She'd Buried The Memory

Shadows encompassed the cool crypt. Bisset approached lichen-coated sarcophagi, grit scraping under her hard-soled shoes. Corpse dust glowed in the sunlight from the open door.

Sticking to the sunbeam, she crossed her arms to keep her fingers from trailing in the shadows. Pressure lurched in Bisset's chest, threatening to snap her sternum, reminding her of the last time she'd entered this place.

She'd buried the memory. But the shadows remembered and insisted she did, too.

A four-year-old Bisset had followed the whispers to the crypt where her mother and grandmother were interned. Cold and frightened, she'd waited for the stone figure atop the sarcophagus to wake and envelope her in a hug. It did not.

Instead, her mother's specter crawled from under its lid, reaching for Bisset. But her grandmother's spector slid between them. "You couldn't contain me. So, your daughter will," she said and surged down Bisset's throat to reside deep in her chest.

The memory ended, and streaks of red spider-webbed Bisset's vision. Her grandmother looked from her eyes and spoke from her mouth. "I'm done with her."

Bisset retched, and her grandmother's specter flowed out of her mouth, returning to its sarcophagus after years of controlling Bissett. Her mother crept from her resting place, plunging for her daughter. But Bissett, older and stronger, blocked her.

"No, more!" She slammed the heavy oaken door and locked it.

Shrieks of rage faded behind her, as Bisset walked into the sunlight, breathing freely for the first time in her memory.

Photo by Camila Quintero Franco