Seven Days

Standing anonymous amongst the congregation, he watched as friends and family precariously lowered the rain-drenched coffin into the collapsing grave. Six burly men leaned over the open chasm, striving to maintain balance in the torrential rain; as the coffin slowly disappeared from view a barely audible splatter resonated from beneath as it finally hit its waterlogged bed. All the Pallbearer’s shoes had once gleamed with pride; now they stood caked in mud, housing feet that struggling to maintain a grip on the slippery grass verge.

He could see the look of relief on each of the men’s faces as they straightened up dropping their straps; he suppressed a wry smile as one grimaced with a seized lower back. He always found this part of a funeral darkly comic. The risk of falling in; the pain of a aching back; the look of worry on the Pallbearer’s faces as they carried the coffin to the graveside, struggling with the responsibility of staying balanced whilst preserving a decorum of dignity. Things like these always seemed to help ease the tension felt at a graveside. At least that was how it was for him; looking around the grave at his fellow mourners, he wasn’t so sure.

Thunderous clouds hung heavy in the morning sky, the heavens using their own tears to merge with those of the congregation.

The woman stood close to him, almost side by side. He instantly recognised his Foster Mother – a tall, robust woman he’d not spoken to in years… not since he’d left home under the blackest of clouds. Her strict Catholic beliefs had always gotten in the way of their relationship - his school days had been a living nightmare - but he’d never forget the day she banished him from her house - the day he told her he wanted to marry his Foster Sister.

Her trembling body was sufficient evidence her cries were heading beyond control. Grief had taken this woman and wasn’t going to give her back without a struggle. With her head nestled into her chest, persistent rain cascaded from the brim of her hat. A large black coat entombed the Woman’s traditional Funeral wear, the hem stroking the base of her knees. Her black veil clung to soaking skin, masking her face - it hid her anguish, but the rain cascading down it mirrored her tears. Her sobs reached out to all who stood around the soaking sepulchre, ripping through their hearts. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and sympathy. He wanted to speak to her, say sorry for the past, tell her it was all over, but he couldn’t. Not now, now it was too late - too much had happened.

But perhaps if she knew, she’d understand. It might even help.

He turned away, ashamed, his eyes focusing on the graves crumbling walls; questioning why he was here.

The dead man had ended his life in a car accident not too dissimilar to the one he’d suffered years earlier. He’d survived, the man lying six foot below obviously hadn’t. He’d been walking back from his Girlfriends house, returning to his Wife. Crossing the road, he was oblivious to the approach of the oncoming car. The driver, in such a state of inebriation he’d left pissed far behind, failed to see him emerging from between the parked cars. After being hit at over 50mph, some of his clothing got caught on the bumper, the driver, that far gone he figured he’d hit only a dog, carried on home, ignorant of the extra weight being dragged beneath his feet.

He got quite a shock when he pulled into his driveway a mile later.

The driver called the Ambulance but by that time it was too late. Even if he’d stopped and called the moment he’d ploughed him down, it would’ve been too late. Reports claimed death had been instantaneous.

At least when someone hit him all those years earlier, he’d been thrown from the car before the driver carried on with his journey.

Standing next to his Foster Mother, he thought of these things. Vile images clouded his mind. He saw the dead man being dragged across the floor, the sight that would have met the driver as he emerged from his car. The blood. Always he saw the blood… but something else.

Each time he closed his eyes, the dead man would open his.

He’d been unable to sleep since the accident. He and the Dead Man had been close, close enough to share every secret. But the dead man had practiced things - dark things that he knew now led to his visions. The dead man had told him everything - he knew what was coming. From the first moment he saw those eyes staring back at him - blood tears slipping down a mangled face - he knew. He’d never believed till then - despite all he’d been told and seen - he’d refused to accept the truth. But now it was too late. It would happen today, seven days later.

Even now, he wondered if it really was an accident… or suicide.

