CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "There Was A Noise Coming From The Back Of The Hearse" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 2, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by DrElsewhere: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY- Maarten Verhoeven:►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/8e...►https://www.instagram.com/maarten_mut...LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

Even in the glow of neon lights, I could tell he was a funeral director. His dapper suit, slick hair, a manly tone, was in deep contrast to the luscious who frequented Mandy's pub every Friday night. When he slid into the booth beside me, there was an air of superiority to him. I didn't mind, of course, as I was on my fourth old fashion, and the numbers he told me the day before tumble through my head like shoes in a dryer. 10,000. 10,000

1,000 10000 Cash is good, I thought Cash means alimony free It was enough to finish my year's rent Enough to feed me until next Christmas Enough to replace my closet of old rags and stained jeans With something fashionable enough to attract a lady

Enough for a decent used truck That wouldn't wind a life like the one parked out back of Mandy's parking lot However, I didn't think of any of these expenditures when the funeral director told me the payment would be in cash. Instead, I thought of my 17-year-old daughter, Ali. I could gift her the $10,000 by paying for a tuition interstate. Maybe the act would change her mind about not attending college. She would go if it were cheaper, I told myself.

Ali was prudent about finance, and had saved up every penny of birthday and Christmas money she had received throughout life. I'd seen the wad of cash tucked in the jewelry box and was proud. That's why I envisioned a CPA license in a future. She could do something great with her life, unlike her old man, and unlike that cow mother of hers. Amir 20-minute drive could change my life, I thought.

And I was correct. Back in the bar, I watched across the table of empty whiskey glasses as the man who had offered me the job fumbled for the words to say. He was nervous, out of his element. He was the director of a family-owned funeral home located in our small community and he, if the rumours were to be true, was in a bind.

I was familiar with his business. Westwood Funeral Home. We used them when my grandmother passed away. They'd been in business that long. Over the years, I'd also attended the visitations of a few friends there as well. Nice place, very accommodating. Why'd you call me?

I asked across the table. I heard you were ex-military. That's true, but still not an answer. Tori in Iraq, right? Two, I mumbled and took a sip. How'd you get my number? We have many Gold Star families that use our facilities, and I, in a roundabout way, was given your cell number.

So, can you do it? Why can't you do it? I'll be accompanying you. This situation, well, requires a particular person that can handle tension. From what my contact told me, you're quite level-headed under pressure. Nothing is more pressurized than war, am I right? I don't talk about my time in the Middle East.

Fair enough. Can you do it? Can you be the driver? The director withdrew a large envelope from his jacket pocket. Half now, half after service is rendered, correct? He nodded, and I rolled the ice around my drink, the clicking overpowering the soft home of classic rock from the bar speakers. I'll do it.

I said, but I want you to answer one question first. What's that? Is it true? Everyone at your funeral home quit last week. The director's lips pursed and his eyes studied the table. Yes, everyone except me and one new manager. My family wants no part in this. They want no part in what?

That question might be better suited for a pastor or priest. I then tilted my head back. and drain the glass. The director prooffed the envelope and I took it. I'll see you tomorrow. As instructed, I arrived at Westwood Funal home the following morning before the sun rose. The director was there, waiting under the loading dock, the faint awning light casting his shadow back to the rows of pines in the rear of the property. He'd already situated the hearse to the proper position. Trunk open, a gurney kissed to the rear bumper of the vehicle. The gurney was burdened by a casket I parked then approached the scene

tossing my spent cigarette into some loose grave and patting my jeans to double-check my essentials phone, wallet, keys and Bessie My approach startled the director but when he spotted me he immediately called me over grab the handle here

no here then hoist it into the trunk don't these things weigh a ton let's go damn it I'm not pulling a muscle because you're irritated. Ten grand or not. Go get that fella that still works for you to help us. The...

Uh, the manager. He didn't have anything to say. His expression gave it away. It was then that I noticed how similarly dressed we were. There was no longer a suit or pair of polished oxford's. He'd done the t-shirt, dark stains on the front, and some slacks that were probably as old as the hearse. His hair was unkempt and sweat matted his bangs above his brow.

