Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller

by Mark White

  Any doubts he may have had were certainly not shared by Sarah. As far as she was concerned, what they were about to do was a big mistake. So far, she’d been surprised by how well Sam seemed to be taking things after the shooting, especially as he had found himself smack bang in the middle of the chaos, moments from death. Maybe there wasn’t any harm in attending Tom’s funeral, but why take the risk? What if witnessing his coffin being lowered into a hole in the ground would trigger some kind of hidden, latent emotional outburst that no amount of medication or therapy could cure? What if, what if, what if? She could ask that question a thousand times, but it wouldn’t succeed in changing Sam’s mind. With or without her, he was going to the funeral this morning.

  ‘You know,’ she said, straightening his tie for him, ‘you should wear more black. The colour suits you.’

  ‘It matches my mood,’ he replied drily. ‘Sam Railton – London’s answer to Johnny Cash.’

  ‘Only more handsome.’

  ‘And a better singer.’

  ‘Don’t push it,’ she said, causing them both to break into the first smile of the day. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Great,’ he replied, his smile fading. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, checking her hair in the mirror for a final time before heading to the door. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Barely a word passed between them as they drove the forty-five minute journey to Saint Patrick’s Church in Stanfield; a small rural village in leafy Hertfordshire.

  ‘It’s hard to believe these quaint little villages still exist,’ Sam said, slowing down as he passed a worn, faded Welcome to Stanfield sign that had seen better days. An old man, dressed in a tattered pair of mechanic’s overalls and accompanied by a dishevelled Border Collie, stood leaning against the sign as Sam drove by. Sam smiled and nodded at him, but the courteous acknowledgement wasn’t reciprocated. ‘The locals seem friendly,’ he said, returning his attention to the road.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising,’ Sarah replied. ‘It’s blindingly obvious from the way we’re dressed why we’re here. I doubt there’s a soul in this village who hasn’t heard about what Tom did.’

  ‘So? It’s not like we were willing accomplices. We’re only going to the man’s funeral.’

  ‘Maybe so, but we’re here, and that’s bound to arouse suspicion. Burying a murderer will be big news in a place like this, especially as he spent the last ten years of his life living here.’

  ‘True. Either way, I don’t like it. Give me the anonymity of a big city any day. Village life is so claustrophobic.’

  ‘Look, the sooner we find the church, the sooner we can pay our respects and go back home, okay?’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Sam carefully manoeuvred the car around a bend in the road, narrowly avoiding an oncoming tractor that had no intention of slowing down for anyone. ‘Careful, mate!’ Sam shouted, but the driver of the tractor either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him as he drove away without looking back. ‘Fucking hillbilly,’ he said. ‘They reckon there’s still a lot of in-breeding around these parts. Did you see that idiot’s face? He looked like a character out of Deliverance. Honestly, som-’

  ‘There it is,’ Sarah interjected, pointing to the spire of Saint Patrick’s Church up ahead in the distance. The spire was the only part of the church that was visible; emerging from a dense copse of fir trees like a sinister spike; its moss-covered grey slates serving as a natural link between the dark green hue of the trees and the dull, cloud-strewn sky above. ‘Talk about eerie,’ Sarah said, unable to divert her gaze from the spire as they neared the church. ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’

  As if to add to the unnerving atmosphere, a huge, black crow seemed to come from nowhere and perched on the spire’s pinnacle, whereby it opened its curved, grey beak and proceeded to caw loudly, as if it were warning people to stay away. Sarah’s hand reached instinctively for Sam’s thigh, a cold shiver running through her, convincing her that this really wasn’t a good idea.

  ‘Where are all the cars?’ she asked as Sam pulled over in a layby a hundred or so yards away from the church. ‘Surely we can’t be the only ones here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, turning the key in the ignition and winding down his window to breathe in some fresh air. ‘Maybe they’re all parked over at Tom and Jane’s house…for the after-funeral gathering, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll be buggered if I’m going to any damn gathering,’ Sarah said, checking her face in the mirror. ‘We pay our respects and go, do you hear me?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ he said, giving her a reassuring nod. ‘Ready?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go. We’ve only got ten minutes until the service is due to start.’

  They climbed out of the car and commenced the short journey along the road to the church, walking hand-in-hand without uttering a word to one another. Arriving at the rusty iron gate that marked the entrance to the churchyard, they were both struck by the absence of other people.

  Sam checked his watch: 10.55am. ‘Are you sure Jane said eleven?’ he asked. ‘There’s nobody here.’

  ‘Positive,’ Sarah said, scanning the churchyard for signs of life. ‘Maybe we’ve got the wrong church?’

  ‘Wishful thinking. Come on,’ he said, opening the gate and ushering her inside. ‘We’re obviously the last people to arrive.’

  Sarah looked up at the spire towering above them, upon which the crow remained perched, eyeing them ominously like an insidious portent of doom. Its job done, it cawed one final time and flew away towards the surrounding fields, and as if by some kind of staged coincidence, the unnerving tranquillity of the churchyard was immediately interrupted by the sound of an organ coming from inside the church.

