An Empty Grave

Mr. Wright considered himself the happiest man alive.

Of course, there was a reason for his happiness: he was a good man.

Even though his family already subscribed to the newspaper, he still bought one from every newsboy he encountered on the street.

He attended church every Sunday, never failed to say grace before meals, and knelt beside his bed each night to pray, not only for himself, but for his dear wife, his lovely son and daughter, and for the millions of suffering souls in the world – not that he actually knew who those people were.

He was also passionate about helping those in his community. Naturally, it had something to do with his profession – but there was no denying he was the perfect man for the job.

Whenever misfortune befell a family, he was among the first to know. Alas, in this uncaring world, there were few as enthusiastic as he.

"Darling, you wouldn't believe the day I've had," he huffed, collapsing onto the sofa as his wife took his coat.

"What happened?" Mrs. Wright asked distractedly, her eyes on a loose thread in her sewing.

"Remember that boy, Henry? The one who lived down the street?"

"Henry Anthony, right? The peculiar boy who lived with old Mr. and Mrs. Anthony?"

"He did something extraordinary!" Mr. Wright announced, beaming. "He saved a nobleman's daughter from drowning. A whole carriage procession was sent to fetch him! A carriage, mind you! Quite a rarity! I also received a notice that His Lordship has allocated a generous sum for a proper burial."

"Burial!" Mrs. Wright looked up, startled. "You're saying he's dead!"

Mr. Wright, pleased with the impact of his storytelling, nodded proudly. "Indeed he is. So now our community has a local hero, a considerable sum of money, and an extra empty house. I must say, young Henry finally did something worthwhile."

His wife shot him a disapproving look. "Hush, don't say that! We should be mourning the young man." But a smile tugged at her lips. "I suppose you've been quite busy today?"

"Of course, my dear," Mr. Wright replied. "Lamb stew for dinner would be wonderful. I believe I can smell it already. Ah, yes! You're an angel! Where are the children?"

"They're upstairs. I'll call them down," Mrs. Wright said, kissing her husband on the cheek before heading upstairs to fetch their son and daughter.

Mr. Wright shifted to the dinner table, a contented smile on his face.

...

Following the nobleman's instructions, they had custom-made the finest coffin for Anthony and arranged a lavish funeral.

The young man had perhaps two or three friends, and they were all present, grieving.

According to them, they hadn't been in touch with Henry for a while, but the news of his passing was still a shock.

In addition, five or six "friends" were also in attendance. They all claimed to be very busy, but upon hearing that he died saving the nobleman's daughter, they suddenly found the time to attend the funeral, their newfound friendship blossoming overnight.

Disappointingly, the nobleman himself was absent.

Such a beautiful coffin – and flowers. In this weather, it must have taken considerable effort to find enough flowers to cover the ground. The venue was so lovely, it could have been used for a wedding. if only the large wooden box at the back were a stained-glass window from a church instead of a coffin.

Even the priest was already present.

Mr. Wright looked upon the wasted decorations with a touch of regret.

But regardless, a hero was now laid to rest in this cemetery. It was always good to have a hero, no matter where you were. Maintaining tombstones and tidying the cemetery all required those shiny silver or paper contraptions, and having multiple deceased good people provided yet another reason.

Mr. Wright pondered this as the priest continued his. Oh, no, Mr. Wright was a devout man. He crossed himself and bowed his head solemnly.

...

Mr. Wright was a busy man, and everything had to be arranged by him. Without him, people simply wouldn't know how to function.

"I believe we should organize an event," Mr. Wright announced.

"An event, sir?"

Mr. Wright nodded. "Yes, it's a rare occasion for a holiday, and people will want to get out and socialize. The weather is getting warmer. It's such a lovely day. Here's a proposal my nephew drafted, take a look."

He stroked his mustache with satisfaction. He had meticulously trimmed it that morning, and it was frustrating that no one seemed to appreciate his efforts... tasteless fools.

"Of course, sir. But there's a slight issue – we need funding."

"Funding?" He frowned. "Isn't the budget sufficient? Let me see." He retrieved the proposal and flipped through it, smacking his lips. "Ah, young people. Always wanting the best of everything. These tables, chairs, benches, can we eliminate those? Wouldn't it be better to enjoy nature on foot rather than sitting around? And here, why rent a venue? I think the cemetery to our west would be perfect."

"Right, tables and chairs, okay, cemetery." The pen scratched across the notebook as notes were hastily taken.

Mr. Wright nodded, satisfied. The problem was solved. He was always good at that. Without people like him, the world would surely fall into chaos.

...

Today was a rare day of good weather. The breeze was gentle, the early spring sun warm, and the cemetery lawn meticulously manicured.

Mrs. Wright had packed three picnic baskets to the brim, donned the daffodil-yellow dress she wore when she and Mr. Wright first met, and strolled through the woods bordering the cemetery, arm in arm with her husband. "Now, be good children and don't run off! Here, darling, take Mummy's hand! Good boy, hold your sister's hand."