Before me, he was no longer the Dapper Director from our bar meeting, but an overwrought man on the edge of a breakdown. The manager quit too, I asked. Yeah, he said coldly. His departure changes our agreement. How so? I asked, letting go of the casket handle. I'll need your assistance after we arrive at the cemetery. He pointed into the open hearse to a set of shovels.

I didn't sign up for that. What kind of scam is? I'll double it, he said. $20,000, cash. I grabbed the handle again. The rollers in the back of the hearse made the heavy casket easier to push in place. The director fastened the beer bin plates so the unit wouldn't budge during transport. Then he unsinched the window drapes so they fell over the length of the glass.

Wouldn't want anyone spotting what's inside at a red traffic light. He did this with an uneasy rapidity, like he was in a race or was being timed to for our efforts. He grabbed a duffel bag and hefted it into the back near the locked casket. Oddly, my request to pee in the funeral home's bathroom was denied, so when he dodged inside to lock up, as he said, iron zipped and went near a small popular tree. Weird, furtive little man, I thought. I didn't care. I was ready for my $20,000. After the director joined me in the cab, I turned the ignition key and the hearse purred to life. The V8 roared as we sped down Fair Avenue

Then took the on ramp to the highway The director's cell phone blared loudly in his instructions Toward our destination A cemetery on the other side of the county Just follow the GPS instructions He told me I know that part of the county pretty well A lot of back roads

Just follow the instructions I lived in the county my whole life Apart from my time in Baghdad Fallujah and Tickrit and I never known a cemetery to be in the general area the GPS was leading us. Maybe Google knew more about my hometown than I did. Still, the sun started to rise over the hills of pines and the road was clear of any traffic. So, I gunned it, getting the hearse up to 80.

The director didn't seem to mind. Maybe we are being timed for our efforts, I thought. Of course, the hearse was no workhorse like the homepiece we had in the war. Those beasts were of a different breed, a warm-green type, redded reverse desert, as well as swamps, were often equipped with turret guns and armour. The only weapon the director brought appeared to be a rosary, which was curled tightly around his wrist.

The rear-view mirror suddenly flashed with light and pulled me from my reverie. The sky was blood-red and growing lighter by the second, but the strobing lights from behind dwarfed all illumination from the tree line. The speedometer was pushing 90 when the director noticed and turned around. This isn't good, he said Keep going, don't slow down It's a cop It doesn't matter

Maybe not to you Damn, I'm not getting arrested Don't He said Then grab the wheel against my tilt On to the road shoulder The hearse swerved madly What the hell are you doing?

I screamed and pushed him His rosary looped around my fingers And were momentarily caught in a holy finger trap I'm pulling over Keep going Our mission is more important He tried again, and I ripped my arm back, releasing the rosary snare. Beed scattered on the floorboard, and the director grew sullen, upset.

The remaining cross, wood carved and rubbed smooth, was still in my palm, so I slung it behind my seat. I gave him a hostile stare. Don't touch the wheel. I won't get paid if we're both in jail. He tried it again, so I pulled from the back of my jeans, someone I wanted him to meet. This is Bessie. I said, and the Colt 1911 gleaned in the early sunlight. She doesn't like trouble, understand?

His expression changed. Once I knew he was back in his seat for good. I returned Bessie and pulled to the road's shoulder. The gravel chirped and cracked against the undercarriage until we crawled to a halt. Luck was on my side that day. The man in uniform who walked up to the window was a friend of mine. We played cards once a month at a mutual friend's house. drink whiskey, talk smack about her bosses, all that.

Since he was an officer of the law, he would always tell the best stories about dumbass criminals. When he sauntered up to the window and noticed the operator of the swerving hearse was a buddy, he took his hand off his pistol holster. Chuck? I flashed a sly smile. Morning William. Officer William gave an incredulous laugh. I'll be damned.

You in the funeral business now? All those stories he told over cards got me thinking. Since you're a first responder, I figured I'd join the last responders. William propped an elbow on the window ledge and got a good look at my passenger. The director had his head bowed and was whispering a prayer. William looked at the casket. The late for that, Reverend, don't you think? He's not a man of the cloth.

