Chapter 2 - The Sound Under the Dirt
"Daniel! Have you completely lost your mind?"
Clara’s voice shrieked across the open lawn, cutting through the murmurs of the stunned relatives like a jagged blade. She abandoned Mateo and scrambled across the uneven grass, throwing herself physically between me and the long-handled steel shovels.
"Move, Clara," I said, my voice dangerously calm, stripped of all familial warmth.
"You are hysterical! You're going to dig up a sealed vault and traumatize your son because of a seven-year-old's nightmare?" She grabbed the lapel of my jacket, her hands trembling violently. "Look at me! Elena is gone! Let her rest!"
"If Mateo is wrong, you can hate me for the rest of our lives," I replied, staring down into her frantic eyes. "You can call me crazy, you can lock me away, and I will apologize to every single person standing here. But if he is right..." I paused, leaning in close so only she could hear the venom in my breath. "...every person who leaves her down there will answer to me."
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her jaw worked silently, like a fish gasping for air in a drained pond.
I shoved past her, grabbed a heavy iron-headed shovel, and marched back to the grave.
"Daniel, stop this instant!" an uncle shouted, stepping forward with his hands raised in protest. "This is sacrilege! Have some respect for the dead!"
"Call the police!" the funeral director yelled from the perimeter, his face flushing crimson with professional indignation. "If you desecrate this vault, I'm pressing criminal charges!"
I ignored them all. The world had narrowed down to a single point: the dark earth covering the woman I loved. I jammed the sharp edge of the shovel into the damp soil and threw my entire weight downward. The metal bit into the ground with a satisfying crunch, tearing through the crushed rose petals and the pristine floral foam we had laid down only minutes ago.
Dirt flew into the air, raining down on my polished black shoes. Sweat poured down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I didn't stop. I drove the shovel down again, and again, driven by a primal, manic surge of adrenaline that defied physical exhaustion.
"He's desecrating her grave! Someone stop him!" Aunt Beatrice wailed, covering her face with her hands.
For a terrifying moment, I wondered if I was losing my mind. Was grief truly playing cruel tricks on me? Was I acting out a lunatic's fantasy based on a child's desperate wishful thinking?
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.
Three of my closest cousins—men who had stood by in stunned silence—suddenly exchanged glances. Without a word, they walked over to the tool shed, grabbed three spare shovels, and stepped down into the open grave alongside me.
"If there's even a one percent chance the boy is right," my cousin Marcus muttered, spitting into his palms, "we're going to find out together."
Dirt flew in a synchronized rhythm. Thud. Toss. Thud. Toss.
Across the lawn, Clara was backing away slowly, her eyes wide and unhinged. She began whispering to herself, backing toward the gravel parking lot where her luxury sedan sat idling.
"It can't be," she muttered, her voice carrying across the silent yard. "She can't be awake. The dosage was precise. She shouldn't even have a pulse..."
My hands stopped mid-swing. My blood ran cold. The dosage?
Before I could process the implications of her frantic confession, the flashing red and blue lights of a county sheriff's cruiser tore down the cemetery access road, sirens blaring a harsh, discordant warning. A deputy leaped from the vehicle, hand resting on his holster, shouting for everyone to step back.
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At the exact same second, the sharp edge of my shovel struck something solid with a dull, echoing clack.
It wasn't dirt. It was wood.
