Chapter 2 - THE LATCH
The heavy brass latch gave way with a sickening, metallic clack.
Maria screamed, lunging for Julian’s arm, but he was already moving. Driven by a surge of pure, desperate adrenaline, Julian shoved his shoulder under the polished oak lid and heaved upward. The hinges groaned, resisting for a fraction of a second before the lid flew back, crashing against the floral stands. White lilies scattered across the carpet like broken glass.
Julian froze, the breath knocked completely out of his lungs.
It wasn't a corpse.
His father, Arthur, lay violently thrashing against the white silk lining. His eyes were bloodshot, bulging with unspeakable terror, darting frantically toward Julian. Across his mouth, smeared with sweat and saliva, was a thick, jagged strip of black industrial duct tape.
"Dad!" Julian roared, falling to his knees beside the casket. His trembling fingers clawed at the edge of the tape. He ripped it away in one swift, agonizing pull.
Arthur gasped, a ragged, wet sound that filled the silent room. He convulsed, greedily sucking in the stale air of the funeral parlor, his chest heaving under his stiff, immaculate suit.
"Julian," Arthur wheezed, his voice raw and broken. His shaking hand reached up, desperately gripping Julian’s wrist.
Julian pulled his father upward, wrapping his arms around the frail old man, sobbing into his shoulder. He was alive. It was a miracle, a nightmare, an impossible reality all crashing down at once.
But as Julian held him, he felt something cold and hard pressed against his palm. Arthur was clutching a heavy, silver pocket watch. It belonged to Julian’s grandfather. It had been missing for over a decade.
Julian pulled back, looking from the watch to his father’s pale, tear-streaked face.
"He's alive," Julian turned, a lethal fury radiating from his eyes as he locked onto Maria. She was backed against the wall, her hands covering her mouth.
Julian expected to see a murderer caught in the act. He expected to see guilt. But the reversal hit him like a physical blow. Maria wasn’t looking at Arthur with the frustration of a foiled killer. She was looking at the duct tape dangling from the casket with genuine, unadulterated horror. She was trembling so violently her knees seemed ready to give out.
"I didn't..." Maria whispered, her voice barely audible. "I swear to God, Julian. I was told..."
"Told what?!" Julian bellowed, standing up. "Who told you he was contagious? Who told you to keep this box shut?"
Before Maria could answer, a heavy set of footsteps echoed near the entryway. The man who had been solemnly holding Arthur's framed portrait just moments ago stepped forward. He carefully placed the picture down on a mahogany table.
May you like
Arthur’s eyes darted past Julian’s shoulder, locking onto the man. The old man’s breath hitched, his frail fingers digging painfully into Julian’s arm.
"Him," Arthur croaked, pointing a trembling, bruised finger at the man. "He packed the dirt."
