The Unquiet Grave

Social media and adolescent suicide.

The Unquiet Grave: 

 

A Short Story

by

Steven Olson

For the first time in her life, Anna Spires was alone.  Alone in her home on Cape Ann, Massachusetts.  Her home was still filled with the smells of the funeral lunch--a lunch for her beloved Samantha, who took her life a week ago at the age of 17.  

Friends, neighbors and co-workers insisted on helping Anna do the dishes.  She allowed them to help for a while.  Then she sent them home.  Finishing the dishes would be therapeutic, she told herself.  

Now, at twilight, she was alone.  

As Anna climbed the creaky stairs in her 90 year old home--a home once peopled by her late husband, James, and her beloved Samantha--a sense of absence came over her and so enveloped her that she could barely walk up the last few steps.  Standing at the top of the stairs, she experienced a momentary sense of vertigo.  Grabbing onto the bannister, the dizziness subsided.

Down at the end of the hallway, she noticed the door to Samantha’s room was ajar.  She had not entered the room since she received the news of her daughter’s death.  Nor did she intend to enter it this night.  She couldn’t bring herself to go in.

Instead, exhausted from the events of the day, Anna Spires shed her funereal black dress and put on sweats and a T-shirt.  She lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.  Her defenses down, the tears finally came, tears delayed by a day of public grief.  

As the shadows lengthened and the light faded, Anna was struck by the deafening sound of the stillness.  Then, as she lay on the edge of sleep, she heard a voice coming from the hallway:

“Momma?”

“Momma?”

It was Samantha’s voice, cutting through the stillness and sounding just as she did when she was in middle school.

“Momma?”

Startled and momentarily disoriented, Anna Spires darted out of bed and peered out into the hallway.  Seeing no one, she began to move down the hall in the direction of Samantha’s room.  As she drew closer, she detected a familiar smell.  It was the perfume Samantha always wore on dates during the last year of her life.  The scent was very strong, reminiscent of the way Samantha would wear too much of the fragrance when she went out with her friends.  Opening the door to Samantha’s room, Anna went in and turned on the light, fully expecting that the scent was coming from her room.  Seeing the bottle of perfume neatly placed on Samantha’s vanity, untouched, undisturbed, Anna was shocked to discover that there was no scent of perfume in her room.  Bolting back into the hallway, the scent grew more intense, as if Samantha were standing there on her way out the door to meet friends.  

“Samantha?”  Anna whispered.  “Is that you?”

The silence gave no answer.

“I must be losing my mind,” Anna whispered under her breath,  as she donned her pajamas and quickly fell asleep.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, 17 year old Anastasia King, Samantha’s best friend, could not sleep.  She lay awake, remembering Samantha.  She thought about the last time she saw her, a week ago Wednesday, after school.  Samantha came to the door of her house, but stayed outside.  “I can’t stay long,” she said.  “I just came to thank you for always being there for me.”  Then she left quickly, without ever coming in, leaving without her usual hug.  It was strange.

Reading Samantha’s obituary online, Anastasia suddenly felt lightheaded when, for the first time, she read that Samantha had committed suicide in the early hours of Wednesday morning.  “But that’s impossible!” she thought, as she began to gasp for air.

In a panic, she ran downstairs to the kitchen, trying to catch her breath and reaching for a glass of water, waking her mother up in the process.  Her mother flew down the stairs and found Anastasia standing there, pale as a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” asked Janet King.

“I couldn’t sleep, mom, so I went online and was reading Samantha’s obituary.  It said that she died early Wednesday morning.”  

“Sounds about right,” said her mother, as she handed Anastasia her rescue inhaler.

“But, mom, Samantha came to see me after school that day.  She stood outside for a few minutes.  Never came inside the house.  She thanked me for being her friend and then left. . . .Mom, if Samantha had already died, then who did I talk to here last Wednesday afternoon?”  Suddenly feeling nauseous, Anastasia ran into the bathroom and got sick.

Before school the next morning, Anastasia asked her mother to come with her to visit Anna Spires in order to find out when Samantha had actually died.  “There has to be a rational explanation,” her mother said.

After sleepwalking through another day of school, Anastasia and her mother called and asked Anna if they could visit.  She suggested they come for ice cream after dinner.

Arriving just past 7 p.m., Anastasia and Janet were greeted by the mournful sound of a solitary buoy in the harbor just below the Spire’s house.  Anna Spires greeted them at the door with long hugs--hugs uniting the women in their grief and love for the lost soul whose life they now gathered to remember"their hugs expressing the inexpressible.