The Chaplain finished his sermon, his comforting words of eternal peace lost on the wind. The congregation began to drop items on to the coffin - objects they’d not been able to place in the coffin due to the lack of a viewing… the body had been beyond the skills of even the best embalmer: traditional soil and roses were followed by intimate knick-knacks: CD’s, clothes and finally the deceased’s Wife stepped forward. With the aid of those around her, she bent down dropping a parchment of brown paper; it’s crumpled form masking its relevance. She refused to stand until it’s gentle flight ended with its landing over the brass nameplate. He witnessed none of this -he refused to look up from his feet till all had finished paying their respect. When he felt people around him move away, he stepped forward, wanting to do what was right before it was too late.

Suddenly, it was too late.

No one else around the grave seemed to have heard the scratching coming from inside the coffin.

But he did. He knew.

He stood, frozen with panic. Listening over the rain, he could hear fingernails eagerly scratching into the wooden surface of the lid, it’s occupant desperate to get out. Yet still he didn’t budge. Slowly, the congregation continued to move away, gradually walking back to their cars, ignoring him as he stood over the precipice. Only the deceased’s Wife remained behind, head lowered, her dry eyes transfixed on the dirt smothered coffin, watching the parchment she’d offered as it soaked up the falling rain.

She was his only company but he failed to see her, instead he focused on the centre of the coffin, his eyes bulging as the scraping got louder. He knew what was about to happen but he couldn’t do anything. Fear tightened its grip on his innards, his stomach threatening to release its contents. Cold sweat merged with cool rain, sheathing his pale face, washing past his lips. He tasted salt. He tried to scream but…

He failed to see the Wife move, her departing footsteps lost in the rain.

The scratching stopped. Eventually he began to breathe again, calming himself, trying to return to normal. He’d probably been hearing things, obviously upset at the day’s events. After all, if he’d been able to hear the grating, surely someone else would have, and only he reacted. Feeling relieved at his rational thought, he stood on the edge of the abyss, pleading in a whisper, ‘Rest in Peace…please!’ under his breath. Turning towards the graveyards exit, he was almost knocked back into the open grave by the figure of a woman as she came rushing back to the graveside.

Standing over the edge, she let fly a vicious glob of phlegm, laughing a victorious snort as it splattered over the wet parchment.

He stood there, stunned by all he’d seen, but shocked more so by whom it was... the woman. What the hell was she doing here? He tried approaching her, wanting to speak and find out what was going on, but she ignored his approach, pushing past him as she climbed into her car. He could still hear her laughter as the car pulled off, trying to catch up with the rest of the procession.

The scratching started again. He ran to the side of the grave preparing to climb in, eager to end the incessant noise. Searching around, he tried to find the Gravediggers – wondering if they were preparing to return from their shelter – nothing; the rain was obviously keeping them at bay. He crouched down.

The scratching stopped; his mobile rang.

Scrambling his pockets for it, confusion replaced his fear – why was it on? Surely he’d turned it off before entering the cemetery? His questions seemed irrelevant when he saw the number… he answered, recognising his own voice.

“It’s over.”

That was it. Nothing else.

He stood there looking at the phone, confused. Minutes passed before realisation hit him: It’s over – the waiting is over. Despite it making no sense, it was the only explanation - the woman who pushed passed him, ignoring him. She was the dead man’s Wife… his Wife! He thought he’d been at the Funeral of his Foster Brother - but he hadn’t... it was his own! People had talked about the accident on the approach from the cars to the graveside, he’d overheard them but had paid them little attention, but now, thinking about it, he couldn’t remember anything leading to the moment of passing through the graveyard’s gates. One minute he was walking down the street, the next he’s standing over a collapsing grave in the pouring rain. He’d no recollection of preparing himself for the day’s events, no memory of travelling, dressing, nothing! The accident they’d described was his. He hadn’t survived like he’d originally believed… he’d died.

He couldn’t understand. The dreams, the visions… why was he seeing his Foster Brother’s eyes open from underneath the car’s bumper?

No one had touched, spoke or even acknowledged him at the funeral. He’d figured it was because he had been ostracised by the family, but it wasn’t. It was because he wasn’t there.

Actually, that was wrong, he had been there, standing at the back whilst also… also lying in the coffin.

He’d been a guest at his own funeral. The irony was totally lost on him.