He's the director at Westwood's funeral home. This is his hearse. Okay, well, give it on the 70, Chuck. I doubt the guy in the back is in any rush. Then, something stirred. It's a rare moment when three people simultaneously learn something. At that moment, I learned that the passenger next me was some kind of psycho-pervert and had invited me to participate in what could land me in the slammer for life.

The director learned that I would never look at him the same way again. And, had the officer not been there, I would have gladly sent him into the grave myself. Officer William learned, that he was no longer speaking to a drinking body, but, due to the pounding and calls for help coming from inside the casket, had pulled over two full-fledged maniacs about to bury a woman alive.

The elbow that had been resting on the window ledge was now hinged forward, aiming at clock 19 to my head. Out, William shouted. Out of the vehicle, Chuck. William's urgent command took me back to one particular hot day in Fallujah. Our team was tasked to set up on the roof

of a four-story hotel about a quarter mile down the road. It was an advantageous spot to gather reconnaissance, but the route there had plenty of obstacles. Hidden bombs, armed insurgents in spider holes, and blockades troubled our path, but we got there without a casualty. When we arrived at the hotel,

we were met with a flock of elementary aged children who had been using the building as a makeshift sleep quarters during the war fallout. They tossed rocks, shouting foreign obscenities towards soldiers who had invaded their land. We'd read all the propaganda, a garbage their government had been putting out,

how we were evil, how we were nothing but murderous invaders. Us proud servicemen were more annoyed than anything else, having three dozen kids tossing rocks gets old fast after 15 minutes. After 15 minutes, so we gathered the little ones together to teach a lesson.

We lined them up and made like we were about to participate in a firing squad. Obviously, no weapons fired. It was a scare tactic. We were soldiers, after all, not monsters. But I'll never forget their faces. Vails of terror, fear so absolute that tears were unable to form.

Lesson learned. That's the type of fear I saw in the director's face as he dropped beside me, my knees crunching into the gravel beside the highway. From inside the hearse, the woman shrieks had intensified in urgency. Although the sound was mused by the casket walls and padding, the voice was clearly female and was overcome with emotion. The casket rattled. as the interior beatings became more powerful.

Had Officer William not at his gun trained on me, I would have punched the director for inserting me into his own wicked revenge plot. The woman pleaded, There's no oxygen in here. I'm about to pass out. William oscillated between me, the director and the close trunk of the hearse.

The streets from inside continue to beg between coughs. Please, help. My head is going numb. No oxygen. Open. William pointed to us Don't move, he said, then walked to the driver's side

and unlocked the trunk door. The director and I turned, scooting on knees in the pebbles to get a view of what my now ex-friend was about to uncover. From this angle, the director was slightly behind me, but I could hear his faint sobs. He'd been caught.

Once the trunk was flat open, William called back to us. How'd you get the casket open? An instrument beside the casket, the director said. Yes, right there. It fits into a hole on the side. Yeah, right. Now crank it.

It unlocks the lid. William hadn't finished one rotation before I was pushed into the gravel by the director. Something was different when I tried to regain my balance. Something about my waistline. It loosened. Three ear-shreading reports went out over the highway and the surrounding past the land.

Williams slumped against the hearse, grabbing for something not there before falling face-first to the ground. Amazed at what happened, I grabbed for Bessie, but she was gone. The director pointed my own weapon at my chest and forced me to my feet. The spent gazing sparkled beside his feet. This is Bessie, he said. She doesn't like trouble, understand. The trunk was closed and the seatbelts were fastened, then rough. toward the cemetery to bury the woman alive.

The blue lights of Williams Cruiser flashed in the side mirror until we crested the next hill. Rosary beads shuffled under my feet. When my daughter, Ali, was in elementary school, she came home one day with a portrait of our family.

Our trio was scribbled in crayon and showed us standing between her house next to a sprawling green oak tree that our little Picasso had for whatever reason, decorated with pink stars. Beside the tree was me. I was more of a circle, really, with eyebrows arched at a furious angle. Next was my ex-wife, who had in her hands a stylized white carrot.