“You must be exhausted after yesterday,” Janet said to Anna.  “The funeral was a beautiful celebration of Samantha’s life.”

“Yes, it was meaningful to see the outpouring of love for Samantha and all of us.  I’m still processing everything that happened.  More importantly, I am still trying to figure out why Sammie chose to end her life.”

“Mrs. Spires, “ said Anastasia, ”I hope you don’t mind me asking but, can you tell me, when exactly did Samantha die?”  

“We heard it was early Wednesday morning,”  said Janet.  

“And, if you don’t mind, can you tell me how she died?  The papers aren’t saying,” added Anastasia.

“As you know, Anastasia, Samantha loved to go and sit by the lake to think and write her poetry.  So, sometime late Tuesday night, as I slept, she apparently took a blanket and rode her bike to the lake.  She had her cell phone with her.  She also took all the Xanax and prescription pain medicines I had in the medicine chest, medications prescribed for me when I had surgery last year.  She apparently lay down on the blanket, took all the pills, and then wrote a text message on her cell phone which said, ‘I’m giving up.  I can’t take it anymore.  I’m sorry for everything.  Sammie.”

An early morning jogger found her.  She was still alive, but barely.  The paramedics worked on her at the scene, but she died on the way to the hospital.”

“So, she died early Wednesday morning,” said Janet.

“Yes,” said Anna.

Anastasia now looked at her mother with a mixture of pain and intense bewilderment.  Noticing her reaction, Anna asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Anastasia, speaking slowly and deliberately, but I saw Sammie Wednesday afternoon.  She came to visit me after school.”

“What?” said Anna, incredulous.

“She came to the door and said she couldn’t stay long.  She didn’t come in.  She just thanked me for being there for her and then she left without her usual hug.  It was very strange.”

“Yes.  It ’s very strange, “ said Anna.  “It sure doesn’t sound like our Sammie,” she added.

“Anastasia, are you certain it was Wednesday?  Might you have remembered the day incorrectly?  Could it have been Tuesday or another day?”

“No.  I’m sure it was Wednesday.  I wasn’t home last Tuesday.  We had a band rehearsal that went until after dinner.”

“I just don’t know what to make of it,”  Anna sighed.  “And it’s not the only strange thing that’s happening.  Last night, when I was alone, I heard Sammie’s voice calling to me.  I went out to the hallway and saw nothing.  Then the hallway was suddenly filled with Samantha’s perfume.  It was as if she was right there putting on too much perfume as she often did when she was going out.  I immediately entered her room, but there was no scent of it in there.  It was only in the hallway, as if Sammie was standing right there.  I honestly thought I was losing my mind. . . .”

“That’s exactly how I felt when I heard that Samantha died Wednesday morning.  If that’s true, then who is it I spoke with Wednesday afternoon?” asked Anastasia.

Interrupting the mystery that hung over them like a fog,  Anna now led Anastasia and Janet into the kitchen for some ice cream.

“Your favorite, cookies ’n’ cream?” Anna asked Anastasia.

“Sure thing!” Anastasia said.

“Chocolate, chocolate chip for you Janet?”

“Ah, you have a great memory, Anna,” said Janet.  “Thanks!”

As they devoured their desserts, Anna mentioned that the police had returned Samantha’s cell phone.  

“I hope the text messages shed some light on what drove our Sammie to take her life.  Anastasia, if you have some time this weekend, maybe you can help me look at the messages to see what we can learn.”

“Of course, Mrs. Spires,” Anastasia said.  “I don’t know how much Sammie confided in you, but, there were a handful of people at school who constantly taunted her for being different.  They never took the time to get to know her like I did.  They didn't take the time to see how sensitive, creative and loving she was.  All they would do is criticize her for everything from her love of Frank Sinatra to her taste in clothes, to her love of poetry and the theater.  She just didn’t fit into their narrow cheerleader mold.”  

As Anastasia and Janet got up to leave, Anastasia asked her mother if they could pay a quick visit to the cemetery, since it was on the way home.  

“But, it’s late and starting to get dark,” said Janet.

“Please, mom, we won’t stay long.”

“OK,” said Janet.

The route to Gate of Heaven cemetery wound along the hills above the harbor.  In the distance, they could see the lights of Boston glittering and dancing on the sea.  They arrived at the cemetery at dusk.  Driving slowly up to the unmarked, fresh grave, Janet parked so that she could use her headlights to illuminate the area.  As she did, the lights created a surreal scene, casting long shadows among the tombs.  

