Pete is knee-deep in the dirt, shovel scraping against soil. He sends earth and stones sailing over his shoulder, the edge of his tool glinting in the waning sunlight the way a gold tooth would sparkle in the smile of a bad man. The piles grow around the edges of the hole.

 

It is sunset. The darkness in the forest is deepening, the shadows lengthening, as light disappears. Pete has sent the forest creatures skittering to their holes and dens where I imagine they now sit cowering, not a single chirp or twitter making its way into the clearing. The only sound I can hear is the hypnotic chik, shhhhk, chik, shhhhk, chik, shhhhk of Pete’s shovel.

 

I sit and watch from my perch in a tree; I watch the yawning mouth in the ground stretch. Pete is absorbed in his work, but one time, he looks up at my tree. There is the briefest moment where he seems to be looking right at me. I open my mouth as if to say something, as if I will ask him about his job, or the state of his marriage, or if he, by any chance, has managed to find a way to send me to the next world. But then I am reminded, as he turns back to his work, that ghosts are invisible.  

 

Pete suddenly looks over his shoulder. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and flicks the sweat to the ground. “You’re late.”

 

Jane steps out of the treeline and into the little clearing. “Yeah, yeah. I had to take May to dance practice. But I brought beer.”

 

Jane saunters over and, with a grunt, drops her bag at the base of my tree. She looks down into the hole as Pete steps out of it. He rests his forearms on the top of the shovel. “Do you think it’d help if we dug deeper this time?”

 

“You’re funny.”

 

“Your turn.” He hands Jane the shovel.

 

As Jane hops into the hole, she tells Pete that the beer is in the front pocket of her bag. He grabs one, lounges against the tree trunk with a sigh, and cracks it open. 

 

Four thousand, three hundred and eighty-six days since I last had a beer. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty-four days since I last had a glass of wine. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty-three days since I last had anything to drink at all. 

 

“So, dance lessons, huh?” Pete says. 

 

“Costs a fortune. And it’ll only cost more if she sticks with it. Lessons, costumes, shoes… Did you know you have to pay just to enter a kid into a competition? Might as well just put her in hockey with the boys. At least then we’d be driving them all to the same place.”

 

“Gas prices are crazy.” Pete sighs. “Ah, it’s for the best probably. Hockey’s rough. Andrew’s concussed.”

 

“Again?”

 

“He’s likely out for good this time.”

 

“But what about college?”

 

Pete takes a swig. 

 

***

 

A list of things that could fit in Pete and Jane’s hole: one thousand, two hundred and sixteen cans of beer. Fifty cases of beer. Three thousand, one hundred and seventy-one litres of beer. Eighteen blunt-edged shovels. The money, in cash, that Jane has spent on marriage counselling. The money, in cash, that Pete has spent on his divorce settlement. The money, in cash, that Pete’s ex-wife has spent on Andrew’s hockey equipment. Andrew’s hockey equipment. Andrew’s college application. Andrew’s dreams. My dreams. My favourite pair of flip-flops. The skeletons and the closet. The piles of dirt they have dug up, in the event that they decide to call this whole thing off, which would be preferable.

 

One dead body.

 

***

 

It is all perfectly normal for this time of year. It is normal for Pete and Jane to dig a hole; it is normal for them to drink beer while they do this; it is normal for me to watch them while they are drinking beer while they are doing this; it is normal for them to not notice me while I am watching them drinking beer while they are doing this. Normally, digging holes in the middle of the woods is not any person’s idea of normal. Pete and Jane have hollowed out the word in the same way they hollow out the forest floor once a year. Twelve times total. 

 

“You know,” Jane says, “I was thinking about the things we’ve tried, and I realized… Well, I don’t know if you’ll like the sound of it to be honest.”

 

“Keep digging.”

 

Jane’s head pops up over the edge of the hole. “Ethan, the little history buff, has been obsessed with the Salem witch trials lately, and it just got me thinking…”

 

“You think Bridget was a witch?”

 

“We’ve crossed off zombie, vampire, and just about every other cursed undead creature.”

