Cemetery House

Amelia scrubbed the wood floors of the living room. She scrubbed them three times a week, more if the weather was bad. And the weather had been bad. Storms had rolled in nearly a month ago and it hadn't stopped raining since. The house was old, rickety in some places, but with a solid roof and a good fireplace for cold and windy nights. The sunlight shone in through the black curtains she'd put up when the old man passed on. He joined his wife only two years after she had gone, leaving their young child in the care of a twenty year old maid. Amelia attempted to reach out to other relatives but no one replied. The child was so young and depressed and the townspeople pitied Amelia.

She learned the dust tended to pile up when no one was watching so she adjusted to cleaning as often as she did. When she was finally satisfied that the wooden boards were spotless, she dropped the brush into her bucket, and carried it into the kitchen. There was a red tint when she poured the water into the porcelain sink. She thought it was the soap. When she'd finished that task, she washed the walls. There were flecks of brown, likely from the mud she'd tracked in when gardening the other day, speckled on the baseboards. She scoured them away, leaving not a single trace of dirt behind. She knew the neighbors thought them odd. She stayed to care for the orphaned child. She did not marry. They continued to live in the mansion the child's grandfather built at the top of the hill and above the cemetery. Twice weekly she ran a stall to sell their fruits and vegetables. They said she had the best in town and had asked for her secret. But she'd only smile. Something to do with the soil getting the rain first, or maybe how the fog touched them before anyone else, she often told them.

Sometimes she didn't go into town at all. The child had failing health, they all knew. Always had since she was an infant. Sometimes the winds were too cold and were like to bowl her over. And she never swam in the lake during the summers with the rest of the children. In fact, she never played with the other children at all. Whether this was because she didn't fancy it, or because they all feared her was unknown. And sometimes, her eyes became eerily dark – so dark, they seemed like two pitch black pools that led into the depths of Hell. When that happened, then Amelia boarded up the windows and shuttered themselves in. No one really knew why or what happened during that time. They told themselves it was bronchitis or whooping cough. Their eyes didn't meet when they said these things. They walked by the empty vegetable stand as if it had never existed. They couldn't know the truth, wouldn't be able to fathom it in the slightest.

But Amelia knew better. She had seen the horror of those nonhuman teeth. The way that six year old's mouth came unhinged, tearing into skin and flesh and bone. There was no time to scream. Only the crunching of marrow filled the room, as Amelia stood behind the black curtains, covering her ears with her hands. Blood spilled from between sharp incisions, staining the hardwood floors and showering the room in a mist of red.

At least three times weekly. Unless the weather was bad. And the weather had been bad. Despite this, Amelia smiled. At least their garden was the best. All the townspeople said so.