Page 50 of Buried in the Woods Below

Haunting, spooking, what a fright!

Mother ghost said, ‘Boo, boo, boo!’

But back to the house, only six ghosts flew.”

The nursery rhyme lures me into a trance.

A memory emerges from the fog.

One I’ve tried to forget.

Chapter 25

Twenty-two years ago

I’m eight years old.

Dad left on Tuesday for a book convention, and Mom’s at the office, as always. Which means I’m stuck with Beth.

She’s splayed out on our living room couch like a corpse, one leg draped over the armrest, licking the cream out of an Oreo—my Oreos. Crumbs litter her shirt and nest in her frizzy red perm like dandruff. Three rows of cookies are already gone. She’ll probably finish the last row too. She always does.

She’s watching The O.C., or one of those awful grown-up shows where everyone’s tan and crying about something. On my TV.

I sit at the kitchen island with my journal, waiting for the show to end so I can watch SpongeBob. The minute the credits roll, I hop down and grab the remote.

“What are you doing?” she snaps, digging a fingernail into a pimple on her cheek.

“I’m turning on SpongeBob. You said I could watch when your show was done.”

“Oh, no. There’s a bonus episode tonight. So it’ll be another hour. Sorry.”

She snatches the remote out of my hand, flips the channel back, and pops another Oreo into her mouth, humming through the crumbs like some smug little vacuum.

She says “Sorry,” but her lips, curved around a fresh Oreo, hold a self-satisfaction that belies the word.

I slap the Oreos off the table.

Crumbs scatter, and the plastic tray skids across the hardwood. Her eyes widen. The remote slips from her hand.

“You little brat,” she shrieks.

I grab the remote and run.

“I’m telling Mom you said that!” I yell as I bolt upstairs.

“Oh no you’re not!”

Her footsteps stomp up the stairs behind me. I race down the hallway, tears already pricking my eyes, and fling myself into my bedroom. I try to slam the door, but she jams her foot in the frame.

We struggle for a second—me pushing, her pushing back—until she overpowers me and shoves it open. Her face is cherry-red, her chest heaving.

“Give. Me. The remote.”

“No!” I scream and kick her in the shin.

She yelps and grabs her leg, and I seize my chance. I dive into the closet and slam it shut behind me.

Pitch-black surrounds me, except for a thin sliver of light on the floor. Dust floats in the air. My clothes sway gently from the impact, brushing my cheeks and hair. The space is tight. I can’t even raise my elbows.