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A pearl moon shivered amongst the stars, sleeping in the ink black sky. Its cool glow slithered over the palm trees and ferns
adorning the marble walkway. The fronds drooped downwards, perspiring gloom that never seemed to leave, drawing your eyes
into a never-ceasing stare. The rapping of shoes against stone echoed between the trees at the side of the path; young and
old, couples and singles, men and women, children and grandparents made their way up the path, through the chilled night,
into the warmth of the building.
“Oh my gosh…” the mother croaked. Something in her eyes: Hope.
The two men gawked at the coffin. It lay still. No – it shook once more. Then it lay still.
The mother moaned. The father held her back. Was it all an illusion? No. Everyone else noticed it, too.
The coffin seemed to jump an inch off the platform, and inside there was movement, pressured squiggling and shoving.
The mother wailed, “She’s trying to get out!”
“She’s dead,” someone said. “This isn’t-“
Others yelped, “Open the coffin! For God’s sake, let her out!”
The two men jumped forward, answering the call. They clambered over the coffin, grabbing the latches.
Velvet draperies clung to the windows, pushing back the night, trying to forget that there was an end to the day. People stood
in groups amongst the room, talking quietly among themselves, holding briefcases and purses. Some cried, and they were comforted.
Against the walls were plaques filled with pictures of a baby; the next plaque showed snapshots of a little girl, six or seven,
grinning with mustard on her church clothes. A woman stroked the images and turned her head, closed her eyes, throat quivering.
A man placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezed.
Flowers covered the back of the room, where, upon a marble pedestal, sat a small rectangular box made of oak wood with silver
lining, velvet insides. The coffin was closed, holding back the young girl. As visitors paid their respects, they shook their
head, wondering why such a beautiful young woman would have a closed-casket viewing.
The simple answer: “The sickness ravaged her. She isn’t recognizable body or soul.”
“What kind of sickness?”
Ruffled murmurs, whispers in the shadows and corners, under the ease ways and among the elegant gardens: “The doctors
don’t know. It took her slowly over a matter of days. They don’t even know how she contracted it. It’s never
been seen before.”
The visitors huddled together, staring at the coffin, then exchanging frigid glances over to the mother and father, clutching
each other; the wife buried her head in her husband’s shoulder, sobbing desperately. “Taken so soon,” someone
said. “So innocent.”
Two men went outside under the cool stars, shedding off their rich jackets. One tossed it over the arm of a bench, and turning
away from the building, lit a cigarette. His friend didn’t want one. So they stood out in the cold, one taking drags
and blowing smoke into the garden flowers.
“Such a pity, a life taken like that. Aren’t there more sicknesses now than ever? It’s like an epidemic.”
The other managed a small sigh despite the pain. “There’s always an epidemic every century. We’re still
waiting on ours.”
“It’s about time.”
The friend shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry too much about-“
They swung around, hearing a strange noise from inside the building. A gasp, then silence. They looked at each other. The
chain-smoker tossed his cigarette into the bushes, grabbed his jacket, and they trotted in through double-wide French doors.
Everyone had gathered around the coffin, staring. The two men pushed their way to the front. The mother and father buried
the visitors in their elbows, wedging their way to the foot of the coffin. The tears had stopped; the eyes sparkled. The two
men stared at the coffin.
It shuddered.
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The father yelled, “Don’t open it! Please! My daughter is dead!”
His wife clawed at him. “She’s alive! Our daughter’s alive!”
“Olivia! She is dead! She’s been dead for two days! She laid in the morgue for two days!”
The two men hovered over the casket. It shook beneath them. One of the men slid off. No illusion.
The crowd yelled, “Let her out! She’ll suffocate!”
“Ginger! Ginger!” the wife screamed.
The coffin rattled. A noise from within. It sounded like a cry. The two men stared downwards. The sound came again, hit their
ears – their hearts chilled. It didn’t sound right, didn’t sound natural, didn’t sound… human.
“My daughter cries for me! Do you hear her? She cries for me!”
The crowd hollered, “Let her out!” Those out on the walkway and gardens filtered inside.
The two men stared at each other. The coffin quaked. They grabbed the rungs.
“No!” the father hollered. “Don’t open it! My daughter is dead! Her beauty is scarred! It is a trick!”
They grabbed the rungs. The chain-smoker said, “She’s going to suffocate in there, Mister Allen.”
Clawing from within. She was clawing at the velvet coating inside the coffin, trying to escape. The two men grabbed the rungs.
The father threw his wife to the side and launched after them; their hands wrapped around the rungs; he hit one with his fist
broadside against the cheek. The chain-smoker’s hand gripped the latch as he fell, and the lid popped open; the two
men tumbled into the flowers, knocking them over, water and soil and sweet fragrances staining thousand-dollar-suits. The
chain-smoker tried to stand, slipped, and heard muffled screams. The world spun; his jaw ached. His friend kicked him in the
groin, and he toppled over; rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes, seeing the plants draped all around him. A bright light
stung his eyes. A shadow fell over him, something hit him; he tried to stand as his neck seared with pain; he saw spots and
felt his flesh ripping. He could feel his blood gushing all over him. The sounds of screaming died away. The pressure vanished.
He lay in the pile of funeral flowers, bleeding all over the stalks, eyes glazing, and he lost consciousness.
Two minutes later, he stood.
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