Ghosts and Agatha

VIII: Elizabeth's Grave

It was after I had muttered those words that I realised that if I were to dig up Elizabeth's grave, I would need the tools.

My mind was swirling like fog, clouded with a plume of impatience as I retracted my hands from the fresh dirt resting upon Elizabeth's grave, which was now covered in a layer of pristine-white snow, like the dirt covering the grave was a brownie and had been sifted over with icing sugar.

Quickly I made my way back to my grandparents' home. The sky was suddenly crammed with clouds that resembled massive, watery black cotton balls squashed together. The snowflakes cascading from the sky were crafted into intricate designs, swirling as they floated away from the sky's grasp and blanketed the ground with white flower patterns.

I wanted to bask in the snow; for the flakes to land upon my hair as the black sky draped over Chester like closing eyes. But I knew I couldn't do those things at a dire time like this because seeing Elizabeth again was much more important. I had said this so many times before, but I missed her -- although my impulse to see Elizabeth again was much more significant this time, given that there was actually a possibility that that could happen.

I knew I was most likely being stupid: perhaps the whispering had been my imagination, merely the wind encircling around the room, whistling and crafting the words I only wished would be spoken?

But it couldn't be; all the times I had seen Elizabeth couldn't have just been hallucinations. Hadn't Edgar seen her at the beach, too? I was sure he had been lying when he said it was only Edgar being scared of the story I had told him about my sister -- after all, it had sounded much too unrealistic for someone to actually be frightened by.

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth," I muttered.

"Agatha?"

I snapped my head up to locate where the voice was coming from.

"Edgar."

He grimaced as he looked at me. His blonde hair was mussed and sprinkled with snowflakes, and his pale skin looking even milkier except for a timid pink colour seeping through his cheeks. One of Edgar's eyebrows was sticking out in a strange direction and he was shivering.

"What are you doing?" Edgar inquired.

My lips formed a tight line. What was I supposed to tell him? That I was about to dig up someone's -- or, more specifically, my own sister's -- grave? He would sue me, for sure, not to mention kick my grandparents out of their house because I had a feeling that Edgar's father didn't tolerate people who were psycho enough to dig up a grave living in his neighbourhood.

"None of your business," I told him flatly, taking that as a safe answer.

Edgar frowned at me. "Well, it actually is," he said, "because I'm meant to be at the park with you right now and so I have every right to know what you're doing instead."

I kicked my feet into a thick layer of snow, picking up some of the frothy ice with my wader like a shovel, and gave Edgar a look that read I wasn't impressed with his unnecessary amount of curiosity.

"Sorry, but I'm not going to tell you anything, Edgar. Now please, just go away."

His nostrils dilated. "No. Tell me what you're doing."

"No. Go away."

I began trudging towards the direction of my grandparents' home. Edgar tried to prevent me from leaving by extending his arm out in front of me, but I shoved him aside.

I heard the sound of a body hitting the ground and craned around for a brief minute to inspect the sound, only to see Edgar lying upon the snow with a frustrated expression. I swivelled around swiftly, like a spinning top, and picked up my pace before Edgar could start complaining to me about the pain he had inflicted when he had landed upon the snow-covered ground.