The Women in the Walls by Amy Lukavics

it’s going to turn into an attic situation all over again, ending with an argument way too far from home.
    â€œI’m turning around,” I say, just before I see something ahead, poking up through the dirt behind an especially dense cluster of trees.
    â€œWhat is that?” Margaret asks, suddenly terrified, a complete turnaround from the moments leading up to this. “What the hell is that?” She’s stopped walking midstride, staring at the thing, a strange-looking rock, perhaps? I don’t understand why she’s reacting so strongly to it.
    â€œCalm down,” I say, and this time it’s my turn to feel smug. I make my way toward the stony thing, wondering why Margaret isn’t leading the way or even following me.
    The edges of the big rock ahead look too smooth, too shapely, to be made naturally. It seems to get larger with every step, an ever-expanding vessel of stone. I keep walking through the trees until I’m standing over it, my eyes wide, my brain struggling to understand what I’m seeing.
    It’s a tomb.
    And, behind it, multiple scattered gravestones, each of them filthy and streaked with moss.
    In all my time living here, I have never heard of there being a cemetery on the property. The estate has been in my family for generations, too, so I’m wondering if these are people I was related to in some way. I know my mother, grandmother and great-grandmother were all buried in one of the cemeteries in town, and these graves look old , so I doubt it.
    There aren’t words on any of the markers, or if there are, they are far too worn to distinguish. I step around the tomb and count twelve graves, all clustered together among the trees. There is no clearing, no gate, nothing at all to mark off the area of sporadically placed headstones of various sizes and shapes.
    Margaret finally catches up to me after her hesitant start, stepping out from behind an especially wide pine with caution.
    â€œWeird, huh?” I say, watching her eyes take in the sight.
    When my cousin sees the tomb and gravestones, she begins to scream.

SHE DOESN’T STOP screaming until I physically pull her away from the tomb. “What is wrong with you?” I yell over her cries as I lead her away.
    Margaret quiets down after a step or two. I try to talk her into transitioning her quick, jagged gasps into slow, thoughtful breaths. I forcibly lead her through the trees, her panic fading as we get farther away from the graves. Her hands shake as she tightens her arm around mine, holding on and looking over her shoulder as if to make sure we aren’t being followed.
    â€œMargaret,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. I don’t care if she sees me cry; I can’t handle it all anymore, the stress, the fear. Acosta or not, I am heading for a mental breakdown. “ Please tell me what’s going on. Please stop pushing me away because you’re afraid, or angry, or whatever the hell it is. Let me be here for you!”
    My cousin takes little gulps of air as she walks quickly with me in the direction that we came from. Once we’ve cleared the trees and the house is in sight, she lets go of my arm, shrugging away from me, walking toward the house as defiantly as she walked away from it less than an hour ago. Something has to be done , I realize right away. I can’t take this anymore.
    I have to tell my father about Margaret.
    We go back inside through the double glass doors leading to the kitchen. Miranda and Vanessa are sitting at the wooden table in the corner, going over sheets of paper that look like they might be seating arrangement charts. Margaret goes through to the dining room exit without acknowledging their presence, and I tag along behind, returning Miranda’s hesitant greeting with an empty smile and a hello. Vanessa looks flustered and miserable and pretends to be too engaged with whatever she’s working on to look up. I wonder if she told her