Of course, I knew that this carrot was Ali's best effort and drawing a mother's favorite wine glass. Then there was Ali, squished under the speech balloons that sprang forth from my ex-wife in I's mouth and filled with eggs in exclamation points. The image was a catalyst for a parent-teacher conference that ended up in a shouting match for my wife to an alcoholic's anonymous meeting. She, refused. We divorced the next year. Ali didn't deserve the hateful atmosphere

she was raised in. She was too good, too pure. I hoped that once I finished the director's task, he'd pay the additional money. It wasn't greed. No, but quite the opposite. Ali would take a step up in the world after she enrolled in college. For Ali,

I told myself earlier. Do this for Ali. But how was I to help, Ali, if I ended up like Officer William? I kept the hearse to a solid 55 miles per hour. Speed's slow enough to buy time, but fast enough to not alert the gunwielding maniac to my side, who'd not stop moutling prayers to himself since our continuation of his mission. Miles behind us lay a friend of mine with three bullet wounds in his chest, who'd undoubtedly be found within minutes by a curious traveller or truck driver.

Dash cam footage would be watched, and our hearse was not the type of vehicle that blends in with the crowd. Time was running out for all three people inside the hearse. All that money for me isn't useful if I'm serving life. I was ignored. Look, you damn psycho, I'll swerve into a damn road time before I let you bury this woman alive. I'm not a monster. The director whipped around and howled. Stop, stop, please shut up. I demanded the name of God Almighty that you remain silent. This didn't scare me. I'd been around plenty. I'd been around plenty of of men that would gut you as easily as shake your hand, people that had ended life and people that had almost gotten their life ended, usually on multiple occasions, without showing the least

bit of fear. No, the director saying this didn't scare me. What scared me was that after he screamed this demand, I realized he wasn't speaking to me, but behind me. I peered into the rearview. Yep, still a casket, and the woman inside hadn't said a word since the William incident. That's when I knew this funeral director had more problems than a vengeful spirit. He was hallucinatory, schizophrenic. Put Bessie down and let me get out. I won't call the cops, I swear. His eyes finally registered me as if he'd forgotten I was there.

Sweat had beaded his forehead and soaked the colour of his t-shirt. He was crying. He mumbled. Just follow the GPS instructions. I'm not helping you dig when we arrive. I refuse to kill a person. That's not a person, he whispered. His rage had obviously sailed to such an extreme

that his wife or girlfriend, or whoever was in that box, no longer registered to him as human, just an object, something to get rid of like trash. Enough, I won't kill anyone. Else, he added, yet his voice was much deeper and seemed to surround the cabin of the vehicle. What did you say? He stared incredulously behind my seat.

A grimace overcame his face. You shut the hell up, he shouted to the rear. I was in high school. I didn't know that she was drunk. You shut the hell up. The director faced forward and wept in his cupped hands until his phone told me to turn off the highway into a thin country road.

By this time I was rattled. In battle there were contingency plans. Even teammates could help force an insertion response into retreat. But now I was alone, weaponless, unable to understand why this mentally ill man had conned me into a twisted exercise. I thought about

slowing the hearse at 20 miles an hour and jumping out, rolling to the best of my ability over the hotter braided asphalt to avoid significant injury, then bolting toward the rise, where I could lose him amongst the bramble. Or I envisioned a quick tap of the brakes, which may jumpstart the siege of the director

where I wrestled Bessie away from him and regain power. While we rocked back and forth over the uneven road. I steele myself for what lay ahead and did my best to strategize a plan to save not only my life, but the woman trapped in a padded tomb. Nothing materialized.

Please, the director whispered to no one, now sobbing uncontrollably. I just wanted to end. I don't know how drunk. I had a crush on her. Please, stop. I can stop, yes. I almost smiled at his change of heart.

Let me pull over and, No, he's screaming. at me, not you. Keep going. Follow the instructions. You're a sick man. I need to pull over. He gave one cursory look to the back. Then his eyes fell on me. His clammy hand grabbed my forearm, and I couldn't help but return a glance. The duffel bag, he said. Once you get to the cemetery, look in the duffel bag. I can't. We don't have to do this, I begged, the shaking my voice now audible. You don't have to do this. I don't know what's in that head of yours, but I do know this.

