Life Goes On
And on, and on, and on
The little church along the side of the road was a beehive of activity, with mourners coming and going all evening. At the property next door, however, a storage locker park, business went on as usual.
The man looked the other way.
On the highway, traffic still zipped by. The cafe downtown was abuzz with activity, too, with dinnertime customers ignorant of the human tragedy playing out just around the corner.
The man held down a position outside the church, pretending to surf on his phone from behind dark sunglasses while he waited.
And that's what this existence is, right?
Life goes on.
He locked his phone and stuffed it in his pocket.
On the inside, the small one room church was typical Southern Baptist, with a stage 8 inches tall and a banner on the wall that read "Devil Binder."
The side door was open, and overflow mourners stood watching outside as the preacher wrapped up the ceremony. A lanky kid with arms so long it looked like he could tap his kneecaps without bending over walked through the receiving line, and another young man who was uncomfortable giving a hug to the “mother” of the deceased. He slithered past as she was distracted by others.
Mourners filtered out, into the dining hall which was in a separate building built five steps from the side door. The celebration of life ceremony had been a simple rental and the church offered meal service. There were meatballs and meatloaf and barbecue chicken, not to mention brownies and cakes and cobblers.
The man looked at a beautiful array of photos arranged on the altar. The person shown in them did not look like the person he remembered, but then, it had been a very long time.
From his position at the altar, the man could overhear the preacher in his quarters, talking to his wife.
“My incision is killing me,” he said. “I can't sit anymore. I have to get up and go get something for dinner.”
He and his wife waddled out of the church, leaving behind their kitchen staff, a janitor drinking a beer, and a smattering of lingering mourners.
With three quick steps at just the right moment, the man slipped out of sight, into the back room. He was there, in the shadows, when the funeral home’s staff wheeled the corpse in.
Because it was a holiday and the small-town lacked a medical examiner, the church had agreed to hold the body overnight until the coroner from Springfield could get there. The man had planned each circumstance for this particular moment.
A man in a polo shirt with “Thompson-Larsen Funeral Home” embroidered on the left breast reached for the light switch then looked back at the closed casket.
“Are we really just gonna leave her here?” he asked.
“They'll be here to get her first thing in the morning," his co-worker said. "It's not going to hurt her any to stay here overnight.“
The light clicked off and they left, letting the door click shut behind them, but the man remained still for several minutes. When he was sure everyone had gone, he quietly emerged from his hiding spot at the back of the storeroom and approached the closed casket.
He reached out for the lid of the casket and was just about to open it when the door swung open behind him. The janitor walked in and saw the man reaching for the casket.
“What are you doing?” he asked the man. “You don't have permission to…”
He hadn't finished his sentence, but he trailed off.
The lid on the casket slowly opened, a pale white arm raising it from within.
The janitor began to spit prayers in quick, panicked fashion and kissed the cross pendant that hung from the chain around his neck.
The man smirked as the janitor departed with haste.
The woman in the casket sat up abruptly.
“FUCK!” she screamed.
“Welcome back,” the man said.
“Closed fucking casket!” she yelled. “Are you kidding me? Last time I'm doing that shit,” she said.
“Yes it was a lot of work to arrange all this,” the man said. “You're welcome.”
She smiled at him and stretched.
“I'm sorry, you're right,” she said. “Thank you.”
The man nodded.
“It was just hot and disorienting in that goddamn thing,” she said. “And after a couple of hours I realized I could smell my feet.”
The man laughed out loud.
She raised the lower lid on the coffin.
“Will you hold this please so I can get out?” she asked.
He held the coffin while she climbed out. “How many years has it been, Kate?”
She clapped her hands one way then another as she set foot on the floor.
“Uhh,” she thought for a moment. “120 years give or take?”
His jaw dropped.
“Has it really been that long?” he asked, shocked.
“Well, let’s see,” she said. “Andrew, I think the last time I saw you was San Francisco, 1906.”
She watched his face as he searched for the memory.
“The fire,” she said. “Remember?”
When you had hundreds of years of memories, it could be quite difficult to remember individual events so long ago, but he remembered this one.
“Yeah, the fire,” he said. “That’s right. We evacuated the hotel room and I never saw you again.”
“I know,” she said. “Sorry about the disappearing act but I was due for rebirth, and when the hotel burnt down, it was a perfect opportunity that I couldn't pass up.”
“Well we have plenty of time, you can tell me all about it in the car.” he said. “Let's get out of here.”
She pointed a thumb towards the door.
“You worried about the janitor?” she asked. “He saw me, right?”
“I think he's about eight beers deep," the man said. “Even if he remembers it in the morning, I don't think anybody would believe him.“
They walked out the back door to his waiting car.
“Who are you leaving behind this time?" he asked.
“Husband, basset hound, mother-in-law,” she said. “I'm pretty sad about two of those.”
The man chuckled. The sunset shone purple and orange on the horizon as they climbed into the car.
“You know what they say,” he said.
“Yeah,” she answered. “Life goes on.”
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.
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