 

Witch is a good guess, but they’re wrong again. There’s only one witch in my family: Aunt Trista, the family wacko, the one with dyslexia who has complained to me countless times about botched spells and recipes read wrong. The family hated her, and maybe they still do. I never did, though. She’s a good conversationalist, even if she wasn’t all there. I called her at 9:02 pm on that night twelve years ago. I dialled 0276 when I should have dialled 911. I said, “Aunt Trista, I’m scared I will die tonight, can you help?” instead of, “Operator, I have reason to believe someone is coming to silence me.” I heard through the receiver, “I’ve got just the spell for that, honey, leave me to it,” instead of “You mean you think someone is going to murder you?” 

 

I probably shouldn’t have called her in the first place. I often wonder whether it was the cedarwood or the ginger root or the pickled spider legs that did it.

 

“We’re running out of time,” Pete says. 

 

“I’m tired.”

 

“Give me the shovel.”

            

***

 

I spent nine hundred and twelve days living in Pete’s town. Of those nine hundred and twelve days, thirty-seven were spent setting up my new home, six hundred and seven were spent working, and eight hundred and twenty-two days had passed before I realized my life was going nowhere and I ought to look for houses and jobs elsewhere. But I never did. 

 

“We’re moving again.”

 

Pete raises his brows. “Oh, really? Again?’

 

“Mark’s got a new job. It’s farther, but not by much. Only a few more hours if you’re driving.”

 

“Don’t you already drive like two hours to get here?”

 

It didn’t take Jane as long as it took me to realize her life was going nowhere, to move away from Pete’s town. Maybe that had something to do with me. I don’t know the exact number of days, but from what I’ve gathered, it’s been about one hundred and twenty-six months since Jane met, married, and moved with Mark to a place without ghosts, only to drive the two hours back to visit hers once a year. 

 

“Mark doesn’t like it when I come here,” Jane says. “He said he notices a difference in me every time I come back, like I’m sickly, and not totally present. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I think it’s his roundabout way of trying to get me to stop coming back.”

 

“We agreed we’d do this together.”

 

“I know that. I wasn’t suggesting I stop coming, I just…” Jane sighs. “I don’t know.”

 

“Has he gotten over me yet?”

 

“I still don’t think he likes you. But what am I supposed to do? Bring him?” Jane lets out a bitter laugh. “Not likely. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Why does he think I’m spending all this time and money on marriage counselling?”

 

“How’s that going?”

 

“Bad. The kids hate the fighting. I hate it too.” 

 

“At this rate, are you sure you’re actually going to be moving with him?”

 

Jane glares at him. “Shut up. None of this is my fault.”

 

She’s right there. It’s 50% her fault. It doesn’t always take two people to commit a murder, but in this case, it did.

 

“I wasn’t blaming you,” Pete says. 

 

“Things would all be fine if I didn’t have to keep coming back.”

 

But that’s the problem with Pete’s town, isn’t it? Pete’s town is like a mouse trap. Pete’s town is like a pin stuck through a butterfly’s thorax. Pete’s town is like a grave that you lay in yourself. Maybe the town itself isn’t really the issue. The issue is the person who sets the cheese on the trap, who stabs the butterfly, who buries the mouse in the backyard, who digs the grave.

 

There was a time, the first time, eleven years ago, before Pete and Jane had learned the rules of our abominable game, before I got stuck in this clearing, when I woke up. I hadn’t realized it was possible to wake up. And on top of that, I felt fine. I counted my fingers and toes, all still there. Ran my fingers through my hair. Brushed the dirt off. Then, I made my way into town. The goal was to find a phone before Pete and Jane found me. I had to call Aunt Trista. I had to know what to do next. But, sadly, I had only twenty-seven minutes and fifty-four seconds of freedom before Pete spotted me on his early morning run and, well, that was that. 

 

Now they’ve given me this spot, this clearing in the woods, too far to wander back from. It’s incredibly boring. I count to pass the time. I count leaves (millions), squirrels (dozens), birds (also dozens), deer (two), and days (four thousand, three hundred and eighty-three). Eventually, though, as the year comes to an end, the spiritual bungee cord that prevents me from ascending to the next world winds and pulls me even closer to the ground until, eventually, I am confined to the hole, then once more to the body.

 

Hence the digging. Hence the beer.

 

***

 

“May’s got the cutest lisp right now.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Mommy, can I pleath hath a glath of milk?” Jane chuckles. “She just lost her two front teeth. Tooth fairy left her a whole five dollars.”

 

“I remember when Andrew used to stick straws in the gaps between his teeth, back when he was a kid.” 

 

Jane looks sympathetic. “What’s he going to do? Now that college is off the table.”

