Digging

Michael waited for the rain to stop from inside the old wood cabin and smoked a cigarette. He wasn’t going to make his way back to the car in the downpour, no matter how much he wanted to get the hell out of the godforsaken mountains and back to civilisation. He hated the rain, the mud, nature and just about anything that got him dirty. He looked down at his mud-stained shirt. It was ruined. He hadn’t meant to get so filthy, but he didn’t realise that the old girl would actually put up a decent fight.



He changed into clean clothes, even though he was in the middle of the mountains and might as well have stayed as he was - covered in filth, just like the hellhole of a cabin he was loitering in. He stepped outside to take a leak and realised he’d trodden in a puddle as big as a bog. Mud squelched through his socks to his toes. He stormed back inside and hurled his three hundred dollar shoes into the fireplace, cursing the rain, the cabin and his crappy life in general. 



It was about to get better, though. Things were going to get better. The girl was taken care of, the job was done. He sniggered, listening to the sound of his own laughter echo around the vacant cabin. Soon he’d be able to buy twenty more pairs of Prada shoes if he wanted to. Twenty thousand, even. He leered at his faint reflection in a dusty window.



The wind intensified and found its way through cracks and underneath doors. A stale smell wafted inside. Michael reclined on the couch and lit another cigarette. He was playing a waiting game, and he knew that the waiting would be the worst part of the whole mess. He shifted and tried to get comfortable as broken clumps of leather dug into his backside. He glanced around the murky room and watched a cockroach scuttle across the dusty wooden floor. Black spiders lurked in the corner above the rusting old kitchen. 



Abandoned and unknown, the cabin was the perfect place for Michael to bide his time after he’d done what he came here to do. What he came here to do. The memory was fresh, shooting through him like a bolt of lightning. The screaming, the fighting, the wrestling. The digging. There’d been so much digging. At one point he’d considered backing out, giving up altogether, but he knew he couldn’t. He’d come too far. 



Outside, raindrops turned to hailstones the size of golf balls, making it hard to see more than a few metres away. Trees swayed vigorously as the wind howled in a series of violent crescendos. Hail landed clumsily on the tin roof with a loud thunk and splashed in the puddles that gathered at the cabin’s rotting old door. Drops of water fell on the small bald patch at the back of Michael’s head, making him shiver. He got up and lit a fire using a tattered paperback. As he stared at the red and yellow flicker of the flame, he scoffed a cold tin of spaghetti and meatballs washed down with a warm beer. He relaxed on the couch and slowly drifted off to sleep.

He awoke suddenly to a loud bang. 



‘Christ, what the hell was that?’ he said out aloud. He stood up and ran to the side of the dusty window, squinting. Nothing. He glanced around the cabin. Nothing. He looked up again and saw two dark green eyes staring back at him through the glass as a lightning bolt lit up the sky. 



He screamed, stumbled back and tripped over the couch behind him. A clap of thunder echoed through the cabin. He peered at the window from behind the couch, perched like a commando. The eyes were gone.



The door swung open and banged against the wall. Rain pelted outside. The veranda creaked. Panicked thoughts filled Michael’s head. Impossible. It couldn’t be her. Could it? He wasn’t going to hang around to find out. He grabbed his rucksack and sprinted to the door. A dark figure emerged, blocking the entrance.



Michael let out a cry and ran to the kitchen. He threw open a drawer and rummaged around frantically, grasping the first knife he found. Turning back around, he edged forward and tightened his grip around the handle. The doorway was empty. All of a sudden he felt an arm around his neck. He coughed and spluttered. The grip tightened. He could smell dirt and mud. The arm was covered in it. He gasped. It can’t be. Using all his strength, he reached up and shoved the knife deep into the arm’s flesh. The figure yelped and released its grip. 



Michael dashed to the door, slammed it behind him and sprinted towards his car. As he fumbled for his keys, he slipped in a puddle and landed on his stomach. Rolling onto his back, groaning, he felt the dark figure descend upon him.



Michael picked up his rucksack and heaved it into the air. The figure cried out and fell to one side. Michael leapt to his feet. The figure’s outstretched hands grabbed his calves, yanking them out from under him, forcing him to the ground. His fingers scratched the dirt, desperately trying to grip something, as he was dragged away from the car on his stomach. Suddenly he was released, and an object that felt like a rock hit him sharply on the back of the head. He moaned as blood gushed down his neck. He touched the wound and saw a mix of blood, hair and skin on his shaky fingertips. As he looked up, his eyes widened in horror. The figure was holding an empty black sack and a shovel.


‘You like digging, don’t you Michael?’

It was her.


‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘No.’

‘I like digging too. Watch me.’ She thrust the shovel into the muddy ground and began digging furiously. Michael lay beside her, helpless, as more and more blood gushed from the hole in his head. He felt dizzy. How the hell did she get out? He tried to get to his knees.

She heard him move and turned around.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ She whacked him in the face with the shovel and he fell flat on his back. She stood over him as he gurgled and spat blood through his teeth.



‘You had a good idea, Michael. A very good idea. But you forgot one important thing.’ She raised the shovel above her head dramatically and then, with all her might, speared it through his heart. ‘Make sure a woman is dead before you bury her, idiot.’