“What do ya call this?” Lenny pointed at the hole. “I just buried this bastard yesterday.”
“I meant a new one! You dug up the goddamned Satanist! How the hell am I going to do this now?”
Lenny leaned forward, hacked, and then spit into the hole. “A grave’s a grave, boss. I’ll drop the son of a bitch back in there when you’re done.”
A wisp of smoke snaked out of the hole, as if Lenny’s spit had hit something red-hot. Everyone furrowed their brows in unison.
“What the -?” Lenny muttered.
“The hell with this,” Chaste said. “Just do me in the coffin, for
Lenny sniffed at the smoke. A rattling disturbed the darkness. Chaste turned and saw the Satanist’s coffin jolting from side to side, knocking into nearby tombstones. The pentagram etchings glowed crimson.
“Holy sh-!”
Lenny’s curse was cut short as the wisp of smoke lashed at him and noosed his throat. Chaste stumbled back into a tombstone as Wicker stared agape. The steel gray wisp dangled Lenny’s body over the hole. He cried out as he frantically fished in his pant pockets. He yanked out a stack of Euros and tossed it at the restless coffin.
“Here! Take it! Just let me go!”
The smoke snapped Lenny’s neck, uncoiled, and then dropped his corpse in the hole. Chaste’s wide eyes locked on the stack of Euros lying a few yards off to the side. That was her money. If she could grab it, she might get time off for good behavior and an early train ticket. However, it seemed Lenny’s bad throwing arm did little to appease the angry dead. The rattling coffin blew its top and steel gray smoke poured out in a miniature mushroom cloud. The pentagrams sparked afire. Chaste dashed for the Euros. She knew it was now or never and waiting to see a resurrected Satanist was at the bottom of her list scrawled illegibly.
Wicker withdrew a nail gun that glinted in the firelight. Chaste’s blood boiled. The undertaker had planned to crucify and rape her while being buried alive. Before he could take aim and pull the trigger, Chaste swung her coach bag. It slammed into his head, whirling him to face the dark cloud that flashed with chain lightning. The coffin erupted into flames. Chaste snatched up the stack of Euros and stuffed them in her bag. As she turned to flee, she glimpsed Wicker and the evil that rose before him. A black skull the size of a full-grown pumpkin with a red pentagram pulsing in its forehead hovered on the smoke. Blood poured from its maggoty eye sockets and its lantern jaw cracked open. Bluish-orange flames shot from its mouth engulfed Wicker. Chaste kicked off her heels and ran for the gate.
“Lord help me. Oh, please, Lord help me.”
She had never prayed before. Church had always reminded her of her mother’s murder. She had probably blamed God for the tragedy. Yet here she was sputtering prayers as tombstones shattered and exploded around her. She ducked through the gates as the wrought iron gnarled like old tree roots and crashed behind her. She focused her mind on the back door of the funeral home. She knew salvation lurked somewhere within.
She slammed open the door, ran past the coffins, and pounded up the staircase. She gasped and panted in the padded garage, doubling over with a fit of dry heaves. She stumbled over to the driver’s side door of the hearse. The keys dangled in the ignition. She tossed her bag onto the passenger’s seat and revved the engine. She then shifted into reverse and crashed through the padded door. She screeched off down the lamplit street as flames raged like a bonfire in the distance.
Chaste shivered and then sighed heavily. Her last appointment was over and her legs were still closed. It seemed unbelievable, everything following the stroke of
THE END