By Jim Doran
While a shuffling inside a crypt would terrify most people, Christopher DeSalle listened to the corpse’s awakening movements with anticipation. Sparked by injustice, his longing for the resuscitated cadaver had led him to this moment.
The last rays of sunset bathed the headstones and stone facades in golden hues. It reflected off a plaque on the crypt wall next to him: Michelle Carver, 1950 – 1969.
A car door slammed shut in the distance, and Chris turned around. Squinting, he discerned the features of his grandmother, Doris. What was she doing here? She lived in Illinois, not suburban Missouri. The forward momentum of his anger faltered, even as the lid of a coffin inside the sepulcher rattled open. The timing couldn’t be worse.
Despite her cane, his spry grandmother navigated around the tombstones easily. He pulled the heavy door mostly closed and stepped forward a few yards to meet her on the gravel path. When she arrived, her eyes darted between him and the crypt.
Chris gulped and positioned himself so that his grandmother’s back was to the door. “Grandma Dori, why are you here?”
“I drove in for your twentieth birthday. Your mother told me you were visiting Michelle after the tragedy last week.”
“Yes, I’ve come every day.” Chris rubbed his right eye as if wiping away a tear.
“That’s not what your mother said.”
Chris jammed his hands into his denim jacket pockets. He had the distinct impression his grandmother suspected what was happening. But how could she?
Doris’s eyes creased. “Tell the truth to this old flapper. What are you really doing here?”
“I’m paying my respects. Didn’t Mom mention the fuzz shot Michelle at a peace rally? She shouldn’t have died.”
Doris leaned on her cane. “I’m sure she shouldn’t have. Same as the squirrel your friend Stanley killed when you were boys. Stanley should’ve never fired his slingshot. I warned him. But he didn’t listen, and then he poked its dead body with his finger. The critter surprised me when it jumped up and bit him, but I suspect you were secretly pleased. Tell me, Chris, was the squirrel dead when it bit Stanley?”
The question hung in the air like incense in a church. He didn’t answer, attending instead to a faint footfall from within the crypt.
Folding her arms, Doris leaned back. “Like Robert was dead?”
Chris stiffened at his cousin’s name.
“When you two were in that car accident a few years ago, Robert shouldn’t have survived for even a second after the crash.” Doris turned her head and scrutinized her grandson with one eye. “Not only was Robert alive, but he rose to his feet and strangled the other driver. He didn’t die until after ensuring the other driver was dead.”
Chris’s blood raced through his veins. “The sucker deserved it. The guy was so drunk he could hardly stand.”
Doris pointed the end of her cane at her grandson. “Everyone thought you had killed the other driver, but Robert’s fingerprints were all over the man’s neck. The doctors couldn’t explain how someone who suffered so much trauma had the strength to kill a man.”
Gritting his teeth, Chris asked, “Are you accusing me of murder?”
“Simmer down, dear.” His grandmother’s eyes were fixed on his. “When your temper controls you instead of you controlling it, bizarre things happen. As in the dead come back to life and take their revenge. I’ve suspected your anger may be the trigger.”
Golden bracelets, last seen on Michelle’s folded hands, rattled inside the crypt.
Doris continued, “Now, you’re standing outside your best friend’s final resting place after she was unjustly killed.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” asked Chris.
Examining the stone building, Doris raised her eyebrows. “You tell me.”
A heel scraped against the floor.
“I’m saying goodbye, Grandma Dori. Nothing else. Go home—right now!”
Doris tapped her fingernail on the wood of her cane. “I’ve seen several inexplicable incidents in my life, some more incredible than a resuscitated squirrel. Now don’t lie to me. How far along is she?”
Chris’s heartbeat increased. His grandmother shouldn’t be here, though, admittedly, she was voicing some of his own doubts.
Doris’s expression softened. “I came here to explain your curse, Chris. It’s—”
“I’m not cursed!” Chris flushed. “It’s a gift.”
A chill enveloped him, as it had when Robert rose to his feet after the accident. The grass at his feet frosted over.
Doris shivered and glared at him.
Chris snapped at her, unable to restrain himself. “Tonight, Michelle’s murderer—that cop—will have a visitor. What happens has nothing to do with you. I need you to leave.”
Instead, his grandmother stepped forward. “Fury is all-consuming. It provokes people to do terrible things.”
He took a deep breath. Terrible? Would Michelle think the same thing?
Doris’s voice softened. “Every flame of fury needs a wick, though. And the wick of anger is often grief.”
Behind Doris, Chris spotted fingertips clawing the air from the open vault door.
His grandmother placed her hand on his cheek. “It’s high time you dealt with your grief differently, dear heart.”
A shrill starling’s call split the air as if reminding him how to cry. The outpouring came not as tears but a sob. Why did Michelle have to die? She’d been so full of life. The policeman had panicked and fired into the crowd. Why had the bullet hit her?
Burying his face on his grandma’s shoulder, he wept, tears rolling down his cheeks. Why do the innocent pay for the sins of others?
The tide of tears unearthed an image of Michelle—proudly holding her sign high. Not a woman of violence at all. What was he turning her into?
He released a shuddering breath as if blowing out a flame and whispered, “Goodbye, Michelle.”
Behind him, the fingers pulled back into the crypt.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I liked the change at the end. I was afraid Granny was gonna get offed by Michelle!
Thank you for reading. And that ending would’ve been nasty…
gram saved michelle from a fate worse than death….. well deserved ratings!
Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
A truly chilling tale! Grandma Doris is one determined, brave matron!
Chilling with a powerful message!