Everyone forgives and forgets, you know. Not everyone, he whispered. Then inserted Bessie into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Late one evening in Fallujah, we were riding back to base from a low-intensity conflict zone, where we briefly gave suppressive fire, then mulled around for the next eight hours bored out of our minds. The descent of the sun gave the plumes of smoke, rising from bomb-impacted buildings, and airy glow, like red arbalistics that are taken.

sprouted in erratic fashion throughout the sand. Burning rubble was the chosen perfume of the day, and my team was ready to wash the grit from our bodies. The land was flat and devoid of people at the time, and an easy calm. We were still on our guard, but, after so much time of the heat, our senses had dulled. We had just come around the corner of a retaining wall

when the Humvee in front of us rolled over an IED. Most took the defensive positions, while a few of us checked on the wreckage, me included. The IED had tore the Humvey apart in ways they were unimaginable. Tires were absent. The turret was lodged in the kitchen of the dwelling. The metal chassis was warped and mango-like taffy.

But inside was the true horror. If the explosion did that to a military vehicle, it doesn't take a creative person to understand what it can do to the human body. The inside of the hearse reminded me of what I saw. A spear of light penetrated through the bullet's exit hole in the roof. the director leaned limply against the red-soaked seat. His head lulled sideways when I pulled to the side of the road. Then, when I applied the brake, swept back to face me.

The roof of the hearse was still dripping when I jumped out to compose myself. The morning heat had already risen to a stifling level. Sweat beaded from my body as I opened the back door and began twisting the mechanism to open the casket. Apart from the smell of blood, I picked up a tinge of something burning, but couldn't trace it. I was surrounded by pastureland, so perhaps a farmer was burning off some tree bush. I'm getting you out, ma'am.

Thank you, Chuck, thank you, the woman called. Had I known someone was in there, I would have called the police. You're a saint, a true saint. I wouldn't say I'm a saint, I said, and began unwinding the lidlock. I've seen plenty. Nonsense, soldiers at war can't be at fault for their actions. Maybe. sometimes a soldier.

I stopped turning the crank and backed away. Chuck? Hello? It took a moment for me to replay the last hour in my head. How did you know I served? I heard you talking earlier. Please, let me out. The burning smell had grown more fierce.

A thin ribbon of smoke drifted through the hearse's cabin, so I followed its source. The wooden cross of the rosary, the one I broke and tossed into the backseat, had landed on top of the casket. It was smouldering and charred. The smoke still trailing off as if it was on a hot grill. I touched the top of the casket, but it was cold. Chuck, let me out. The director and I didn't discuss my service on the ride.

How did you know? Let me out, the woman said in a more harsh tone. Do I know you? Then there was a sniffle. Daddy? I sprinted to the box and placed my palms and then. the cold surface. Ali, honey?

Is that you? Daddy, please. Get me out of here. That crazy man abducted me. Oh my God, hang on. I regroup the handle, but paused before I turned the crank. It was hard to explain.

Every fibre in my body pulled toward the circular motion. Just turn the crank, release the daughter, then call the authorities. So easy. But something in my gut denied the use of my arms.

I had to. to be sure. I walked away from the hearse and fished my phone from my pocket, then selected the contact. It rang twice. Hey, Daddy, what's up? Allie. Yeah? Can you hear me? Are you okay? Yeah, I just got back from the gym, about to eat some yoghurt. Why? Nothing, honey, I said. Then stared at the casket that did not contain my daughter. Just checking up on you. I got to go. but I'll call you later.

Is everything okay? It is now. Have a good day, honey. Bye. I was no longer in the mood for conversation. Whoever was in that box knew me. Knew I served. Knew what my daughter's voice sounded like.

This was someone I wanted out of my possession. I made the decision to drive to the sheriff's office and spill my guts. Tell them everything and let them deal with the one in the box. After I slammed the back door closed, I hopped into the driver's seat. but my attempt at a U-turn was truncated by a harsh voice from behind. Ali's a whore. You know that, right?

