"Let us pray for him," the pastor's solemn voice echoed through the stillness of the church. "For both men and women are like flowers in the valley—blooming today, and perhaps withering tomorrow. Human life is like a season... it comes and goes. Let us pray."
The congregation bowed their heads.
In a middle pew, Peter Patrick sat in a crisp black suit, flanked on either side by his sons—Clark and Adam.
It was a rare moment of quiet for the two boys.
Tensions between them had eased recently—thanks to Adam's awkward but sincere apology. The rift that had threatened to crack their bond had, for now, been sealed.
Yet, as the church's ancient wooden beams creaked and the scent of incense lingered, Adam leaned over to whisper:
"Daddy, what happens to people when they die?"
Peter turned his head, mildly surprised by the question—but not unprepared. "Well, that depends on who you ask," he said softly. "Some people believe we go to Heaven or Hell. Others think we're reborn, starting over again like children."
Adam blinked. "Reborn? Like... a carnation?"
Peter chuckled lightly. "No, not 'carnation'—rebirth."
(Adam's confusion came from a common mix-up: the word rebirth had, in his mind, sounded a bit like carnation—which he had also confused with General Ross, a character from a horror movie.)
"Wait a sec!" Peter narrowed his eyes. "You've been watching horror movies again? I told you not to."
Adam's finger shot out immediately—pointing at Clark. "Clark told me about it! I didn't watch it!"
Clark's face fell. He looked down, suddenly feeling even smaller in the large, echoing church.
"I didn't mean to," Clark whispered. "It came on TV once. I only saw a little…"
Peter sighed. "Next time, ask the Good Lord to change the channel for you."
Clark nodded earnestly.
Adam, unfazed, returned to the topic. "Is there more?"
Peter paused.
This time, both boys were watching him—Adam, curious and fearless; Clark, anxious and reverent.
"There are lots of beliefs," Peter said. "Catholics believe in Heaven, Hell, and sometimes a place in between, like Purgatory. Some people believe in reincarnation or Nirvana, like in Hinduism and Buddhism."
The boys listened carefully.
Peter continued, slower now. "But the truth is... no one really knows what happens after death. We believe because of faith."
Clark raised his hand slightly. "What's faith?"
Peter smiled and pointed to the wooden church pew beneath them. "You're sitting on that bench. Do you think it'll still be here tomorrow?"
The boys nodded.
"That's faith. You don't have proof. But you believe."
Clark nodded thoughtfully.
Adam raised an eyebrow. "But what if a chair thief sneaks in and steals it?"
Clark turned to him. "Then you have no faith."
Adam looked at Peter again. "Daddy, what do you believe in?"
The question caught him off guard.
What did he believe in?
Justice? Power? Family? Freedom? He wanted all of them—and yet none of them felt like a core truth.
Fortunately, the pastor's voice offered a perfect rescue.
"Please, pallbearers, come forward."
Peter turned to the boys. "Wait here. Quietly."
He rose and walked down the aisle, nodding to Louis Wilson, the grieving father.
Louis was a man Peter barely remembered—an extended cousin, maybe? Their family connection was thin, but the tragedy wasn't.
Despite the sorrow in Louis's eyes, he carried himself with grace.
Peter offered his condolences, exchanged polite words... then glanced back to check on the boys.
They were gone.
---
Afternoon – After the Funeral
The clouds had parted, and sunlight filtered weakly through the windows of Peter's car as he drove the boys back to the farm.
The radio was tuned to a country station, playing "This Old House" by Stephens.
In the back seat, Adam couldn't keep it to himself.
"Daddy! You won't believe what we saw!"
Peter sighed, already dreading the answer.
"We saw the dead guy inside the coffin!" Adam blurted.
Peter nearly slammed the brakes.
"That is extremely disrespectful, Adam," he said sharply, shooting a glance through the rearview mirror.
As usual, Clark looked guilty.
"Clark didn't want to go," Peter added before the boy could explain. "You dragged him, didn't you?"
Adam slouched in his seat. "I know... I'm sorry, Daddy."
Peter softened slightly.
The apology was quick. Genuine. That was progress.
---
That Night
The farmhouse had settled into its usual nighttime rhythm: wind outside, the faint hum of the fridge, and the occasional creak of old wood.
Peter had just drifted off to sleep when—
"RING-RING!"
The phone rang loudly in the hallway.
He sat up groggily, slipped on his clothes, and shuffled to the receiver.
"This is Peter Patrick," he answered.
He listened.
His face tensed.
"...I understand. I'm on my way."
He hung up, took a moment to breathe, then climbed the stairs to check on Clark and Adam. Both were fast asleep.
He grabbed the keys, slipped into his jacket, and stepped into the wet Kansas night.
The rain was light, misty.
---
Smallville Cemetery – 2:03 AM
Red and blue lights pulsed through the darkness.
Peter parked and stepped out, approaching the gathered crowd of officers and civilians near a freshly dug grave.
He found Louis, still in his black funeral suit, his face pale and eyes vacant.
"Louis," Peter called gently.
The man turned. "Peter. I..."
Peter saw the two police officers standing beside him.
"What happened?" he asked.
Louis took a breath.
"Little Terry's body... it's gone."
Peter's eyes widened. "Gone?"
"They dug up the grave. The coffin's still there. But it's empty."
Peter followed the group to the burial site.
Sure enough, the grave was open, dirt piled to the side. The wooden coffin lay cracked and vacant.
Peter's instincts flared.
Something wasn't right.
Suddenly, a familiar voice behind him said, "We meet again, Mr. Patrick."
He turned—and recognized the sharp-eyed man in uniform.
Officer Lyne Schneider.
"You're... from the Walmart shooting," Peter said.
Lyne nodded, extending a hand. "Didn't expect you to remember me. Then again, I should've guessed—you haven't changed a bit."
Peter hesitated. That comment had more meaning than it let on.
"I'm just here to help my cousin."
Lyne's eyes narrowed slightly. "Since you were one of the last to carry the coffin... we'd like to ask a few questions."
Peter glanced once more at the disturbed grave, the broken coffin, the missing corpse.
Somewhere beneath all of this—beneath the prayers, the rituals, the Sunday suits—something unnatural had stirred.
And death… had not stayed buried
.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 8]
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