ADVERTISEMENT
I placed my hand on the lid. “I’m so sorry, Ava,” I whispered, the guilt of every missed warning sign crashing down on me. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t fix it.”
And then, I heard it.
Scritch.
It was the sound of a fingernail against satin.
I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I told myself it was the building settling, or the air conditioning, or my own grief-stricken mind conjuring ghosts.
Then came a voice.
It wasn’t a cry. It was barely an exhale, a sound so fragile it seemed to disintegrate before it reached my ears, but the words were unmistakable.
“Nana.”
The world stopped. The blood drained from my face, leaving me lightheaded.
I didn’t think. I didn’t consider the legal ramifications of desecrating a corpse or the psychological break I might be having. I grabbed the latch of the casket. It was locked—a heavy, decorative mechanism meant to stay sealed until the end of time.
I ran to the prep room in the back, rummaging through drawers until I found a heavy metal tool, perhaps a wrench or a casket key. I ran back, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.
I jammed the tool into the mechanism and twisted. Metal shrieked against metal.
With a heave that strained every muscle in my back, I threw the lid open.
The Unthinkable Discovery
I expected to see death. I expected to see a pale, still child.
Instead, I saw a nightmare.
Ava was there. She was pale, her lips tinged with the blue of hypoxia, her eyes rolling back in her head—but she was breathing.
Her wrists were bound with plastic zip-ties, secured to the metal handles on the interior of the casket. Across her chest, a thick nylon strap—the kind used for luggage—was cinched tight, pinning her to the silk lining so that even if she woke up, she couldn’t thrash, couldn’t bang on the lid, couldn’t make a sound loud enough to be heard.
She had been packaged. She had been restrained like a hostage.
Continue reading…
ADVERTISEMENT