What the hell did you just say? So many men. Some as old as you. I shoved the shifter in park. Maybe I'll let you out of the box so I can put you right back inside it. The men have a nickname for her. Ali always, because she always goes out. Shut the hell up.

I was outside, ripping open the back door and fumbling with the lever. I was astonish to find I'd picked up Bessie I'll shoot through the box if you don't Don't what Don't sympathize with your silly dreams of Always Allie Going to college She got an A in science

Because she slept with a high school teacher Shut The whole basketball team enjoyed that one party The All the lies she told you over and over again Hell She'll be a boozer Just like a mother up

I put finger pressure on the trigger Brace for the recoil I wanted to empty the magazine Into the box To stop the lies They were lies, right? They had to be. But that's not what happened.

A grumbling mechanical noise blasted from behind, and over the hill came a man on a John Deer tractor. I refit Bessie under the hem of my jeans and offered a friendly wave in the hopes he would pass. He slowed the equipment down and parked behind me. Damn. He climbed down from the cap and approached. He was in his 70s, or 60s.

A life in the sun had tanned and wrinkled his skin to a breathtaking amount. A baseball cap created a shadow under his green eyes, a one of tobacco bulged his lower lip. Engine trouble, he asked. No, sir, just a little lost. I have kind of an odd situation. I looked back at the open hearse and the farmer got a peak as well.

Damn, there's a funeral possession. Kind of. Who died? God, I hope it's not anyone I know. A lot of folks die when they get my age. My attempt at a laugh was pathetic. I don't need any assistance. You can get back into your tractor.

There's no problem. The farmer gazed helplessly at the casket and transdrely. In a burst of energy that took me by surprise, he sprinted to the back of the hearse and started patting the casket. He placed a cheek to a corner and struck the box like it was a precious heirloom. Lizzie? The farmer screamed. Sweet Lord God!

Lizzie, I'm coming! The man attempted to pry the lid off with his hands, but the lock was still engaged. I ran to him before he could figure it out. Why the hell do you have my Lizzie in here? What is this? Some kind of shake-down? He lowered into a brawling position. He showed his fist.

Open this damn thing. Open it now. That's not your Lizzie. Like hell it ain't. I can hear her. Only I couldn't hear anything. The box was silent, voiceless. Then everything made sense.

I had been asking the wrong question the whole time. It's not who was in the casket. But what? Before the farmer could make more of a stir, I took out Bessie. He stopped talking, but the rage in his eyes gave away plenty. Call Lizzie, I demanded. You'll find out that she isn't in the box. Call her.

I kept my distance and closed the back door. My aim was trained on the farmer as I read. re-enter the driver's seat. Call her. Call Lizzie, and you'll find out the truth. I can't. I started rolling down the road toward the GPS instructions.

Why not? I called out from the window and pulled the gun back inside. Lizzie's been dead for ten years. Just a few miles. Then the cemetery. I exceeded what was the cautious speed

down the thin country road, trying to remember what had come out to the director's mouth before it was hollowed out. The shovels, the duffel bag, the damp thing in the box. The phone bled out instructions, and soon I made a hard right

onto a dirt drive that led into the woods. Undergrowth hid potholes and lumbered my progression. I thought of the money. At least I had five grand. I thought of Ali. My sweet alley. I thought of...

Haifa Selby, mother of two, picked him of one. The voice in the back hissed. Who? Baghdad, March 29, 2003. My throat began to tighten. I heard a screams, Chuck. While you were ripping off a char door, I heard her screams.

Shut up, I blinked away tears. You don't speak Arabic chuck, but screams are a universal language. A turbulent yell echoed through the Hurses' cabin. It was a perfect imitation. It was a yell I'd heard before. The yell I'd spent years in countless whiskey bottles trying to forget. yet. My tears fogged my view, worse than the collapsing foliage that had erased most of the pitted path. She housed terrorists, I mumbled over my quivering lips.

You don't believe that. She was a slave to the Iraqi combatants, a pawn. You can't lie to me, Chuck. I was there. I know the only weapon you wanted a fire was in your pants. A distorted hollow laugh followed. You were there? Who are you? I'm the one who is always there. When you release that tension on Hi Fisabi, when you traumatise those children of illusion, when you hit your ex-wife for drinking too much. I slid my fist on the steering wheel.