With realisation came anguish. Torturous pain tore through his head, emanating from his mouth: his canines were growing, pushing towards his bottom lip. He realised…

He remembered.

His Wife - his Wife and his Foster Brother had done this. That parchment that she’d thrown into the grave must have been the ancient transcript… the one that told of how to turn the innocent into a vampire without the need of even touching them. His Foster Brother had shown it to him on more than one occasion – he’d seen it so often he felt he could recite the incantation backwards – so he’d known about it, but he’d never believed it. It seemed impossible – unreal. His Foster Brother and supposed ‘friend’ claimed it was a document discovered by the Marquis De Sade and was later taken b Alistair Crowley but at the time, his claims had seemed ludicrous, but now… Up until moments before, he’d believed he was attending the funeral of a Foster child – and he had been - his own - but never this. First he had to deal with the realisation that he was a ghost, but moments later, he’s trying to believe that he’s also a vampire!

Finally, after collapsing on the muddied grass over the edge of the grave, his head in his hands as he tried to hold back the pain, the realisation washed over him. This was her revenge – revenge for the Girlfriend. His Wife obviously knew about his ‘bit on the side’ and certainly knew about the parchment – anyone who knew their Foster Brother knew about the parchment. No doubt she’d been to her Foster Brother, frantic for a solution – for revenge. He could believe it of him – when he wanted to be, his Foster Brother had tendencies of pure evil – but he never expected her hatred to run this deep. He never saw this happening. Thanks to her vindictiveness, his own stupidity and his Foster Brother’s malice, he now had to spend eternity, floating around trying to feed off others. Except he was different. In folk law, vampires were solid, yes they were the dead raised, but they had a form. Standing at the graveside with everyone surrounding him and no one knowing he was there proved he wasn’t like the Nosferatu in the books. An eternity, dying from starvation – it was what the parchment claimed it could give – and now he discovered it to be true. He was a ghost, unseen by living eyes, and a vampire, unable to touch those who could satisfy his everlasting hunger.

He understood now. It was his body trying to get out of the grave; it was his ‘inner soul’ that told him it was over. The manifestation that stood over the chasm was his trapped ‘outer soul’, an entity unable to touch, taste. Love.

He had to get his body out of the coffin - it was his only chance of becoming solid again! His souls and his body had to become one once more.

Jumping into the grave, he lost balance and landed awkwardly, his right foot slipping down the side pushing the parchment and personal effects into the water beneath his coffin, his left leg collapsing fro underneath him and sending his back crashing into the coffin’s apex. Lying there, he heard the approach of the Gravediggers as they made their way to the graveside, eager to make the most of the oncoming dry spell and conceal the nightmare he was stuck in. He had to act fast. Struggling to steady himself on the wet shell, he turned and bent down to pull at the lid, concentrating on the right hand corner nearest the head.

His hands fell through the coffin, touching the body’s shoulders inside. He was transparent! Cursing his stupidity, (after all, he was a ghost) he prepared to slip into the coffin, merging his soul with his carcass.

As the rain finally passed, the sun struggled to reveal itself from behind dissipating black clouds.

The Gravediggers picked up their shovels; their days work about to commence.

For a moment he stared at himself, face to face, shocked b what he saw, but recognising the scars from his dreams. Carefully, he turned himself towards the inside of the coffin lid so he could simply ‘fall’ into his body. The smell was repulsive – forcing him to gag - but the claustrophobia was worse. As he began to descend into his body, an intense fire burned behind his eyes; a pain only surpassed by his growing teeth erupted from his head... his ironic thoughts were of wishing death would be quick… within seconds, it was over… Collapsing into his body and gathering his breath, witnessing his dead chest rise and fall with his breaths, he used his remaining dead eye to study his surroundings - he was entombed in a timber shroud. Looking at the wood, he felt the fear rise in his throat – he saw the walls getting closer, suffocating him; crushing him. He could taste sulphur in the air, scorching his lungs as it entered his soul. The coffin was trying to kill him! His mind was closing in, collapsing as panic took hold. With sudden realisation, he knew had to get out. He desperately had to get out of this nightmare and release his soul from the suffocation - but the thought of not being able to resolve his horrors brought him back round. He calmed down, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. His body was dead but it had moved before, calling to him, and now that his soul was joined, it would move again. He directed his energies on the scorched timber, concentrating, focusing on the scratches, and using them as his point of exit.

