Jordy Pittman lead us to a grave site in a western corner of the cemetery. It was a much abused plot. Only a few patches of sickly looking grass clung to its surface. The earth beneath was dry and scarred as if someone had stabbed it with sticks and knife blades. Broken bottles and cigarettes, and somewhat incongruously: dead roses, confettied the grave. The headstone was small and unreadable. It was cracked in multiple places and the name had been scratched off. Pittman added a gob of his tobacco juice to the litter.
Pittman said, “She’s buried here. But she ain’t properly dead. Every three, four years some dumb bitch calls up her spirit and she kills again. We’ve had priests and exorcists and preachermen say prayers over this grave every year and it does fuck all to stop her. I lost my brother because of her twenty years ago. I lost a cousin six years back. If you can put her down permanent you’d be giving this town a peace it badly needs.”
Stacy looked at the grave and then smiled sweetly at Pittman. “I’ve heard the stories. Amelie kills out of vengeance. So let’s start with the obvious. What did your brother do to make him worth killing?”