How the hell do you know all this? I was also there when you found that wad of cash in Ali's jewelry box. Poor stupid chuck. Thinking your daughter saved money from the time she could walk. Ali is a good liar. She gets that talent from you. Sunlight bursted the windshield. The foliage had opened into a glade.

The small opening in the woods had a short, rusted fence that linked into an oval directly in the centre. Inside the fence were a sprinkling of headstones. Others merely wooden crosses now rotted into spikes.

Poor stupid chuck. Ali is a good liar but not as good as she is at spreading her legs. Where do you think that what of money came from? From men, many men, some as old as you.

I turned and slammed my fist in the casket. Another word. and I'll burn you alive instead of bearing you. I spun the vehicle around and backed up to the fence until the fender graced the rusted metal. I hopped out and whipped open the back door

then began unpacking the duffel bag. Stacks of cash fell out in my hasty fumbling of it. I guess the director was good on his promise. The only other contents of the bag were a cluster of rosaries, one of which I grabbed and slid in the front pocket of my jeans.

The director's rope behavior didn't seem so insignificant anymore. Also inside the bag was a handwritten note. The note said, It passes through waterless places seeking rest, but finds none. Then it goes and brings with it seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they enter and dwell there. Under that, he gave instructions.

At least six feet of earth must separate it from the sky, bury in an abandoned cemetery to avoid suspicion, leave the grave unmarked. Do not believe its lies. Do not concentrate on his truths. And it is an ancient one, a droid in the ways of lowering madness. The thing in the box spoke. It was the voice of my ex-wife.

Chucky? I remove one of the shovels and remain silent. I forgive you, babe. You didn't mean to hit me. It was the PTSD. I know I should have stopped drinking years ago. You and Ali were right. My head felt numb.

Be quiet. You're not her. I've given it up, babe. Honest this time, I'm ready to be the mother I should be, the wife I should be. Just let me out and we can fix this. As much as I resented her, I would have given everything I owned to hear my ex-wife say that. And it knew. Whatever was in that damn box knew.

No, you're not getting out. I took the handwritten note in my back pocket. I guess that's expected, babe. Before you go, can I tell you something? Was it about to say it? No way. Unfathomable. No way could know what I wanted my ex-wife to truthfully tell me.

Why I started drinking. I'll tell you. The shovel felt heavy in my hands. I stared at myself against the tell-light, eager, yet un-eager to listen. Chucky, my sweet brave soldier, I started drinking because I was anxious. Anxious? I asked. Unable to stop.

myself. Yes, anxious that you would eventually find out the truth. Allie isn't yours. I slammed the back door shut and re-gripped the shovel. The rusted fence had bent on one side from a fallen tree and lay flat under a carpet of deadfall. That's where I gained entrance. I took out the paper and re-read it. Six feet. Got it. The soil was fertile and loose, which made digging easier than expected. Still, process took hours. From the first spade to the last, the thing in the box emitted an eruption of creating laughter, and although it was muffled from the containment of the hearse, it still provoked me into a consideration. Was it laughing because it lied about Ali, or because it had told the truth? A casket is a pain to move by yourself. Carrying it was out of the

question, and it wasn't like I was trying to prevent the damn thing from damage, so I wedged it out of the hearse and it landed with a harsh thud. My legs made me. back was sore from digging, but not too sore to pull the diseased being over the fallen fence and into the cemetery, where I propped it precariously against the edge of the hole I dug, the depths of which was seven feet, I estimated. One more foot, just to be sure. To avoid a calamity of the lid breaking upon impact, I tied some vines, along with my shirt and pants to the bars across one side. I had to pull the box at a flat angle into the hole, so there would be no rotation in his ventured down.

Hoisting the heavy object below was out of the question. Three quick jerk should do it. And maybe one quick prayer. Don't, Chucky, don't. The voice of my ex-wife called out as I rack my hands around the cords of the cotton threads and vine. I can give you what you want. I gave a good jerk and one corner jutted over the edge. Daddy, please, Ali called.