 

“I guess he’ll take a gap year. No sense sticking around here.”

 

“A break might do him good. I know it did me good back in the day. Saw Europe. Learned the world was bigger than this stupid town, only to move back anyhow. I should’ve stayed in Europe.”

 

Pete’s shovel makes a thudding noise. 

 

Jane and Pete look at one another for a moment. Then, Jane pulls a pair of gloves out of her bag while Pete continues to shovel with shallower strokes.

 

I see, first, a chest, then a head, a thigh, a hand. Jane hops in the hole and starts to smooth dirt away with her hands before worming them in behind the shoulders and popping the body out of its hole like a carrot on harvest day. I jump down from my tree, feeling the invisible tug of the body now that it’s visible again. I stand at the head of the grave, hands on my knees, looking down at my face.

 

Looks like my hair actually grew back this time.

 

***

 

Imagine you have found yourself at the wrong place at the wrong time. Two people and a bag full of money. Two people and a bag full of drugs. Two people on a drunken rampage. Two people and some kind of dark ritual you don’t understand. Two people killing someone on a drunken rampage. Two people turning and seeing you. 

 

You see it through a window, or in a dark alley, or in a backyard, or on a camping trip in the middle of the woods. Whatever it is, they notice you noticing them doing the incriminating thing. Imagine that the people who notice you noticing them doing the incriminating thing, whatever the incriminating thing is, are people that you know. It adds to the drama. 

 

Imagine that you try and laugh it off. It’s no big deal; you won’t tell anyone. You get down on your knees and promise not to tell. Imagine you go home. You consider calling the police. You decide against it. You decide that these people are your coworkers and they are not bad people. Or maybe they are your friends, or your fellow book club members, or the friendly ladies who work at the local Walmart checkout. You decide that they deserve a second chance. (You wonder, every day, if they were bad people after all.) At any rate, you call your Aunt Trista instead. 

 

Imagine you hear the back door swing open in the middle of the night. You wonder if you somehow forgot to lock it. You wonder if it is the wind. You hope it is the wind. Imagine you decide to try and trick the wind. You yell to the other side of the house, “Honey, did you lock the door?” You wait to hear footsteps. When there is no sound, you get up out of bed and walk into your backyard to investigate. You realize it is too dark to see anything. You realize you can no longer breathe. You try to remedy this. 

 

You fail at remedying this. 

 

Imagine that you ride in the trunk next to your dead body. You watch the coworkers or friends or Walmart employees bury your dead body. Imagine your existence becomes one of repetition, with this process repeating itself in various ways for the next twelve years. After all, they can’t risk you coming back and telling people all about that incriminating thing you saw. (No matter that you promised you wouldn’t. Who can be trusted these days?) 

 

A list of ways your murderers may try to kill you: drowning you, sawing you to bits, shooting you in the head, shooting you in the heart, crushing you with a boulder, stabbing you with a stake, suffocating you with a plastic bag, hanging you, cutting your head off with the blunt blade of a shovel. You do not really have a choice in the matter, and it’s pain inexpressible, but hey, let your coworkers (or whoever you have chosen to fill this role) be creative. They’re new to this, too. 

 

You wonder how many days it will take the person in charge of spirits to notice that something isn’t quite right here.

 

You count the days. 

 

***

 

The skin is growing back, purple and swollen and covered in dirt as it is. The face is gaunt, but filling out slowly. The fingers are long and knobbly like Aunt Trista’s fingers (perhaps a genetic trait). The hair is growing. While it was brushing the tops of the ears a few minutes ago, it is now almost down to the shoulders, almost where it was before the body was ever put in the grave in the ground. 

 

I look down at the eyelids, pale and soft as rose petals, and see that the right eye is twitching. 

 

I will wake up soon.

 

“It’s her own fault.” Jane whispers this. It’s how I know the ordeal is almost upon me. She gives the same speech every year, after a few drinks. “She was too stupid. Too friendly. Too good at going unnoticed.” She stifles a sob with another hard gulp of her drink. She chugs the rest, crushes the can in her palm, and chucks it down on top of the body. It lands on the chest before bouncing and rolling and getting stuck in the crook of the neck.

 

Pete is using a pocket knife to clean the dirt out from under his nails. He finally looks up at Jane. “Did you bring the gun?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. We could use this, I guess,” he says, holding up the knife. 

 

Jane walks over to her bag, unzips the back pocket, and pulls out a heavy red jug labelled “Gasoline.”

