. “I’m fine, Marigold,” I reply, using the nickname I had given her in return. “Everything is going to be fine.” I only hope that isn’t a lie. Her and Mama were hiding something. The question is what and how does Dr. Shelby factor into it?

Comments

Deana Coddaire Tue, 27/07/2021 - 21:35

Believable-yet-untrustworthy narrator--love it so far! Clear, uncluttered prose and dialogue.

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