It's me. Just open the lid and I can explain everything. jerk two the acidic voice returned Chuck you wife Peter wife Peter I've seen your future After this you'll turn to the bottle worse than your ex-wife

The one who lied to you about Ali Do you want to know who a true father is Open and I'll Jerk 3 The obscenities that spewed from the lock casket As I spent the next few hours covering it with soil Were grotesque to say the least Promises of pain to not only myself

But everyone whom I'm close with prognostications of violent ends, depravities that will be had my sweet alley unless I opened the box. The faster my hands went, the quieter the voice became, until the only sounds were the chirping of a nearby cricket

and the soft songs of a sparrow. The only thing more sore than my body was my mind. In my numb state of mind, I could only think to return to the vehicle and take my cash, and most certainly inhale a few cigarettes from the pack in my truck,

back in the funeral homes parking lot, all legal hassles could wait. The cabin had a rancid stench because of the director's body in the passenger seat, but I rolled the windows down to diffuse it. The return drive was much shorter than the outgoing one, more peaceful, at least until I turned into the parking lot of Westwood Funeral Home to find a pair of black Cadillacs parked beside my truck.

Unmarked police cars, FBI? I didn't care. My thought process was running on an empty tank and my body was too exhausted to run. Goodbye to the money, goodbye to freedom, goodbye to Ali. What I expected was a miniature army

to pound out of the pine forest, guns drawn, demands shouted. What I got was a handful of sharply dressed men who waved me down after I parked the hearse. One opened the hearse door for me and helped me out. They delivered a perfunctory inspection

of the dead director, but left his body where it sat. One man jumped into the driver's seat and drove out to sight. with him with a duffel bag of money. Damn. Another man took me aside, offered me a cigarette from my own pack and shook my hand. You don't have to worry about anything, sir.

The director shot a cop. It's all taken care of. My brain felt like jelly. What do you mean? Keep living your life. Talk with friends. Enjoy your family. Go to work.

Think of today as... A dream. A lucid dream. nothing more than a short, bad memory. Another pair of suited men exited the funeral home. They pushed a gurney with a body on it. The sheet draped over was mottled with red. The manager? I asked.

Afraid so. He was an associate of ours given the responsibility of helping with the mission. He was instructed to guard the casket last night until the director arrived, then take control the situation. However, it got to him like it got to the director. Who are you guys? Let's just say we are the guys who are not normally late, but we were today. For your troubles, we gave you something.

It's in your truck. I advise you go get in your truck and leave all this behind you. There was no room for argument in his voice, nor did I have the energy for it. I was good at compartmentalizing, something I would most certainly have to do with my most recent actions. But it was over. finally over I left and returned home stopped in my driveway

I felt under the seat and found a small canvas stack inside was $50,000 cash $50,000 $50,000 $500,000

I entered my home and collapsed on the couch 12 hours later I awoke to the sound of a buzzing noise Ali was calling Hey, Daddy. My sniffles gave away my crying fit. Hey, honey. God, it's so good to hear your voice. Your real voice.

My real voice? Nothing. Sorry, I just woke up from a nap. I'm still groggy. Anyways, I called to tell you the good news. Mom's in rehab. She's taking it so serious this time. I've been crying all day because I'm so happy.

I sat up on the couch and felt an odd pinch of my thigh. "'Honey, that's wonderful news.' "'I was thinking, if she completes rehab, "'that maybe we could all be together for my birthday.' "'Ally said, as I battled my quivering lip, "'I know you both don't see eye to eye, "'but it would be nice to see both of you at the same time.' "'Another pinch of my thigh.'

"'I crept my hand into my pocket.' "'Honey, that sounds like the best idea I've heard in a long time. "'Unestly, it'd be nice to see her mother. "'Despite the bad, there were a lot of good memories, between us. Oh, and I have a great birthday present for you, I said, looking at the sack of money. You better keep it a surprise until then. I will. The three of us together, on your birthday, who'd have thought? She sighed. I've told you a million times, Daddy. I've been praying about this for years. Sure, there's plenty of bad in the world, but that means there's plenty of good too.

Prayers work. Yeah, maybe it does. I said, as I pulled a rosary from my front pocket. Maybe it does.