Walking slowly and in silence to the grave, they saw the decaying flowers tossed carelessly by the cemetery workers who had pushed a mound of earth into the grave after the mourners had departed.  

As they stood praying and remembering they now began to smell another fragrance, distinct from the flowers piled on the grave.  It was the fragrance of Samantha’s perfume.  The odor, so strong and distinct, caused Anastasia to turn around, fully expecting to see Samantha standing behind her.

“Mom!” whispered Anastasia, “It’s her!  She’s here, mom, right here with us now.  I feel her standing next to me.”  Like a little child, Anastasia grabbed her mother’s hand and squeezed it.  

Walking back to the car in silence, Janet turned off the headlights and drove home, leaving the grave in darkness.

Waking early the next morning, Anna Spires felt compelled to call their family physician to get his perspective on what she had been experiencing.  Since her family doctor had been her physician and confidant for many years, Anna felt that he was the best person to talk to.  Feeling a bit fragile, she needed some assurance that she wasn’t going crazy.

Anna arrived early at the office of Dr. Frank Carotenuto, a Harvard educated internist, who had offices on Cape Ann and in Boston. In addition to serving as her physician for a number of years, he had also served as her husband’s primary care physician five years ago, when he was diagnosed with a rapid moving and lethal form of brain cancer.  While he knew Anna Spires to be a strong person, he also knew that the sudden loss of her only child on the heels of her husband’s death might push her over the edge.

 The doctor greeted Anna with a hug and a sympathetic smile.  He asked how she was feeling and if she was able to sleep.  Anna reported feeling fatigued and finding herself wide awake in the middle of the night.  She had also lost her appetite--all symptoms of acute grief.  

The doctor then took Anna’s vital signs and listened to her heart and chest.  The heart murmur he had detected years ago in a routine physical was still present, but of no cause for concern at the present time.

“Would you like me to give you something to help you sleep?” he asked.  “Maybe you could give me that low dose of Xanax you gave me in the past,”  Anna answered, “although I probably won’t take any.”

Taking medication of any kind would be a struggle from now on, since her medications had been the vehicle for Samantha’s death.

“So. . . .” the doctor asked.  “Is there anything else?”

“Well, yes.  Yes there is. . .”

After a brief hesitation, Anna described hearing Samantha’s voice and smelling her perfume the day of the funeral.

“I was afraid I was going crazy,” Anna confessed, her mouth turning dry as she spoke.  “I mean, first James and now my Sammie,” she said tearfully.  “I don’t know how much more I can take,” she said.

“In the wake of what has happened, it makes sense to me that you might experience Samantha’s presence in any number of ways,” said the doctor.    It can be unsettling, even scary,  but it’s normal, especially in light of how close the two of you were.  Death doesn’t so neatly sever the bonds of love that unite us to each other.  So don’t be surprised if you hear or even “see” her in the next few weeks.  Don’t be shocked if it feels as if she is in the room with you.  People often don’t talk about these experiences because, like you, they fear that people will think they are crazy.  But the truth is, these sensations are all a part of losing someone close.”

As their conversation ended, the doctor reminded Anna that if she needed him, she could call him at any hour, day or night.

Somewhat reassured by the visit to Dr. Carotenuto, Anna Spires returned home to start reviewing the six months of text messages sent to and from Samantha’s cell phone.  In addition to the messages between Samantha and Anastasia, there were a number of taunts from a girl named Penelope Stern.  They were repeated by a few other girls who seemed to be in league with her.  Anna now looked forward to learning more about this from Anastasia.

Anastasia, accompanied by her mother,  arrived on Saturday morning to go over the text messages.  Over tea and homemade scones, Anna now quizzed Anastasia about what she had been reading.

“I couldn’t wait for our visit to start to read the texts.” said Anna to Anastasia.  “There’s one name in all these messages who clearly has it in for Samantha.  What can you tell me about Penelope Stern?”

“Penelope Stern is the leader of a small clique of 5 or 6 girls, mostly cheerleaders, who are all well connected and very mean.  These girls dress alike, talk alike, think alike--if they think at all.  And if you are not like them"--then you are automatically in the “out group.”  And no one in the out group is safe.  They have a way of seizing on a person’s greatest vulnerability and moving in for the kill.  Once they target a person, they don’t stop.  The irony is that the mothers of these cheerleaders are very active members of the P.T.O., who, instead of taking charge of their kids, just look the other way.  And when these girls go too far and get into trouble, they rely on their contacts in the administration to smooth things over.