Mr. Wright and his family were as happy as ever.

Whenever someone greeted him with envy and respect, he nodded reservedly. How well he had organized this event! How beautiful his wife was! How well-behaved his children were! "This is a lovely spot," Mrs. Wright said, selecting a clearing and spreading out a red and white checkered picnic blanket. The washed fruits glistened in the sunlight.

"Darling, I'm going to have a smoke," Mr. Wright said, watching his wife fuss over the picnic.

Mrs. Wright sighed but smiled. "Go ahead, Mr. Wright."

"Love you too, Mrs. Wright," Mr. Wright said with mock formality, blowing her a kiss that made her giggle before he walked out of the woods.

He took out a cigarette but didn't light it. He simply wanted to stroll around to see how the event he had organized and managed was progressing, to bask in the success of his efforts.

It was going splendidly. People were picnicking everywhere. Oh, why did that young man look so glum again? Mr. Wright hadn't forced him to participate in the activities, he had merely made suggestions – but his suggestions were always spot-on.

He frowned slightly, observing those who didn't seem to be enjoying themselves sufficiently.

For instance, that couple was actually arguing. Good heavens, their child was crying again. Was no one attending to him? Why were they still bickering?

The world needed more compassionate people like Mr. Wright. He promptly marched over and asked the little boy in a dignified tone, "Why are you crying?"

The boy wailed, "I need to pee! Mummy, Mummy, I need to pee!"

"Well then, go and relieve yourself!" Mr. Wright frowned at the boy's uncouth choice of words.

"I can't find the toilet!" the boy sobbed.

Mr. Wright waved a dismissive hand. "Just find a spot where no one can see you!"

The boy, his tears abruptly ceasing, scrambled up and ran off to a place out of Mr. Wright's sight. His parents continued to blame each other for forgetting the picnic blanket.

Thankfully, Mrs. Wright always took care of everything. Mr. Wright thought with satisfaction, distancing himself from the disgruntled couple.

...

The little boy ran around, unable to find a secluded spot. He initially aimed for a tree, but every open space was occupied by one or more families, leaving him in plain sight.

In desperation, he pouted and scanned the area, then spotted a cluster of square and cross-shaped stones without anyone nearby. He gleefully ran over and began to enjoy the most satisfying moment of his day.

As he hummed along with the sound of water, he noticed one of the outermost stones move.

It was so odd. How could a stone move? Weren't all stones dead? The stone seemed to want to leap out, the mound of earth in front of it quivering.

He quickly pulled up his pants and ran back. "Daddy! Mummy! Can stones move?"

His parents were still arguing, but his burning curiosity needed an answer and then he saw the kind gentleman, Mr. Wright.

"Mr. Wright! Mr. Wright!" he shouted, running towards him.

Mr. Wright took a deep breath. "What is it, child?"

"Do stones move?"

"Of course not," Mr. Wright replied. "If it moved, something else must have moved it."

The boy pointed towards the cemetery. "But there's a moving stone over there!"

"That's nonsense," Mr. Wright said dismissively.

By now, the couple had stopped arguing and started searching for their son. Mr. Wright said, "Go on, your parents are looking for you."

The boy persisted, pestering whoever he could with the question, "Why does the stone move?" Mr. Wright desperately wished for a smoke. The cemetery did look rather appealing, quiet and undisturbed.

He started walking in that direction.

...

The thing opened its eyes. Or rather, he opened his eyes.

He couldn't quite be called a "person"; a more accurate description would be "corpse" or "dead man." He was lying in a very fine coffin, but that wasn't the reason he was so well-preserved. As everyone knows, regardless of the cause of death, it ultimately results in molecules returning to molecules, atoms to atoms, and eventually, a disintegration into something indescribable.

Three crucial factors contributed to his still resembling a human being. One, he hadn't been cremated; two, he hadn't been dead long enough; and three, yes, a bit of magic was involved. All three factors were important, but the last one seemed a bit peculiar.

Nevertheless, that was the situation. A bit of magic was involved, and the body, still intact, opened its eyes to find itself surrounded by dried flowers.

He felt nothing towards the flowers, but he did feel discomfort. He would have frowned if he could remember how.

What was that constricting sensation called. Yes, confinement. This skin was very confining. He needed more space, more room. There was a burning in his throat, not his skin's throat, but his real throat. He needed to eat something, anything.

In the distance, he sensed many bodies and bones. But no, he was too ravenous to summon them to fetch food.

Something dangled above his head, emitting a dull "thump, thump, thump." The corpse stared at the coffin lid. The sound of water in the distance, then the thing was gone. And then – it could have been the next second, it could have been a century later – something else appeared. Larger and more fragrant.

