Chapter 5: The Unquiet Grave

I woke my wife. My hands shook as I reached for her.

Martha was curled up in bed, snoring softly. I shook her awake, my hands still sticky with blood. My heart hammered in my chest.

She saw all the blood and started shaking all over. Panic flashed in her eyes.

Her eyes went wide, mouth open in a silent scream. She looked at me like I was a stranger. I could see the fear.

Then, even with her bum leg, it was like she had a motor in her—she ran faster than I’d ever seen. I just stared, amazed.

She bolted for the door, limping but moving quick. I’d never seen her move like that—not even when the tornado sirens went off. I almost laughed, but it caught in my throat.

I was afraid she’d start screaming and bring the neighbors over, so in a panic, I slapped her across the face. “Don’t shout! If you bring people here, I’ll end up in prison!” My voice shook.

My voice was sharp, desperate. I couldn’t let her lose control—not now. Not with everything at stake. I felt trapped.

Martha was stunned by the slap. She froze—didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t say a word. Horror flickered in her eyes.

She just stood there, trembling, eyes wide. I could see the fear etched into every line of her face. I wanted to say sorry, but the words stuck.

But she was trembling, her face white as paper. I’d never seen her like that before.

She looked like a ghost, barely there. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how. Regret gnawed at me.

I told her to get a needle and thread so I could stitch up my dad’s belly. My voice came out flat, almost cold.

She moved like a sleepwalker, fetching the old sewing kit from the pantry. Her hands shook as she handed it to me. I took it, my own hands shaking.

As Martha sewed, I actually felt a little proud of myself. Strange, but true.

I watched her work, the needle flashing in the dim light. For a moment, I felt like I was doing right by my dad—giving him the dignity he deserved. Just a sliver of pride.

I was being dutiful. Maybe for the first time in my life.

That thought warmed me, just a little. I’d failed in so many ways, but at least I could do this one thing right. Small comfort.

My dad was dead, but I still gave him a decent send-off. I tried to remember the right words, but they wouldn’t come.

I tried to remember the prayers from church, the words we used to say at funerals. I mumbled them under my breath, hoping they’d be enough. I prayed for forgiveness.

When Martha finished sewing, I tossed her a shovel and made her dig a hole in the yard. My voice left no room for argument.

She hesitated, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. The ground was hard, the night cold. She dug anyway, tears streaming down her face. I watched, arms crossed, feeling tired.

She dug deep, but not deep enough. I could see her arms shaking with every scoop.

Her arms shook, blisters forming on her palms. The hole was shallow, barely big enough for a grown man. I sighed.

When we put my dad in the hole, he had to curl up—didn’t look too dignified. I winced, looking away.

I winced, but there was nothing I could do. We were out of time, out of options. I whispered an apology.

I wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing I could do. My wife was weak, and it took her hours just to dig that deep. I felt helpless.

I stood over the grave, hands on my hips, wishing things could have been different. Regret burned in my chest.

Once my dad was in, it was time to cover him with dirt. I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

I shoveled the earth back in, the sound dull and final. Each scoop felt heavier than the last. It felt like the end of something.

My sense of duty kicked in again. I had to see it through.

I wanted to do right by him, even now. It was the least I could do. I told myself that, over and over.

He had no coffin—how could I let a shovelful of dirt fall right on his face? I hesitated, shovel in hand.

It felt wrong, disrespectful. I remembered the stories my grandma used to tell—about spirits that linger if you don’t treat the dead right. I shivered.

I went to his bed and got a thin blanket to cover him. It was the least I could do.

It was faded, patched in places. But it was his, and I hoped it would give him some comfort, wherever he was. I laid it over him gently.

Just then, Martha screamed from the yard: “He’s not dead! His eyes are open!” My heart stopped.

Her voice cut through the night, high and panicked. I dropped the shovel, heart racing. Fear shot through me.

“He really opened his eyes!” The words echoed, sharp and wild.

I froze, blood pounding in my ears. For a second, I thought I saw movement in the grave. My hands shook.

I rushed back outside. Martha was already on the ground, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth. Terror gripped me.

She convulsed, limbs jerking. I knelt beside her, panic rising. I felt so helpless.

I slapped her a few more times. “Wake up, Martha!” Desperation colored my voice.

“Wake up, Martha! Come on!” My hand stung, but she didn’t respond. I was losing her.

Didn’t help. She just kept foaming. My heart broke.

Her lips turned blue, her body shaking. I felt helpless, useless. I wanted to scream.

A thought crept into my mind: My dad had a set of guts, but I wasn’t ready. It haunted me.

The words echoed in my head, mocking me. I’d failed him, failed everyone. Guilt ate at me.

My wife also has a set of guts… The thought hit me like a slap.

The thought was sudden, shocking. I tried to push it away, but it lingered, dark and insistent. God, what was I thinking?

That thought made me hurry to pinch under Martha’s nose and the web between her thumb and forefinger, praying she wouldn’t die—she had to hold on until I could get to town and buy some painkillers! I whispered frantic prayers.

I pressed my fingers to the spots my grandma taught me—old folk remedies, things you do in a panic. “Hang on, Martha,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “Just hang on a little longer.” Outside, the wind rattled the branches of the maple tree, and somewhere in the darkness, I thought I heard my dad’s voice, calling out for home.

The maple creaked like a door on old hinges, and I didn’t dare look.