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The man she buried is back and knocking.&nbsp; It started with a soft tapping, so quiet she could barely hear it. Tiny raps on the wooden door with his bony knuckles, like a whisper taunting her.&nbsp; At first, she ignored it. Brushing it off as nothing more than the house settling or the wind rapping at the door. Even so, as she made her way back to the sofa, she turned on every lamp she passed. As she settled back under the blanket, ignoring the truth brewing at the back of her mind, she turned the TV up a little louder, for if you ignore something, it’ll go away. Right? As the night drew on, her eyes became heavy in the flickering glow of late-night television. The faint knocking faded from her mind to become nothing more than a fleeting thought she thought she thought. Certainly nothing that would keep her from a peaceful slumber. ****** In the morning, she had no recollection of the knocking at the door. The sun shone through her thin curtains, illuminating the unfinished floorboards of this rickety old house. The dust of memories and past lives danced in the beams as she stirred back to life. As she made her way down the stairs, the door in front of her was deathly silent. You’d think it had never been knocked on in its life. Certainly not touched by cold, spindly fingers trying to break through the walls of her carefully curated sanctuary.&nbsp; You’d think the same if you saw her. Perfectly untouched, unscarred, unblemished. Never touched by malevolence. Not shattered by that deathly grip and put back together again.&nbsp; ****** A green whistling kettle placed onto a gas stove. A bone china cup with a worn floral pattern and a chip just above the handle. A teaspoon of coffee and two of sugar. The contents of the fridge door rattles as it opens, the only sound to disturb the still of morning. A glass milk bottle placed onto the worktop with condensation trickling down in a race to the bottom. Her perfect morning routine, untroubled by the events of the night before. She leans back against the countertop in yesterday’s t-shirt and underwear, stretching her neck as the warmth of the sun bathes her face. A small smile graces the corners of her mouth as the kettle begins to sing. The noises last night were nothing more than an old house she calls home settling its weary bones.&nbsp; Cup of coffee in hand, she returns to her sun-drenched spot to bask in the peace of the morning, a far cry from what her life once was.&nbsp; If she lets her mind wander too far, she doesn’t like where it ends up. Flickers of darkness enter uninvited and unwelcome. Instead, she looks to the future, to open windows and badly painted walls in a sanctuary all of her own. Just forget about what’s buried outside. BANG! BANG! BANG! The sharp knock at the door startles her, and the coffee cup shatters at her feet. This time, she wasn’t imagining it. This wasn’t the house settling.&nbsp; “Who could it be? Nobody knows I’m here.” Her internal monologue was shaking as much as her hands.&nbsp; Sliding down the cabinets onto all fours, she made her way into the living room to cower at the end of the sofa, making sure to stay out of sight. Perhaps they’d got the wrong house, and they’d just go away. As she sat on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, no footsteps were walking away from the house. Why wouldn’t they leave? Another firm rap on the wood. Then another, then another. Each strike made her body tense and her heart pound.&nbsp; “No one knows where I live.” She muttered under her breath, wiping the tears from her eyes before they had the chance to fall—they don’t count that way. After what felt like an eternity, she lifted herself up from the floor. There had been no footsteps outside, but no more knocking at the door either. It was 13 tentative steps to the window. One…Two….Three… Each foot placement purposeful. Grounded.&nbsp; Pulling back the moth-eaten curtain, she held her breath and carefully peered outside. Her shoulders dropped at the sight of nothing. Not a soul was out there. Not a car. Not an animal. She couldn’t have dreamed it, could she? Never mind that. There was coffee and china to clean up. ******With the kitchen floor cleaned and sanctuary restored, she settled herself by the window, waiting to see if anyone would return to knock at her door. Birds and butterflies came and went, but no one pulled into the driveway or walked down the path. Everything was calm. Everything except the shadow in the corner of the garden. She always tried her best to ignore it. She didn’t want to think about it since she had buried it. It was in the past, never to be spoken of again, but there was no denying that it was bigger today. The shadow loomed over the garden, pulsating and angry, seemingly drawing in every drop of light in its vicinity.&nbsp; Usually, the shadow only covered the disturbed soil under the apple tree in the far corner of the garden. The make-shift grave that was a little too shallow. It was as far away from the house as she could get. Out of sight, out of mind worked for a while, but it wasn’t long before he started to seep back into her consciousness. It started with the soil changing from the sandy light brown it always was to a sludgy black. Then, the wildlife began to give the corner a wide berth. Before long, the apples on the tree would be rotten from the inside out, no matter how quickly you picked them. The bark began to crack and peel, and the leaves were perpetually dry and curled up. Infected with the disease, decomposing at its roots. Now, the shadow was beginning to spread across the garden, inch by inch, creeping towards the front door.&nbsp; She found herself stuck to the windowsill, unable to move, barely able to breathe as the light from the window gradually diminished. Her chest grew tighter as the black cloud approached, swallowing the brightly coloured flowers she’d planted as a defence.&nbsp; Her eyes widened, and she hugged her knees closer to her chest as the shadow began to fill the window pane. There was nothing she could do now.&nbsp; A rumble began deep in her brain, quiet at first, but it grew and grew until she could feel it vibrating through her bones, and she could hear nothing else. There were no bird sounds any more. No gusts of summer air, just a roaring reverberation deafening her inside her mind.&nbsp; The room was in complete darkness now as she clasped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to block what was coming. Then, through the thin skin of her eyelids, a bright white flash filled the room, and the rumble turned into an ear-splitting whistle.&nbsp; The force of the sound blew the window in, knocking her to the floor, surrounded by shards of razor-sharp glass. She lay there, curled into a fetal position, hands still firmly pressed against her ears as tears streamed down her cheeks.&nbsp; “Please. Not again.” She whimpered. The shadow moved silently through the house, covering her like a blanket. The smell was pungent, like decaying flesh and rotted grass. The smell of a buried secret.&nbsp; As quickly as the shadow arrived, it dissipated, slinking away into the cracks between the floorboards, as if it had never been there. The house once again fell calm, with an eerie kind of silence. All that was left was a little girl of 8 years old, curled in a fetal position in the middle of the floor, wearing yesterday's t-shirt. Tap! Tap! Tap! The man she buried was back and knocking.

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The Grave In Her Garden

Emm.catt

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The Grave In Her Garden

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