Like a loaf of bread, he thought, though he couldn't recall what bread was.

The corpse opened its mouth. It was purely instinctual. The thing inside the corpse sensed that this other thing would taste good. And it was very large, which was important, because after eating it, he would have more room to do whatever he wanted, stretch or something, if he had a waist.

But first, he needed to reach that enticing (corpse-enticing?) thing. He needed to get out, anywhere but here.

He remembered that the world was supposed to be bright.

The mere thought made his world explode into light. Sawdust flew, dirt sprayed, and the long loaf of bread sat on the ground, staring at him in horror.

As this was happening, Mr. Wright had only one thought: He shouldn't have skimped and saved a few inches on the coffin's thickness. He would now gladly pay for a silver casing out of his own pocket.

...

The entity within the corpse turned its attention to the portly man.

The man's mustache quivered violently. He sat on the ground, paralyzed, mouth agape but no sound emerging. He was frozen in a comical, half-sneeze posture, sweat pouring down his forehead. One would be surprised at the amount of moisture he contained. Observing him, one might imagine him melting into a sizzling puddle of grease, like butter on a hot pan.

But the thing inside the body – it's cumbersome to refer to it as such, let's call him Anthony, as it's the first name that comes to mind – wasn't concerned with the outer shell. There was a sweetness within this watery butter, artificial and saccharine, but sweet nonetheless. If Anthony still remembered human language, he would describe it as the scent of "manufactured happiness in a trashy TV show."

It was enough to lure him.

Anthony walked over or rather, he lurched forward. He considered for a moment, then rolled.

"Aaah!" The man finally screamed. "Anthony! I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I, I shouldn't have..." His mind raced, but he couldn't recall what he shouldn't have done. Anthony's head hovered before him, gazing silently, as if expecting an answer.

Then, the answer came like a revelation.

"I shouldn't have organized this Easter event! I shouldn't have forgotten to visit your grave! I shouldn't have stopped the community from collecting donations for your grandfather's illness! I shouldn't have delayed informing you about Mrs. Anthony's critical condition!" Mr. Wright cried out. "I shouldn't have pretended you weren't struggling when you applied for financial aid! I shouldn't have gossiped about you behind your back!"

Anthony's face remained expressionless. He didn't understand the words spewing from the mouth before him, but the sweet smell was changing. Perhaps it was best to silence him, before his repentance was complete, while he still clung to his self-satisfied happiness. Let him become Anthony's dessert.

"Daddy!" Mr. Wright's daughter called from the woods. "Daddy, if you don't come back, we'll eat all the brownies!"

Her voice, cheerful as a bird's song, floated through the air, landing on the tips of Anthony's and Mr. Wright's noses. Somehow, despite the rows of tombstones and the chattering families, both Anthony and Mr. Wright heard her clearly.

His son came running. "Dad, Mum's calling you—" His voice abruptly cut off.

Anthony looked at the small figure before him. He was tiny, and he emanated a different kind of sweetness, a more pleasant, alluring one. Anthony rolled towards him.

"No! Please, Anthony, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Mr. Wright shouted, still frozen on the ground. He didn't smell sweet anymore, he smelled pungent, irritating. If Anthony could recall, this scent was called spicy.

Anthony's hand reached out, touching Mr. Wright, then his son.

This one is bigger, this one is smaller. Choose the bigger one. His simple mind decided.

So he focused intently on the larger one. The pungent smell intensified, but a hint of sweetness emerged within the spice. It smelled better than before, better than anything else. Suddenly, he recoiled.

His mind flooded with memories of his grandmother's lemon cake, his grandfather's candles. The warmth of the aroma and firelight lingered in his throat, eyes, and mind.

Mr. Wright gasped sharply and awoke. His son, though confused, still clapped, as if his father had performed a magic trick.

The soil was piled high in front of the tombstone that read "Henry Anthony," with fresh shoots of grass poking through. There were no broken pieces of wood on the ground, suggesting that the intact (though slightly thinner than intended) luxurious coffin remained in the mound.

Only now it was an empty tomb.

Anthony watched as Mr. Wright, sobbing, hugged his child tightly, promising him game consoles, toy airplanes, toy cars, and many other things.

Mr. Wright's son shouted, "Dad, we've been calling you for ages! It's time to eat brownies!"

Magic was perplexed to find Anthony's heart beating again. Blood flowed anew, dripping from the cat scratches he had sustained. He became became like a living person.

I am a human. My name is Henry Anthony, I am 26 years old. I am – always have been – always will be – human.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice raspy from disuse, as soft as an un-rosined violin.

Mr. Wright, clutching his son, shook his head, unsure if he had heard him. Anthony took it as tacit forgiveness.

"And, you're a right bastard, but I forgive you," Anthony added.

The resurrected man hugged the skeletal cat tightly and slowly walked away. With all his common sense, he knew he needed to move.