Page 10 of Ghoul as a Cucumber

Dani shrugs. “The last place anyone would think to look for a body is in someone else’s grave. As to what one might do with the trophies, you’re on your own.”

“Thank you, Dani.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dani frowns at Pax’s parcel. “And get rid of his stuff from his room, too. If anyone in the village asks, say that he got called away on urgent business for god. You won’t be entirely lying. Now, get out of here before he stinks out the place.”

“I resent that. My flatulence has a rich and varied bouquet.” Pax hoists the carpet back onto his shoulder and pumps his fist in the air. “Back to the cemetery!”

4

Bree

And that’s how I end up in Grimdale Cemetery at four AM, digging up poor Ralph Sommersby.

Technically, Pax is the one doing the digging. Edward is composing a poem for the occasion. Ambrose is calling out encouraging statements like, “Doing a great job, old chap!” and “That’s it, put your back into it!” And I am leaning against a cherub, trying not to throw up.

“In shadows deep, ’neath moon’s embrace, A clandestine task, we inter a face…less man. The earthy womb accepts its due, A secret kept, known to but a few—hey stop that, you careless oaf!” Edward yells. “You threw that clot of dirt right through me.”

“Serves you right for not helping.”

“Even if I were able to lift a spade, these hands were not made for manual labour.” Edward holds up his hand, turning his long fingers in the moonlight. “In my day, graverobbing was the work of doctors. Perhaps the village physician will lend a hand if you can’t stomach it yourself?”

“We’re not robbing a grave,” Ambrose points out patiently. “Technically, we are placing somethingintoa grave. We’re grave-accessorizing.”

I palm Father Bryne’s cross as I stare down at Ralph Sommersby’s final resting place, which he will soon be sharing with a rather righteous evil priest. Sommersby was a grumpy old man who hated everything except golf, but even so, I don’t think he’d appreciate being stuck with Father Bryne for eternity.

I don’t like this. We’re disturbing a man’s eternal rest.

But if I don’t want to spend the rest of my life rotting in jail so I can make sure that Jack the Ripper doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s the only thing we can do.

Even though Father Bryne was part of my world, where the rules don’t always apply, he was still a formally living, breathing human who is now a meat Popsicle, thanks to me. And if I don’t get him out of Grimwood Manor and remove the bloodstains from the flagstones, then the police will come afterme.

And I will not rot in jail for killing an evil man.

THWUNK.

Pax’s spade strikes something hard.

“I’ve found the coffin,” he declares.

“Okay, good.” My heart hammers in my chest. “I’ve got the crowbar—”

“I don’t need no crows.” Pax leans down and prises open the lid with his bare hands.

I don’t look. Ican’t.

I listen to the smashing of various trophies being piled up beside the grave, followed by a thud and some awkward shuffling as Pax loads Father Bryne’s body into Ralph’s coffin, followed by the priest’s small bag of possessions. He replaces the lid, leaps out of the hole, and starts shoveling the dirt back in.

“I can help with this part,” I say.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Pax runs his hand over his hair and streaks dirt down his cheek, which is already crusted with dried blood. “I will always bury the bodies for you.”

“I sincerely hope this is a one-time occurrence,” I say as I pick up the second shovel Mr. Pitts keeps on hand. “I should at least get my hands a little dirty.”

In no time at all, we have all the dirt packed back into the hole. Pax gathers up the golfing trophies and stalks off in the direction of town to toss them into the duck pond while I trample down the dirt on the grave and wash and replace the shovels in Mr. Pitts’ maintenance shed.

I glance at my watch. It’s 5:42AM. This whole night has been one nightmare after another, at least twelve chapters worth of horror. I can barely keep my eyes open, and yet…I look at Edward and Ambrose as they watch me (well, Edward watches me, Ambrose whistles a tune and tries to smell the wildflowers growing around the Witches’ Monument) and I feel a surge of something electrifying and terrifying.

All the awful things I said to them during our fight come flooding back, and I hate myself for being so petty and so afraid. I hurt them so deeply and yet they still came to my rescue; they laid everything they have on the line for me.

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