By Laura L. Zimmerman
“Even the corpse has its own beauty.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
He wants to dig up the body.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper to my father beneath the light of the moon.
He grunts, a low rumble that tells me he doesn’t care about his son’s opinion.
“She’s been dead a year.” My voice is a pleading whine.
Still, he walks through the cemetery gate. A worn shovel fills his fist; determination fills his step.
“I’m coming, dear. Just like you told me. I need to know the truth,” he huffs, almost to himself. “You’re gone. I know you’re gone.”
I follow him. His mind is set. Nothing can stop him now. Definitely not my unconvincing words, my unwelcomed logic that exhuming a corpse can only unearth things that should be forgotten.
But he wants her, my mother. Wants to see her, anyway.
There is no getting her back.
She died of the sickness, the thing that decayed her body. The stubborn poison that consumed her blood. It’s a miracle neither Father nor I were infected.
Yet, he sees her in his dreams, my father. Or so he repeatedly mumbles beneath his breath like shadows in the night.
Night.
Night in, night out. His screams drag me from my sleep, rip me back to a reality I’d sooner forget.
His story is always the same.
She comes to him from the darkness. Stands at the foot of his bed. Begs him to save her, to bring her back to the only happiness she ever knew.
And yet, he can’t.
And yet, I can’t.
And yet,
And yet,
And yet…
We stand.
We stand by the grave, the ground fully healed from the scars of her burial.
Fully healed, until…
My father stabs at the earth with vengeance, as if the dirt and mud were the cause of her death.
He digs. And digs.
I hear a thunk, an ominous sound.
“Father, please,” I beg. It’s futile.
I shiver but it has nothing to do with the dropping autumn temperature. Moonlight glints off the surface of a box. The box that holds Mother.
“Father, a body does not rise from the grave.” Panic boils under my skin.
He kneels in the grime. His hands are covered in mud as he claws the last of the soil away. “I’ve come, sweetheart. Just like you told me to.”
Madness has claimed my father, grief the callous culprit of his insanity.
Tears sting my eyes.
He lifts the lid.
I hold my breath. Will he accept it, even after seeing that rotting, beautiful corpse?
I close my eyes, not prepared to see my dead mother.
He gasps.
I look.
The coffin holds my cold, lifeless body.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Great job, Laura. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the ending and the word play leading up to it drew me in.
The suspense is very strong throughout the story. You really held my attention through to the end.
Was the reason his father ignored him because the narrator was already dead the whole time?
Loved it, especially the twist!
I need the mind blown emoji. Wow!
Great twist at the end.
Oooh, this was eerie … curious what the fallout would be after that revelation.
Love using R.W.E. as inspiration! You did it beautifully.
“We stand by the grave, the ground fully healed from the scars of her burial.”
I love that line. So creepy and beautiful! What a twisty, thought-provoking story!
Absolutely loved it. Had no idea how it would end. The writing draws you in like you are being caught in a spider’s web. Unable to get away, you MUST stay to see what happens. Glad I did, please give me more ASAP.