“But, why Samantha?” Anna asked.  “Why my Sammie?”

 

Penelope has always had it in for Samantha.  I have always suspected it was motivated by jealousy for Samantha’s intellect and her creativity. I mean, Sammie was everything that Penelope isn’t and will never be:  smart, creative, with a wide variety of interests, and yes, a bit introverted, which is why Sammie kept so much of her suffering to herself.  She was also compassionate and caring, an ‘old soul,’ wise beyond her years.  And while she didn't have hundreds of friends like Penelope, she had a small circle of friends who truly loved her and appreciated her for the unique person she was.  I consider myself to be blessed to have been her friend.”

“And when Penelope went after Samantha via text or in the hallways, what typically did Sammie do?”

“She just tried to ignore her as best as she could"she just stayed out of her way.  Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t.  And I fear, especially over the last few months as Penelope’s attacks became more vicious, Sammie just grew depressed and weary.  Sometimes she would confide in me but other times she wouldn’t even tell me.  She’d just go to the lake, write her poems and commune with nature.”

“I look at some of these texts messages and they make me sick,”  said Anna.

Why aren’t you dead yet?

Why are you still here?

Why don’t you give us all a break and off yourself? 

“They may take your breath away, Anna, but they make me homicidal,”  added Janet.  “She can’t just get away with this!”

“There’s more,”  added Anastasia.  “What’s truly diabolical about Penelope is the way she gets other people to do her dirty work for her.  The straw that broke the camel’s back came a few days before her death.  Rumor has it at school that Penelope coerced her boyfriend to hack into Samantha’s Facebook account.  Somehow, he got her password, hacked into her account, and in the middle of the night went in and ‘unfriended’ all of Samantha’s friends.  The next morning, when Sammie awoke, she found herself friendless, at least on social media.  She called me, sobbing hysterically.  And while I tried to tell her that a we would find a way to tell her friends about the hack, the event just proved too traumatic for her.  It kind of did her in.”

“So, what do we do?” asked Janet, red faced with anger.  “We just can’t sit by and do nothing!”

Anna now got up and poured the three of them another cup of tea.

“I have an idea,” Anastasia said.

“First of all, angry as we are, I don’t think we should do something mean or vengeful.  That would be stooping to Penelope’s level.  And it would not do justice to our Samantha.  But what if I as the editor of the school newspaper, write a front page article entitled, say, Can Words Kill?”  

“In the article, I will stay “on topic” and avoid naming names or getting personal.  Instead, I will take samples of her most toxic texts and weave them together with social commentary, without ever mentioning the perpetrator by name.  It will simply be an article about the relationship between social media and teen suicide.  It will be obvious to anyone who knows Penelope and her little circle of friends who the perpetrator is.  So be it!  She will be exposed for the person she is.”

“I think it’s a great idea,”  said Janet.  “And, Anna, if you are up to it, you and I might want to pay a visit to the county prosecutor and the police to see if the sending of these texts in any way constitutes a crime.”

“I’m a little overwhelmed right now,” said Anna.  “But, I will certainly give it some thought, maybe in a couple of weeks.”

Anastasia went right to work on her article.

Three weeks to the day after Samantha took her life, the school newspaper carried the article on the front page:

Can Words Kill?

by

          Anastasia King

Her tormentor used text messages like a shooter uses bullets:

Why don’t you do us a favor and off yourself?

Why are you still here?

Fat and Ugly weirdos don’t deserve to live!

So began Anastasia’s article, expertly crafted, a labor of love for her departed friend.

Her article about language, social media and teen suicide went viral, as they say.  And, as fortune would have it, the Boston newspapers reprinted portions of it given the recent alarming increase in adolescent suicides.

At school, the halls virtually vibrated with gossip about who the mastermind was behind the messages--and the Facebook hack.

By the end of the week, 600 out of Penelope Stern’s 625 “friends” had unfriended her.  Penelope was even reported to have said to her boyfriend, “I have no friends left!”

That night, alone in her house, Penelope Stern lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.  Suddenly her cell phone rang.  It came up as an Unknown Number.  She hesitated, then answered.  On the line was a bunch of static.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hello??”

“Penelope?  Penelope?" Penelope heard a familiar voice in the static.

"Samantha?"

Steven D. Olson

© 2017

Reviews

[samis]

Wow, what a story! Very well written. The flow of the story is good and so is the pace.