She turns the radio up and keeps the headlights on. The beams sparkle in the night, fanning at the edges and fading against skewed headstones that slump between small hills. An ever-growing hole in the green sod at her feet is in bright focus, belching fresh soil onto her blue shoes with each snick, snick of the shovel. She steps back to avoid the next fling. Under the high whine of an Elvis Presley song, the engine growls. Discontent. Pink panels bent into smooth curves, vibrate. Chrome trim wicks moonlight to the tailfins.

A bitter wind breathes mist through the rolled down window, damp ghosts seeking escape.

"Why are we doing this, baby?" Castor asks. He straightens, chucking another load of black dirt up onto higher ground. The headlights smatter his shadow over the etched headstone marking the grave. Age spots and scalloped lichen clutch the pitted stone, encroaching the broken script:

HERE LIES BURIED

PERMALIA OAKS

HANGED

JULY 19, 1692

Maebean unties her beaded purse and coaxes a teacup from its silk lining. The headlights shine through the fragile shell as she holds it between thumb and forefinger: salt-glazed porcelain, thin as wax paper and wreathed in hand-fostered flowers. The high karat gold rim is scratched in places, imperfect, old.

She rests it carefully atop the thick headstone, above an embossed skull with no wings. "Granmére will expect a gift. We must not go to her empty handed. Not for this."

The shovel thunks on a hollow plain. Castor tosses the shovel aside and crouches to smear away the earth. He stops scraping when the moist clods give into wooden boards irreparably stained. Maebean watches from the lip of the open grave, arms folded. One hand tends a cigarette. The tip glows like a blue star in the dark.

Castor raises a foot and plunges a heel into the coffin lid. His boot cracks the rotten ribs, punching through the dank chrysalis.

"Jesus," he whispers, crossing his chest. Up. Down. Left. Right. Maebean extends a hand in a fluid motion, fingers cocked gracefully like a Princess on the silver screen. Castor takes it, and helps her climb into the trough beside him.

She pauses to lick her thumb and fix several oily curls that have frayed his slick ducktail. "Thank you, Cat." Maebean presses the V of two fingers to his lips, offering him a drag for his efforts. He inhales the sweet smoke deep, his breath chasing it into his chest and out again. A spirit in the ether.

Her lipstick bleeds the edges raw. His mouth leaves pinches in the paper.

Maebean stamps the ember out on the back of her hand and lets the butt fall wherever. This is not consecrated ground, which means she can walk here unscathed. It also means no one cares if she uses it as an ashtray. The buried dead know their place, and it's not in Heaven.

It's not in Hell, either.

Flouncing down on the coffin—a puff of ivory and thread roses—Maebean surveys the uncovered remains. Her face is childish; soft angles and curved cheeks, feathered eyebrows and emerald eyes framed with khol lines like ravens wings. Golden hair caresses her bare shoulders in tired ringlets. Inside the coffin, a dead girl lies. Her face is shriveled leather, sucked lifeless by decay; the skin taut canvas on jutting bones. Brittle knots of long red hair overflow her dry scalp, filling the coffin with wiry down.

Her clothes are stitched midnight. Black cloth and rows of pale, antler buttons.

"Magic may live in a mortal's tome, but Death can always send her home." Maebean recites aloud.

Maebean is not mortal.

She runs a curious finger along the dead girl's neck, tracing the uneven track to the simple fabric collar. "Time has slowed for her, she should be dust. See Cat, how her gift spoils the earth?"

Castor grimaces, "She's disgusting."

"She's beautiful. Elf-blessed."

"She's a dead thing."

Maebean hooks her finger into the skeletal mouth and pries it open. A loud crack sends Castor scurrying out of the hole. He raises a clean wrist to shield his nose, his jeans filthy. "Yuck! What could your Grandma—"

"Granmére."

"—Granmere possibly want from a corpse?"

Maebean smiles but keeps the answer to herself. She grabs a tooth, still whole and unmarred, and pulls.

Static on the radio jilts Elvis mid-chorus. The first tooth comes free, and she pulls and pulls and pulls until her fist is filled with the rest. The skull screams silently now, its grin plucked out.

"Help me, please," Maebean says when her work is finished. Her empty hand poses for Castor again, and he lifts her from the grave with one strong arm, her body weightless as a box of wedding tulle.

"Baby, really, why are we doing this?" Castor sighs, watching her spill the contents of her clenched palm into the teacup. Incisors, canines, molars—uppers and lowers—clatter against the porcelain like sugar cubes and swirling spoons. He counts the sounds:

Thirty-two.

Maebean holds the cup by the scrolled handle, pinky finger crooked. Catching a piece of his crimson jacket, she tugs Castor closer. "Because I love you, stupid."

He melts into her lips, warm blood racing to their cheeks. Hearts flood heat between them. Hers pumps ahead of his, fast, like it might wear out before they're done. She tastes his tongue. He feels hers against his teeth.

Castor shivers. His grip ripples, tense, on her waist.

Maebean smiles, planting coy kisses along his cheek. "Someone's walked over your grave, baby," she whispers in his ear. Her fingers lace with his and she leads him to the car.

