A Grave So Cold

CM Tillman A Grave So Cold Copyright © 2023 by CM Tillman All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. CM Tillman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. CM Tillman has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book. First edition This book was professionally typeset on ReedsyFind out more at reedsy.com To all my creepy girls who dream of monster men Chapter 1 Warm smells of fall drifted through my open window, blended with the brisk autumn air, signaling the turning of the seasons. I drew a deep breath- cinnamon, pumpkin, apple, and sugar all mingling. There was a tang of fog machines and musty fabric woven in- the classic tells of Halloween. I peered down from my bedroom window, where I had the best vantage of our street. Across the street, Ms. Florence was busy putting the final touches on her haunted hospital set up. Armed with a bucket full of fake blood, she methodically poured and painted the crimson liquid around her mutilated bodies and operating tables. Cops had shown up to her home on more than one occasion, double checking her decorations were really plastic. Bent at the waist, her long skirt sweeping behind her as she danced around a blood-soaked doctor, the town librarian swiveled her head to the house next door. She lifted her bloody brush, giving a quick wave, before bending back down. Mr. Voltz continued to wave from his yard. Lips quirking into a smile, I watched as his eyes lingered on the bent over librarian before turning back to his own decor. Mr Voltz held the unofficial town title of ‘Most Selfie Worthy’ yard. He hand-painted every decoration, from his glittery seven foot pumpkin to the backdrop used by the locals for family portraits. I’d watched the awkward dance between my neighbors since Mr. Voltz moved in ten years ago. Their painfully obvious attraction to each other, and subsequent inability to act on their feelings, was the talk of the town during the holidays. Every year they somehow added more and more to their displays, which usually resulted in them both being outside for hours, catches glances of each other. The result was spectacular displays, especially during Halloween. Which made my lack of decoration that much more depressing. A lone pumpkin, already sagging in on itself, was the only item on our front porch, a sad sight compared to the grand displays surrounding us. I wish I could say it was a fluke, a onetime mistake because of the rush of life or lack of creativity, but no. Lack of funds was usually the culprit, coupled with dad’s lack of holiday spirit. “Decorations are expensive, puppet.” He would say. “Don’t worry, Halloween will always be there.” It was true, we struggled with money. His job as an accountant paid little since he had to work from home because of his chronic illness. It wasn’t just Halloween, though; it was all holidays, to be fair. But Halloween was my favorite time of the year, and not just because it was a few weeks before my birthday. I loved the costumes, the candy, the food, but mostly I loved how no one was criticized for how they celebrated. Unlike other holidays where you felt pressure from family and friends to perform at a certain level, Halloween didn’t require any of that. It was the one Holiday I felt totally free to be myself, and not the sad, poor girl on Oak Street who lived with her sick father. I moved from my window back to my standing mirror, taking one last look at myself. I smoothed out my poodle skirt, borrowed from Anna when she played Sandy in a school play, and patted my slicked back ponytail for any stray hairs. I had to admit I looked cute as Sandy, despite my hair being a few shades too dark. Tossing my mahogany hair over my shoulder, I squinted my eyes at my reflection, puckering my ruby stained lips. Personally, I would have chosen a different costume, but then I wouldn’t be matching Zack Hunter. My crush since fifth grade, I’d been secretly yearning for him all these years without hope. Zack was always with someone, unavailable and seemingly disinterested. Then, two days ago, everything changed. I’d just left my part-time job working for Ms. Florence at the library. It paid next to nothing, but it was enough to keep some cash in my pocket while giving me some time to myself. I loved how quiet the library was during the week. My job was mainly running the second-hand bookstore and occasionally helping Ms. Florence when the returned items stacked up. I read a lot in my downtime, since I couldn’t afford to buy new books. But the cash I received once a week was enough to buy the five dollar special at the Slice