Free His Cemetery Doll by Brantwijn Serrah Page B

though. "By a stranger styling herself a ghost in my graveyard? Hardly. More like angered by her."
    "Have you...engaged in any sexual congress with the creature?"
    Conall stood and abruptly threw the curtain of the confessional aside, striding back into the main sanctuary.
    "I'm sorry, Father...I see now how foolish I've been, to be spooked by a few strange noises in a cemetery. I shouldn't have wasted your time."
    "Conall, wait!" Frederick said, following him from the booth. "Con, I want to help you."
    Gazing down on his daughter still curled up on the pew, Conall shook his head.
    "It's all right, Fred. These visions...they didn't begin until after I hit my head. It's a doctor I need, not confession."
    He lifted his daughter up again, resting her against his shoulder, before turning to offer Father Frederick his hand.
    "Thanks for listening, anyway."

Chapter Twelve
    H e arranged to visit the doctor three days later, but by then he expected the worst of the visions had stopped. There'd been no more strange happenings at night, no sign of creeping fog or dancing porcelain women. Maya had really fallen, though. Now he had the chore of deciding what to do with her, as she lay in pieces. The roots and vines at least became more tolerable in the light of day, and he decided he must have been right about the ground shifting and their ancient winding networks breaking to the surface.
    "Hell of a lot of work to clean it up, either way," he'd growled to himself, as he assessed the many things he would now have to do to restore order.
    Shyla caught the brusque return of his cynicism and avoided mentioning the doll anymore. She'd come down to see him busily digging up roots and vines, cast a mournful glance at the shattered statue, but then returned to her own chores as usual, beginning each morning early to ride her bike into town and help the alderman with the horses. She came home from school on time in the afternoons and rarely had anything special to share.
    He didn't speak with Frederick at all during those three days. The Father had asked Shyla after him, the first and second mornings after their visit to the church, and Shyla dutifully told him her father had been fine. Conall could tell whenever she'd had a conversation with the priest: they annoyed her, apparently, and she prickled when the man came up in conversation.
    Maybe she's picked up on my frustration from the morning after the doll's attack. Or maybe she understands Fred's been petitioning for her to leave for the convent.
    He remembered Father Frederick's words from the week before.
    I'm afraid you may find her spoiled and uncooperative, if you allow her to have an opinion in the matter.
    If Shyla had somehow overheard him say so, or if Ora or Toby or either of the Trasks had repeated any such sentiment to her, it would be little wonder she'd balk at dealing with the man.
    The doctor, anyway, had little to report after Conall's check-up.
    "If you were concussed, your symptoms appear to have subsided quickly enough," he'd said. Conall liked the simple physician from Whitetail Knoll: a stooped, balding man called Whitmore, with a narrow nose and cloudy gray eyes, old before his years but sharp as a whip.
    "You should have come to me sooner, and I don't recommend returning to work so quickly. You should be wakened in the night every two hours or so. Can your daughter be trusted to do so?"
    "Aye, I think she can," he answered, having no intention to bother with it. If there had been any serious damage, Whitmore would be prescribing more than bedrest and monitoring. Con had the answer he wanted. He intended to return to work all the same. Without the visions or unexplained occurrences plaguing him, he felt confident all would be well.
    One lingering trouble stayed with him, though. Especially when he found himself alone, while Shyla worked in town or at the house, and he toiled to restore Maya's ring. Left with ample time for his mind to wander, Con found himself thinking