 

The panic comes upon me suddenly, like a person strangling me from behind. 

 

“Oh,” Pete says. “Won’t the burning smell?”

 

“If it works, what difference does it make?”

 

Pete shrugs. “None whatsoever. But didn’t they hang witches at Salem?”

 

“Yeah, but we already tried that.”

 

“Were they even witches at Salem?”

 

“Forget Salem, it’s not important. It’s just what made me think of the idea. That’s all.”

 

“Alright then, you’re the boss.”

 

It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to run, but I give it one last go. Using as much momentum as I can build up in only a few strides, I sprint to the edge of the clearing. But, as always, the invisible rope goes taut and yanks me backwards. I fall. The rope starts winding, forcing me slowly back towards the grave. I dig my heels in, claw at the ground, scream. But I keep inching backwards, towards the hole, towards the body. I look desperately over at Pete and Jane. 

 

Jane unscrews the cap on the gasoline and tosses it into the hole. She tips the jug and the liquid splashes down and glug, glug, glugs its way out of the container until it’s empty. 

 

I fall back into my grave, on top of my body. I scratch at the dirt walls but my limbs are getting heavier and heavier; the weight forces me down into myself.

 

I had been hoping for the gun. The gun is preferable above all things. It is fast. It is pain concentrated to only one point. Just a crack of bone, the squish of flesh giving way, the penetration of the heart or the brain as the bullet spirals and burrows and digs down to the vital components of the body and makes a hole, and it is all over within a matter of minutes. Of all the things they have chosen to try, the gun is the thing I resign myself to the easiest. 

 

I thought they were tired of trying new things. I thought they had resigned themselves in the same way I had, to be stuck forever in this cursed forest, to regret a day twelve years ago when I made a series of bad decisions, when they made a series of bad decisions. Yes, I had been hoping for the gun.

 

No. That’s not true. I realize this as Jane hands Pete the matchbox, and he scratches the red tip of a match into flame. The orange glow casts shadows on his face, making him look like a ghost. He reaches over me and I watch that match dangle from above, waiting to be released. I realize that I was wrong; I hadn’t been hoping for the gun. 

 

I had been hoping to be left alone. 

 

The smell of the rich earth, the pine needles, the leaves, the beer, it is all covered by the burning, alcoholic scent of gasoline that lights up my nostrils. The cold, damp dirt presses against my back. I can feel the dirt, also, under my fingernails and toenails, in my ears, in my hair. Its salty taste is in my mouth, grains caught in between my teeth. I feel the tab of the cold can sticking into my neck, the hollow plastic jug on my chest, the way the hairs on my arms stand up as my body finally perceives that it must do something about the awful cold. 

 

My eyes snap open. 

 

Pete and Jane are looking down at me. I part my dry, cracked lips, open my mouth wide, draw in breath to speak, to plead, to beg, but I choke on gasoline. I don’t even have time to cough. Pete releases the match and it plummets towards my chest.

 

I want to tell Pete that I hope Andrew still manages to pay for college. I want to tell Jane that May will be the star of her dance recital. I want to tell them both that, if they let things be different, I could drink beer with them and join in on their conversation for once, because I enjoy their conversation, and I will miss them for a year. I want to tell them that I am sorry for the inconvenience I have caused, that I am sorry for trapping them here in this clearing with me, that I am sorry for the bad effects of whatever wrong ingredient Aunt Trista used, and that I wish they would have told me to throw myself off a cliff. I wish I could tell them that I would be content to live in the woods alone forever if I could just be allowed, one time, to live.

 

But instead, all that comes out in between the screams from the hole in the melting flesh of my face is a wailing, phlegmy, “I hate you.”

 

***

 

Pete pats the back of the shovel on the mound of dirt. He’s thinking about his dentist appointment tomorrow, how his back molar is sore, and he’s hoping he doesn’t need a filling.

 

“Pete?” Jane has the backpack slung over her shoulder, much lighter now that the jug has been burned along with the body. “Pete, how much longer do you think we’ll need to do this for?”

 

He shrugs. “Probably until the day we die.”

 

“Right. Well, I hope Mark didn’t forget to pick May up from her dance lesson. I promised her I’d give her a kiss goodnight when I got home.” Jane waves. “I’ll see you next year, then.”

 

“See you.”

 

“Don’t forget the beer. It’s your turn.”