The gentle thud of soil hitting wood inches from his face told him the Gravediggers had started.

He would be seen but he didn’t care – he had to get out. His Wife had to pay for doing this to him… but most importantly, so must his Foster Brother. He dug his nails deeper into the woods, intensifying his efforts, using his anger and hatred for motivation.

Above him, the Gravediggers increased their pace.

Using the sounds if the soil landing directly in front of him as motivation, he increased his pace to match and then beat that of the Gravediggers… within seconds, his finger was through. He could feel the dampness of the fresh soil encompassing the coffin cooling his digit. Feverishly he pulled at the wood, inserting more fingers through the gap, pushing the moist soil away. He could here the shocked screams from the Gravediggers when the saw the earth moving unassisted; he laughed as he heard their shovels being thrown on the coffin, their aim hopelessly off target. Pulling aside more soil, he listened to their footsteps fade into the distance as they ran for help – he didn’t care, he reasoned he’d be long gone by the time they returned. He pushed his hand through, moving the soil, his skin tasting the cool air.

Immense pain like he’d never felt before tore through his body, it’s epicentres in his hand, but also in his stomach, beneath the escape hole he’d created. All thoughts left him as he screamed from the agony he was enduring. Frantically he scratched at the coffin, desperate for a release from the pain yet not knowing where it would come from, but it was no good - sunlight tore a hole into his body.

In his efforts to remove his body from the coffin, he’d been ignorant of the fact that he was a vampire. Oblivious to the fact that sunlight would kill him.

As his decomposing body died, he tried to release his soul - quickly sink into the earth below – or even jump up into the killing air - and live an unknown life of emptiness, but the sun’s rays entrapped him. Somehow, the warmth and shards of sunlight encased his soul inside a rotting shell. For the second time in seven days, he was dying.

As his withering body slowly turned to dust, the rays of the sun acted like knifes, slicing his body into thousands – even millions - of pieces. Before a new death took him, he thought of his Wife… he still loved her, despite all of this, he still couldn’t allow his hatred to destroy all they had gone through together. But there was something else…

Deep down he knew he’d deserved this; he knew this was his fate. Despite his promises, he’d hurt her on more than one occasion and with more methods than just ‘other women’. Her revenge had been the sweetest.

His last sorrowful thoughts died as his soul dissolved into the pile of dust that had once been his bones.

V

She stood on the edge of the grave, silent, impassive.

The wind slowly brushed past her, gently moving her clothes as it made its way into the tomb, lifting the grey dust and carrying it through the morning air. She felt nothing. She’d expected to feel some sort of satisfaction, pleasure or contentment… but no - nothing. No regret; no joy; no sadness. Her husband was dead, her revenge complete. So what? It had been seven days – seven long days. Days in which her supposedly loving Foster Brother had put her through every indignity imagined just so she could get that parchment to work. Just so she could try and restore some of the self-esteem her Husband had stolen from her. He’d promised her the world, and gave her nothing. Separated her from her family so they could be together then subsequently humiliated her with his various affairs. She’s put up with so much for so long and perhaps that would still have been the case… if he hadn’t been sleeping with her Sister – her REAL Sister - a girl she’d not spoken to in years but a relationship he’d managed to destroy in minutes. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t blame her estranged relative; she didn’t know him… at least not the real him. He’d repeatedly proven himself over the years as a ladies man with a predatory streak, but even her newly discovered Sister was something new for him. She had to stop him before it got too much. That was why she paid to have him run over: pity the stupid bastard driving the car didn’t think to do it sober, but she’d paid him through too many contacts for the ‘accident’ to get back to her. She was safe, no body knew, not even her precious Foster Brother.

And now it was over.

Her husband’s dust floated around her, purposely avoiding her hair and clothes. She turned and slowly made her way back to the car - somewhere in the distance she could hear his voice.