Restless

3 - Disturbed

As Debra pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot, it worried her to see the sheriff’s Chevy pickup parked next to the owner’s old Volvo. Did they know something? Would they come to her looking for the body of a certain young girl? Of course not, she thought. That’s ridiculous. How could they know?

Inside she found Earl brewing coffee and reading through the paper. 

"What’s the sheriff doing here?" she asked.

"Just procedure," he said. "Any time a grave is disturbed the local law has to investigate. Coroner will be out later, but she’s coming from county."

"Disturbed?" she asked.

He walked to the side window, pulled the velvet curtains back and pointed. 

Debra approached the window. The sheriff and Mr. Crimshaw, the funeral director, were standing at the bottom of a hill where it looked like a mudslide had taken out a big chunk of the landscape. Coffins were piled together like children's blocks.

"I told him not to put plots on that hill three years ago," he said. "Now look at the mess."

Sickness filled her stomach and acid from her morning Diet Coke rose in her throat. She sat at her desk and took a deep breath in an attempt to hold back the nausea.

"Oh," Earl said. "Sorry. I shoulda warned ya."

"No," she said. "It's not that. I didn't get much sleep last night."

Which was true. Her night had been haunted by strange dreams and even stranger waking moments. The darkness had pulled at her more strongly, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with Claire. She had so many questions that they kept her tossing and turning. 

She woke groggy and tired, stumbled upstairs to find the girl moving clothes and boxes into the room. She had asked her where they came from, but Claire still wasn't talking. Debra had spent a few minutes of the morning trying to establish communications with her while getting dressed and made up for work. Pen and paper resulted in nothing but a collection of strange scribbles that Debra thought could have been something in a different language, but not like anything she had ever seen. The symbols seemed to be little twigs, bones, and spider webs in long lines across the page. 

She even attempted to get the girl to text on the mobile, something she thought all teenage girls could do by rote, but the words came out a jumbled mess that didn't even resemble English. All efforts frustrated Claire, so Debra let it go and decided that hand gestures and simple yes or no questions would have to do.

"Was it just the storm or is there something else they're investigating?" Debra asked. 

The thought of the coffins falling down the side of the hill and Claire waking, working her way out of that pile, and trudging the quarter mile through the storm and mud to Debra's house was suddenly like a physical pain to her. She wondered how many other restless guests Resting Hills had buried. 

"Far as I know just the storm," he said. "I took a gander when I came in early. Just looks like the coffins got shuffled about, but we know which goes where and will have them back in the ground before the weekend—probably new plots though. I wouldn't worry if I were you. This sort of thing rarely happens."

Debra spent the morning answering and making phone calls. She drank another Diet Coke and watered the two plants in the anteroom. There were few incoming calls, so she made inquiries in regards to some accounts that had come due on pre-need plots. Anything she could to keep herself busy. 

Eventually the sheriff and the funeral director came into the main office and Mr. Crimshaw introduced the sheriff to Debra.

"Quite a mess out there," Sheriff Marcus said with a slight Texas twang, the kind common in the country, but rare in the bigger cities. "Insurance should cover it though."