  ‘See?’ Sam said, taking his wife by the arm. ‘We’re not alone. There’re probably loads of people in there.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ replied Sarah, relieved to hear the familiar chords of melancholic funeral music. She threw Sam a final glance, and taking his hand in a vice-like grip, they entered through the arched wooden doors of the church.

  On a busy day, such as Christmas morning or Easter Sunday, Saint Patrick’s Church could at a stretch accommodate just shy of a hundred worshippers, ten of whom would be standing at the back behind the pews. On an average Sunday morning, it was more typical to find a congregation of at most twenty or thirty souls, often less depending on the weather. In this regard, Saint Patrick’s Church was no different to the majority other churches throughout the land; ageing congregations that reduced in size every time one of their members took ill or passed away. Attendances at funerals would inevitably rise and fall depending on the popularity of the deceased, however, more often than not – especially in a close-knit community such as Stanfield – there tended to be a decent turn out from friends, family and anyone else wishing to pay their last respects.

  So despite the fact that Tom Jackson was responsible for some pretty heinous crimes, a gambling man would have received decent odds on there being at least fifteen, maybe even as many as twenty people in the church that morning. However, were he to have placed that bet, he would have returned home miserable and out-of-pocket. There weren’t twenty people inside the church, or even ten, for that matter. Sam scanned the faces: there was the vicar and the organist – they didn’t count as it was their duty to be there – there was Tom’s wife, Jane, who was sitting next to an elderly lady who Sam could only assume to be either Tom’s or Jane’s mother, and huddled together in a pew towards the back of the church were three smartly-dressed men who Sam guessed were curious villagers with nothing better to do with their time. Five people – seven including Sam and Sarah. Sam shook his head with a mix of disbelief and sadness: here was a man who had spent his entire life courting attention from anyone who was willing to give it to him, only to find that, in his final hour, he was to be buried in front of only a handful of mourners; most of whom had tu
rned up either out of a sense of duty or for the free buffet that Jane had organised afterwards. The irony of it, Sam thought, leading Sarah to a vacant pew near the entrance and taking a seat. On noticing their arrival, the vicar looked up and acknowledged them with a smile, prompting a tearful Jane to turn around and do the same before returning her attention towards the altar.

  The vicar checked his watch: 11.01am. ‘Right then,’ he said, taking his position at the pulpit. ‘We’ll begin today’s service by singing Hymn number two hundred and thirty eight: The Lord’s My Shepherd.’ He signalled to the organist, who nodded and began to play. The church may have been nearly empty, but that didn’t stop Jane from filling the room with the sound of her crying.

  Three prayers, two hymns, and one uninspiring eulogy later, the vicar signalled the end of the service by calling for the funeral director and his motley crew of pallbearers to enter the church and transport the coffin outside to its final resting place. Sam and Sarah remained silent as the young men passed by them down the aisle, shouldering an ornate mahogany coffin that was destined to spend the next few years slowly rotting and rusting away, along with the body it tried in vain to protect. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Sam thought as the pallbearers walked by, his thoughts drifting to the funerals of Gabrielle Williams and Charles Holdsworth; funerals which, for whatever reason, he had not been invited to. He could only hope that their send-offs were better attended than that of the man who killed them. Of the man who nearly killed me, he thought, shuddering as he imagined his own corpse being carried out of the church and lowered into a grave, only for worms to burrow their way into his brain and feast on his rotting flesh and putrefying organs. There but for the grace of God go I. He took Sarah’s hand and followed her outside, whereby the vicar ushered them around the side of the church to a freshly-dug hole in the ground.

  As if in sympathy for the occasion, the overcast sky darkened even further as the small gathering of mourners encircled the empty grave and waited for the vicar to join them and conclude the service. Sarah looked up to the heavens as she felt the first smattering of rain against the brim of her hat. Judging by the blackness of the clouds, it wouldn’t be long before a smattering became a soaking. She stared at the vicar as he took his position at the head of the grave, willing him to get a move on so that she didn’t have to spend the journey home looking and feeling like a drowned rat. Fortunately for her, the vicar must have had the same idea, as he skipping the customary theatrical pause for reflection and pressed on with the ritual.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life,' saith the Lord; 'he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'

  I know that my Redeemer liveth...’

  Taking their cue from the prayer, the funeral director nodded to his pallbearers, who proceeded to gently lower the coffin into the grave, straining under the weight of their load.

  ‘…We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the soul of this our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’

  As he spoke, the vicar bent down and scooped a handful of soil from the fresh pile by the hole, throwing it onto the coffin as it disappeared into the grave. Through tear-stained eyes, Jane reached into her coat and retrieved a cross made from palm leaves, which she dropped onto the coffin lid. The rain was falling heavily now, prompting the pallbearers to look at each other disgruntledly. It may have been an important occasion for the friends and family of Tom Jackson, but to them it was just another day at the office. Sensing their impatience, the vicar hurried through the final part of the burial prayer and drew matters to a close.

