Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3 — The Splintered Lid
The groundskeeper threw two heavy-duty nylon cargo straps down into the grave.
The police officers worked frantically, their uniforms covered in wet mud, sliding the straps through the metal lifting loops on the sides of the concrete vault lid.
“Attach it to the bucket!” the lead officer shouted, tossing the ends of the straps back up to the surface.
The groundskeeper secured the loops onto the teeth of the backhoe.
“Clear the hole!”
The officers scrambled up the sides of the grave, slipping on the slick, rain-soaked earth, until they collapsed onto the grass beside Laura and Abby.
“Lift it!” the officer commanded.
The diesel engine roared back to life.
The hydraulic arms of the backhoe groaned under the immense weight.
The straps pulled taut, vibrating like guitar strings about to snap.
For a terrifying second, the concrete lid refused to budge, sealed by the suction of the wet clay around it.
Then, with a loud, sucking pop, the seal broke.
The heavy concrete slab was hoisted into the air, swinging gently from the straps, and moved to the side of the grave.
Below it, exposed to the morning sky, lay the wooden casket.
It was polished mahogany.
It looked exactly as it had in the chapel the day before.
But now, it was covered in a thin layer of condensation, sitting at the bottom of a dark pit.
Laura didn’t wait for permission.
She didn't care about the mud, or the law, or the police officers yelling at her to stop.
She slid down the side of the muddy wall, dropping directly onto the top of the casket.
Her boots slipped on the polished wood.
“Laura, wait for the paramedics!” the lead officer yelled, reaching down over the edge.
“I am a nurse!” Laura screamed back, her voice echoing out of the hole. “Throw me a crowbar!”
The second officer tossed a heavy iron pry bar down.
Laura caught it.
She jammed the flat end of the iron bar under the brass latch on the left side of the casket.
She threw her entire body weight against it.
The latch snapped with a sharp crack.
She moved to the right side.
She jammed the bar in again.
She pulled back, sobbing, her muscles burning with adrenaline and terror.
The second latch gave way.
The casket was unlocked.
The ambulance sirens finally wailed in the distance, growing louder as they approached the cemetery gates.
But Laura didn't wait for them.
She dropped the crowbar.
She grabbed the brass handle on the lid of the casket.
She looked up at the patch of blue sky above her.
She looked at Abby’s small face peering over the edge of the grave, terrified and hopeful.
Laura squeezed her eyes shut, took a massive breath, and heaved the lid upward.
The hinges squealed, a high-pitched, agonizing sound.
A rush of stale, damp, metallic air escaped from the dark interior of the box.
Laura opened her eyes.
She looked down.
Mary was lying inside.
The white silk lining of the casket was completely shredded.
It hung in ragged, chaotic strips around her head and shoulders, torn to pieces by frantic, desperate hands.
The polished wood on the inside of the lid was covered in deep, parallel scratch marks.
Splinters of mahogany were embedded in Mary’s fingernails.
Her fingers were bloodied and bruised, the skin raw from fighting against the unyielding wood.
Laura let out a horrified, broken gasp.
She dropped to her knees on the edge of the casket.
She pressed her trembling fingers against the side of Mary’s neck.
Searching.
Praying.
Mary’s skin was ice cold.
She was not moving. She was not breathing.
Her face was pale, her lips tinged with a terrifying shade of blue.
“No, no, no,” Laura wept, pressing her hands against Mary’s chest. “Mary, please. Come back.”
Laura began chest compressions right there inside the grave.
One, two, three, four...
She pushed down on the cold chest, breaking the terrible stillness of death.
Five, six, seven, eight...
Two paramedics jumped into the hole beside her, pushing her gently but firmly aside.
They slapped an oxygen mask over Mary’s face.
They hooked up a portable defibrillator monitor to her chest.
The monitor beeped.
A long, steady, terrifying hum.
Flatline.
Abby let out a wail from above that shattered the morning.
But the lead paramedic didn't stop. He injected a massive dose of epinephrine directly into the IV line they had just established in Mary's arm.
“Come on,” the paramedic muttered, staring at the screen. “You fought this hard. Don't quit now.”
He charged the paddles.
“Clear!”
The electrical shock jolted Mary’s rigid body upward, before she collapsed back into the shredded silk.
The monitor hummed.
Still flat.
“Charging again!” the paramedic yelled. “Clear!”
Another violent jolt.
The silence returned. The hum continued.
Laura covered her face with her muddy hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
They were too late.
But then, the screen flickered.
The steady hum broke.
A single, weak spike appeared on the green line.
Beep.
Two seconds passed.
Beep.
The paramedic’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.
“We have a pulse!” he screamed, his voice cracking with sheer disbelief. “We have a rhythm! Get the backboard down here now! We are moving!”
May you like
Laura looked up at Abby.
Abby was staring down into the grave, her face streaked with tears and mud, smiling.
