Note: This was originally posted on /r/nosleep but was removed for being "unbelievable"

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On the last day of July, 1993, I saw my first reanimated corpse.

I had been spending my summer vacation with my grandfather, the head caretaker for the largest cemetery in the county, while my parents were overseas visiting relatives. In exchange for a weekly stipend of seventy-five dollars, I was to spend my mornings performing various chores around the cemetery grounds including cleaning moss from cracked and forgotten headstones and collecting wilted, sun bleached flower arrangements for the garbage.

That particular morning was spent preparing for a burial and helping my grandfather repair a headstone that had been vandalized over the course of the previous night. We had been working on it since mid-morning and when we finally finished, the sun was high in the noon sky. After we finished cleaning up, I went to look for a comfortable spot to take my lunch break and read an old Lovecraft collection purchased the day before from a used bookstore.

Meandering through a field of monuments and headstones, I made my way towards a weeping willow tree that stood out against the dark coniferous forest that ran the perimeter of the cemetery. Before the willow there was a small green tent, folding chairs, flowers, and a rectangular mound of dirt; remnants of that morning’s burial. A small green aluminum sign was pegged in to the dirt a few feet from the opening. Its tarnished copper lettering identified the grave’s inhabitant and lifespan as: Grace Phillips, 1914 – 1993.

Finding the shade of the tent to be inviting, I made myself comfortable on a couple of the folding chairs beneath it. I wasn't two pages in to the story “Dagon” when I heard what I thought was a strange muffled sound of thumping began to resonate from the capped burial vault in the grave before me. I looked at the hole and immediately dismissed the thought that I had heard a sound come from it. I was about to go back to reading when I heard it again.

Curious, I set down my book, walked over to the edge of the grave, and listened with intense concentration. A few seconds later I was rewarded with not only more thumping, but a stifled scream!

Terrified, I stumbled backwards, tripped over a row of chairs then bolted across the cemetery towards the memorial garden benches where my grandfather usually ate his lunch. I arrived, out of breathe and panicked. I told him of the thumping and screaming, He looked at me like I was insane and had me lead him to the grave.

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"Go get Henry- Run, boy!"

I sprinted through a maze of headstones and mausoleums, towards the large aluminum storage garage that housed both the cemetery’s landscaping equipment and a small office. A moment earlier, my grandfather had knelt down beside the grave and listened just as I had done before. He would later describe what he heard as the most unnerving experience of his life, a voice from beneath a burial vault cap.

I burst in to the office, startling Henry to drop one of the bags of peat moss he was stacking in a wooden bin, splitting open at his feet.

“Dammit! Why do-“

I didn't let him finish. Between gasps for air I told Henry that my grandfather needed him right away. Sensing trouble, he quickly forgot the bag and we took off running. Henry followed me with as fervent a pace as he could muster for a man of his age and stature. When my grandfather spotted us coming, he began shouting for Henry to “bring the goddamn backhoe around!”

Henry, who had worked for my grandfather for twenty years and had never questioned one of his orders, ran down the gravel road to where the backhoe was parked away from that mornings mourners. I joined my grandfather who then proceeded to lower himself in to the grave and straddle the vault. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in to the vault.

“Hello? Can you hear me? We’re going to get you out of there!”

He was answered by a muffled shriek.

Off in the distance, I heard the backhoes diesel engine sputter to life with an oily growl. Minutes later, Henry piloted the machine over the stone pegged horizon; it’s dented chrome exhaust pipe belching a thick cloud of blue smoke that trailed behind it. When it arrived, I stood back and watched as my grandfather instructed Henry who manipulated the backhoes arm in to position over the grave.

Henry jumped off the idling machine and removed a chain harness hanging from a makeshift steel hook on the side of the cab. He connected the harness to a loop of steel welded to the bottom of the scoop and then climbed back in to the backhoe. My grandfather directed him to slowly lower the chains in to the grave.

Hooks dangled from the ends of the four rusted chains as the backhoe lowered the harness down in to the grave. When the hooks were resting on the surface of the vault’s cap, my grandfather waved for Henry to stop. He secured the hooks to the rebar loops protruding from each corner of the lid and climbed out. Henry brought the backhoe’s steel arm up with a hydraulic whine, lifting the cap off the burial vault.

The rumble of the engine had drowned out any audible sound of movement and it wasn't until the cap was resting on the grass beside the grave and the backhoe’s engine switched off that we could hear the bloodcurdling shrieking and furious thumping from within the stained hardwood casket. I watched in terror as Henry reluctantly climbed into the grave, straddled the vault, and used a screwdriver to force open the locking mechanism securing the casket’s lid.

As soon as the lock was sprung, the top lid sprang open and caused Henry to scurry from the grave with a startled grunt. He cursed under his breath as he came to his feet beside my grandfather and beheld the ghastly sight before us. My grandfather told me to look away, but I could not keep myself from staring at the loathsome display.

The elderly woman in the casket was thrashing her hands around in a wild frenzy, as if she was fighting off an invisible attacker. Every muscle in her body twitched with uncontrollable spasms. Her eyelids fluttered; her irises and pupils concealed by white plastic caps the mortician had used to hold her eyelids shut. Yellow-tinged skin sagged over her emaciated, sunken face. Screams came through curled lips and teeth artificially clenched with a crisscross of white suture thread. The wig she had been buried with had slipped off, exposing a railroad track of stitches that orbited the back of her head. An autopsy had been performed; her brain removed and weighed. Her head crashed against the burial vault as she spasmed, opening a deep gash on the side of her head. Pink embalming fluid welled up and dripped from the wound.

“Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with her eyes?” Henry asked, his voice wavering.

My grandfather ignored the question.

“Shut and lock the gate Henry. If anyone asks, were closing for emergency maintenance. Get the gas can and some matches from the office on your way back.”

When he returned from the garage, Henry joined my grandfather at the edge of the grave. He handed the gas can to my grandfather. We watched with numb shock as he emptied the entire can in to the grave and over the woman who was still very active and was now hissing at us. He tossed the can aside and snatched the matches from Henry's nervous, shaking hands.

“Stand back” he commanded as he pulled a match from the book and struck it against the thin brown strip on the back. He used the match to light the rest of the matches in the book. It flared to life in his hand and he flipped it in to the grave, igniting the gas with a loud whoosh. Even though I was stunned by the unexpected blast of heat, my eyes never left the sight of the impromptu cremation.

I could see the woman still flailing in her casket, even as she burned. The plastic caps on her eyes melted down her blackening face like tears of white paint on cracked asphalt. The sutures on the back of her head snapped and her scalp curled back as it burned, exposing ivory cranium. The embalming fluid in her body boiled and foamed from cracks in her charred skin.

It took twenty minutes for the woman to stop moving. She and her casket were still smoldering when we recapped the vault and quickly filled it in.

When we had the backhoe parked in its usual space next to the garage, we collected ourselves to the confines of my grandfather’s office. We sat in silence at his desk as we pondered what to make of the horror we had all just witnessed. My grandfather broke the silence. He stated that we were to keep the day’s events a secret that we would carry to our graves.

Before the end of the summer, we would find two more of what we began referring to as “moving burials” and had cremated the reanimated corpses. We never spoke of the cemetery’s secret to anyone, nor did we discover the reason for the atrocious things we found twitching and writhing in the ground.

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Two weeks ago my grandfather died from a two year battle with lymphoma. In accordance to his last wishes, he was buried in the same cemetery that he had spent so many years caring for.

I visit his grave every day and when I’m sure no one is watching, I press my ear to the ground and listen.

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Fb