  No sooner had he wrapped things up than he joined the funeral director, the pallbearers and the three men from the village in running for cover inside the church, leaving Sam and Sarah standing alone at the graveside with Jane and the elderly woman.

  ‘Come on, dear,’ said the old woman, putting her arm around Jane’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go inside where it’s dry and warm, eh?’

  Jane brushed the woman’s arm away. ‘You go inside, mother,’ she sobbed. ‘I want to stay here a while longer. Go on, I shan’t be long.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she said, placing her hand on Jane’s shoulder and then walking back to the church. As she passed by Sam and Sarah she smiled, grateful that they had come to pay their last respects.

  After a respectable amount of time, Sarah tugged on Sam’s coat arm and whispered to him: ‘I’m bloody freezing here, and my hair’s frizzing up like a judge’s wig! Can we go now?’

  ‘You go on,’ Sam replied. ‘I’ll stay a while longer with Jane. I can’t leave her by herself. Go inside; I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  Grateful for the reprieve, Sarah smiled weakly at Jane before making her way across the churchyard to join the others.

  For several minutes, neither Jane nor Sam said a word; instead, they both stared down at the coffin and followed their own thoughts. Jane was first to break the silence.

  ‘You know, he really liked you,’ she said, her gaze remaining fixed on the coffin. ‘He used to talk about you all the time. I think deep down he was jealous of you.’

  ‘Jealous? Tom?’

  ‘In a way, yes. He used to sometimes say that he wished he could be more like you, in a creative sense. He admired the fact that you have a real skill when it comes to writing, and that you don’t feel the need to shout about it. You let your pen do the talking.’

  ‘Maybe, but Tom was one heck of a salesman. You should have seen him in action, Jane. Trust me: when he was on a run, nobody could stop him.’

  ‘It may have looked that way to everybody else, but that’s not how he saw it. He believed that the only reason he was successful was because he was a born bull-shitter – the gift of the gab, he called it - and that sooner or later he’d be exposed as the fraud that he believed he was. The sad thing is, in the end it turned out he was right. Holdsworth fired him and…and…’

  ‘Jane-’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t want you to start telling me how much of a nice man Tom was, how everyone loved him and how nobody can believe that any of…this…has happened. I’m not stupid, Sam. I know he was full of shit, and I know he used to cheat on me and lie about where he’d been. He may have been a great salesman, but he was a terrible husband. The worst kind. He didn’t beat me or hurt me physically, but he was a bastard in every other regard.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That aside,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘he may have had his faults, but he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to end up lying in a coffin with only a handful of people to say goodbye to him. Whatever he did,’ she said, sobbing heavily now, ‘he didn’t deserve this.’

  Sam stepped around the open grave and went to her side, putting his arm around her. ‘No,’ he said, taking a tissue from his pocket and handing it to her. ‘He didn’t. And neither do you.’

  ‘What am I going to do, Sam? How am I going to manage without him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, shuddering at the thought of what he would do if Sarah were suddenly to vanish from his world due to some illness or fatal accident. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘And financially? I can’t survive on my part-time salary. I’ll need to sell the house for a start. I can’t afford to pay the bills, let alone the mortgage.’

  ‘Try not to worry about all that, okay? Sarah and I will help you get your affairs in order when the time is right. You know what Sarah’s like – she’s a born organiser.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jane said, taking his hand in her own and squeezing it gently. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Not a problem. But not yet, okay? I don’t want you worrying about any of that right now.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Come on,’ Sam said, ‘let’s get inside and warm up. I don’t know about you, but I’m drenched to the bone.’

>   Jane shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘You go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ll be along in a few minutes. I want to be alone with Tom.’

  ‘I understand. We’ll wait for you in the church.’

  As he turned to leave, a crack of lightning in the distance caused him to jump up in fright. It was followed shortly after by an angry rumble of thunder that added to the sense of unease he felt as he made his way along the narrow, muddy path that twisted and turned its way through the crumbling headstones that surrounded the church like ancient sentinels. As if sensing his fear, the sky darkened even further as the rain intensified to the point where Sam was sure it would tear through his skin like tiny bullets if he exposed himself to it any longer.

  When he was within ten feet of the entrance to the church, he turned to see whether or not Jane had decided to leave her husband’s side and take shelter with the rest of them. He looked back, squinting in an attempt to see through the rain and the darkness, only to find her standing in the same spot by the grave where he’d left her. The sight of her standing there, dressed from head to toe in black and head hung low as she stared into the hole in the ground where her dead husband lay, was enough to cause Sam to step backwards in disarray. As he did so, his ankle caught against a tree root that jutted out from the earth like a twisted, swollen snake. Stumbling towards the ground, he reached out blindly for anything that would help him regain his balance, but there was nothing there. The next thing he knew, his backside hit the sodden path and squelched into the mud, followed by his back and finally his head as he came to a stop lying face up in the earth like a half-buried corpse.