• • •

Granmére's house looks as sane as the rest of the neighborhood—on the outside. A grand old saltbox colonial with more windows and diamond panes than Castor has ever seen. The clapboard siding oozes a deep deep purple. Under the midnight sky, it looks black as a gumboot. Uninviting.

The inside is full of dirt.

Maebean leads Castor through a long tunnel that should have been a foyer or a hall. Tree roots thread in and out of the chiseled ceiling like bunting or crepe paper at a party. Lanterns dangle from the thickest roots, wedged in the bark where sap bleeds hardened amber. The scent of rot fills the cool air. The same smell from the dead girl's coffin.

Maebean stops before a listing door set in the tunnel wall. The strap hinges do little to hold the slats together. The latch sits at chest height, rusty metal waiting to be lifted.

"Granmére will adore you, she must," she says, straightening his collar and running her free hand along his stomach, taking her time with his shirt, tucking it properly into his jeans. Her other hand balances the teacup.

And the teeth.

Maebean knocks on the door.

Castor wedges himself a step behind her as they enter. The glow of a lit fire drowns the burrow beyond in ochre hues. Red clay walls rise high enough to clear their heads under a low ceiling. Maebean's pointed heels leave imprints on the dirt floor.

Something solid trips him in the doorway. Castor looks down and finds links of gold chain coiled at his feet. Connected in unseamed loops, the chain curls around the cramped room; lumping under the worn rugs and snaking over a rocking chair. He follows the turns with his eyes until they end in a leg iron locked around the saggy stockinged ankle of a little old woman.

Granmére.

She sits at the table, on a stool made of bones. Castor has seen enough skeletons to know they are—holy shit!—human bones. Her hair is gray cobwebs sculpted high on her head and sprigged with moths. Mostly dead ones. Nested amongst the loose pin curls. But a few live ones still flutter in circles, worshiping at the ashy mountain. Despite her visible age and the wrinkles on her moon-shaped face, her hands are new as a baby's. She is busy, crumbling dried blue flowers onto squares of white paper.

Rolled cigarettes litter the table top.

"Granmére?" Maebean says, bending to kiss a crumpled cheek. Granmére looks up at her and smiles, lips pinched tight shut. Castor wonders what she sees through the pearl-pink cat glasses she wears. The lenses are tinted black, matching her voluminous silk dress—tatted lace and a high collar. Castor can imagine his great, great grandmother swilling away hours in a damask parlor dressed like that.

Maebean waves him closer. "Granmére, this is Castor. I told you about him remember?"

The faded woman spares him a brief turn of her head and a curt nod.

Uninviting.

"We've brought you a gift." Maebean brushes stray petals aside and places the teacup in front of the old woman.

This time, the smile parts Granmére's lips wide open. Naked gums, devoid of anything but black speckles, fill her mouth. The moths bob and weave as she tips forward to dump the pulled teeth out on the table. Castor takes a step back, swallowing his disgust.

She sorts the teeth with chubby fingers. Once arranged, Granmére picks them up in order and shoves them into her gums. Castor flinches away, concentrating on the fire in the hearth, trying to ignore the wet squidges until she is done.

"Tell me, lovey, what is it you want?" Granmére's voice rasps in her chest.

Maebean grabs Castor's arm and squeezes. "Cat and I want to get married, do we have your blessing?"

Castor presses close to Maebean.

"Come here," Granmére says. Castor almost shakes his head, no, but Maebean gives him a push. He stumbles on a length of chain as he nears the table.

Granmére studies him. He studies his reflection in her sunglasses. "No," she says after a pause. "No, I do not think so."

Castor frowns, forgetting his fear. "Hang on, lady. I dug up a grave for you, the least you could do is let me marry Bean."

Maebean points to her foot, "Please, Granmére. Release me so I might bind to him instead." Her voice pitches higher, a whine. Castor notices for the first time that the other end of the golden chain imprisons her ankle, too.

Granmére snorts. "He is mortal, lovey."

"I don't care."

"He is stupid."

"Hey!" Castor says, annoyed.

Maebean softens. Clasping her elegant fingers together, she pouts. "But he loves me. Bind me to him."

"Does he?

"Yes, and I love him. Bind me to him!"

"Do you, really?" Granmére's hand snatches at Castor's red jacket. She forces him to bend over, inches from her face. He's not sure if the question is for him or Maebean, but what he does know is—the rot-scent wafts on Granmére's breath.

"I think, you are not meant for my lovey-Bean. She can taunt me all she wishes, but this is where she'll stay," she says and tips forward on the stool, snagging his cheek between her teeth.

When his face is chewed clean to the ruddy bones, she lets his limp corpse fall free. He sprawls at Maebean's feet,

dead,

          dead,

                    dead.

Maebean steps back in disgust. Fresh blood stains her suede pumps, and she crouches to scrub at the dark splotches spoiling the powder blue. Her face contorts, angry.

"Granmére! You've ruined my favorite shoes!"

♛ A/N: Thank you for the read! If you liked it, please don't forget to ★ vote ★ and/or add :)

This is my first time ever writing third person present, I tried my best to keep the tenses straight. It's actually quite difficult. Also, has anyone listened to the Viva Elvis remix of Blue Suede Shoes? H E A V E N.

This short is dedicated to Marie-Williams. Thanks for everything, lovey.