Free The Gravesavers by Sheree Fitch

I started off writing a few letters. I went to some town council meetings.”
    “What happened?”
    “They told me it would cost too much—and the municipality doesn’t have that much money. Bullcrap. They have enough for their new yacht club and the cobblestone patio where all I can tell is just for the tourists and come from aways to go get drunk on Friday nights. I even wrote the government. Haven’t heard a word.”
    “But what’s this got to do with you keeping a closet full of bones?”
    “When I have enough I’m going to just march into Riley Tucker’s office—he’s our member of Parliament—and dump them on his desk.”
    “Nana, you wouldn’t!”
    “Yes, I would, then demand somebody save the grave. These folks were someone’s families. Everyone deserves a proper burial.” Her voice was barely a whisper. But fierce as the sea. A loud kathump of wave crashed just underneath us. “Besides, it’s just not good having lost souls floating around the area. Strange things start happening.”
    “You mean ghosts?” I couldn’t believe I was hearing this from No-Nonsense herself.
    “No. I mean spirits—like I said. The dead should not be disturbed. It’s bad enough they hang around out there on Elbow Island. We don’t want them here on shore.”
    “Nana, let’s go back.”
    “All right. If you’re interested, I’ve got a heap of stuff at the house for you to look through. Magazine articles and clippings, some letters, in those boxes in the bone closet.” She was almost smiling.
    “Nah. I’ve got enough to do with my training.” A flicker of something passed over her face. Disappointment? Hurt?
    “Fine, I figured you’d be too chicken anyhow.” Her voice was pulled tight and sharp as barbed wire.
    “I’m not afraid, Nana! I could handle it. I’m just not interested.” This was a bald-faced lie. She already had me hooked. I just wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It was that old harbour of hate, I suppose.
    “Someday you’ll realize it’s better to be more curious than afraid.”
    We drove back home in a silence as thick as the fog that was rolling in.

— UNDERCOVER RESEARCH —
    It was well after supper when I ran my laps, sprints up and down that hill ten times. The feathery light of dusk fanned out into complete darkness. Tar Black. Black Raven. Darkest Black. Black Widow. Sorrow’s Black.
    On the last lap I stopped at the top and looked long and hard out at that ocean. It was a calm night. The water was still but looked cold and oily, as if lying in wait to swallow a shipload of people. I could make out the faint shape of Elbow Island. Nana’s words of it being haunted by spirits revved up my O.I. It was in full spooky mode. I searched the sky, hoping for the comfort my father believed could be found there. The moon was a lopsided canoe hanging in the sky. The clouds were phantoms peering down at me from beyond the beyond. There wasn’t so much as a star for comfort. I ran fast as I could back to the house.
    Nana was watching
Jeopardy, one
of her favourites. When I went to get a drink of water, Inoticed she’d left the key to the bone closet on the table. I slipped it in my pocket.
    “Who is Marco Polo?” I shouted out before she could on my way through the TV room. She grunted her displeasure.
    “Night, Nana, I’m going to have a shower and then get into bed.”
    “Night what is helium?” she said all in one breath. She’s in love with Alex Trebek. “He was born in Canada, you know,” she says every time the theme song starts playing. Repetition is another irritating habit of hers. This was also on my list of reasons I did not love her like a normal grandchild.
    After I got in bed, I set my watch alarm. It was my only chance to find out more without her knowing.
    It went off at exactly 4:22.
    I crept along the hall. Every step creaked.
    “One thousand one, one thousand two …” I counted to fifteen between each step. It worked. The witch did not wake up. The