Rain lashed against the mourners as they gathered at the Gray family cemetery, umbrellas trembling under the weight of grief and thunder. It was supposed to be a farewell — solemn, final, unshaken by doubt. But the moment young Oliver cried out, his voice piercing through the storm, the world seemed to shift.
“Please! Don’t put her in the ground! She’s still breathing!”
At first, the guests thought it was a child’s inability to accept loss. But Edward Gray, Margaret’s husband, saw something in his son’s terrified eyes that froze his blood. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees beside the grave, mud splattering his suit, and began to dig with his bare hands.
“Edward, stop!” someone pleaded, but he didn’t hear them. His movements were wild, desperate — the movements of a man teetering on the edge between reason and madness.
Within moments, the crowd shifted. Some stood frozen in disbelief, whispering prayers or questions they couldn’t quite voice. Others — family, friends, neighbors — joined in, shoveling earth away in frantic unison. The funeral director hesitated, torn between professionalism and humanity. Even the priest, his hands trembling, whispered uncertain words of faith and fear.
Oliver stood at the edge of the chaos, rain dripping down his small face, watching as his father clawed at the earth. The storm began to ease, its roar replaced by the haunting rhythm of hands and shovels striking mud. When the coffin’s edge finally emerged, silence fell.
The drizzle softened. The air thickened with dread. With trembling hands, Edward pried open the lid. What he saw would scar every witness forever.
Margaret’s body lay before them, pale and still — yet unmistakably marked by struggle. Her once-gentle hands were curled tight, the nails scraped and broken. Her expression, faintly strained, revealed the truth no one dared believe.
She had been alive when they buried her.
Gasps tore through the crowd. The storm was over, but the nightmare had just begun.