Papsy's hands (chpt. 1)

Our fascination with the dead has haunted the human race throughout history. From the grave robbers of old to today’s horror movies, the dead’s allure has proved too strong for us to ignore. Is it the mystery of death and the there after, or the fear of such that keeps us enthralled? It is our own unknowing of what lay ahead that instills this fear in us. We, in turn, give this fear life through, ironically, the living-dead. Long have there been stories of the dead arising from their eternal slumber, only to wreak havoc amongst the living. During the Black Plague, the dead were given a new horror with which to be associated with: disease. While the bodies piled up in England’s streets, their sickness spread. For whatever reason, these lifeless cadavers are regarded with a fear above almost all others.

Sometimes, however, a corpse is just a corpse.

Such was the case of Alan McCain’s great-grandfather, John, or, as Alan called him, Papsy.


Papsy’s Hands


The crisp Fall wind blew against the clear blue sky, knocking the brightly colored leaves onto the people below. From a distance, the scene below the trees could have been mistaken for a picnic. The actual undertaking, however, were much more somber.
The outdoor wake was of John’s own request. The old man had loved nature. At 102 years old, the trees were his last living friends. The bottle had also become a close friend in the end. He died with these friends; one had his side and one in his hand. But now his hands were empty, limp at his side.
Though John’s passing was heartbreaking, there were few tears at his service. Those who did weep wept only for show. While they were his relatives, they cared little for him. The only things they cared about were his money and his will. They, of course, would never see a cent. As lonesome as the old man was, there was one person who had been his friend. Alan McCain was the sole member of the group that had actually cared for John. He loved his great-grandfather dearly. His tears were real.
It had been a long trip for him, from his home in Nevada to his family’s ancestral home in Kentucky. By car. With no A/C, radio, or anything else to keep him sane. Just the thought of the 200 plus mile drive was enough to turn his wife Sarah off the idea of making the trip, and there was no way Courtney, their daughter, was going to go without her mommy.
So now Alan was here alone at his favorite relatives funeral, surrounded by people to whom he had only the vaguest notion of how they related to himself. They seemed to see this as a social event, none of them really taking notice of the dead body at the front of the rows of foldout chairs they sat in. It was only when the preacher took to the podium in front of the casket they took to their seats.
“We are gathered here today,” said the preacher-man, “to mourn the loss of Jonathan Harold McCain, whose death has brought an entire family together again…” So they can fight over his money, thought Alan.
While not the richest man in the world, Papsy had always been well-off. Of course, nearly three-quarters of a century’s worth of good investing would leave anyone with a little something extra. Alan knew that Papsy, in his later years, had gotten in the habit of not cashing in his dividend checks. He knew from his last visit that his grandfather stashed them in the many books scattered around his house. He also had a strange feeling he wasn’t the only one at the funeral who knew it.
“…And now,” continued preacher-man, “such is tradition, we will now release a single white dove, signifying Jonathan’s assent into heaven.” A young boy, who Alan almost recognized but could not quite place, stepped in front of the crowd. In his hands he held a small wicker cage. After fumbling with the latch the boy opened the door and raised the cage above his head. There was an awkward pause when the bird did not emerge, then the boy thrust the cage forward.
People jumped from their seats, obscuring Alan’s view. There was a scream, then a crash, followed by more, even louder screams. Alan carefully pushed his way through the shaken crowd. When he reached the front, two things immediately grabbed his attention. On the ground lay a woman, unconscious, with a dark stain across her black dress,and a small bloodstained dove, dead. Once the scene settled in his mind, it occurred to Alan that Papsy’s casket no longer rested on its stand. Apparently, the dead bird had flung out onto the mourner’s dress, she had screamed and passed out, and the little boy stumbled backwards, tipping over the coffin. Alan’s Papsy now laid facedown in the dirt, his bare backside clearly exposed to the world.
This was too much for Alan to take. While the attention focused on the woman, who had probably never met Papsy, his grandfather’s body was just left where it was. No one even made an effort to cover his nakedness. Alan removed his jacket and moved to cover his grandfather's corpse. As he passed by the unconscious woman, there were several more screams, but Alan no longer cared. He once again shoved his way through the crowd, taking much less care this time and knocking over more than one person. When reached his car he noticed blood on the floorboard. On the bottom of his shoe he found more blood, along with some white feathers. The people's screams had been directed at him. On his way back from the overturned casket, he had stepped on the dove.
Alan took a moment to scrape the dove's remains off his shoe. He cranked his car three times before it would start, then drove to his hotel in tears. When he arived at the Holiday Inn, he immediately packed his suitcase and checked out. He tried Sarah's cell, but there was no signal. When he got to his car, he tried again to no avail.
"Figures," he muttered to himself, "whole damn town's probably a dead-zone."
Unable to reach his wife, Alan decided to find the nearest bar.

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Alan found himself back at the wake. He once again pushed his way through the crowd. This time, the woman was not only conscious, but was actually eating the bloody dove. The dove itself was now alive, screeching almost human screams as the woman shoved it deeper into her mouth. Alan then turned to face the casket, which still rested on its stand. Alan leaned over the side, only to find a deep hole within. As he bent farther over, a hand grabbed his collarand pulled him down. He tumbled through the darkness, falling until something soft broke his fall. Alan was afraid to open his eyes. He didn't want to see what lie before him. Wheen he finally opened them, he saw not his grandfather's body, but his own, wrinkled and distorted. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound would come. There was then a hand on the back of his neck, and Alan felt himself being pulled up. whene he resurfaced, he found himself face to face with a deformed caricature of the Preacher-man from Papsy's funeral. its eyes were swollen and red, and long, thick veins ran the length of its forehead.
"What do you think you're doin', boy?" it spat through its yellow teeth.
"What is this?" Alan asked the Preacher-man, "Am I dead?"
The Preacher-man let out a laugh that rattled his very spine.
"Boy, what makes you think you're dead? Bein' dead's a reward." The Preacher-man leaned in close, its hot, sticky breath fumed in Alan's face. You ain't good enough to be dead."
BOOM!
The crash of the thunder awoke Alan from the nightmare. He jumped up and hit his head on the roof of the car. Alan swore loudly. He glanced out the back window at the red flashing bar sign, still barely visible through the rain. A quick glance at his watch gave him 5:34 A.M. as the time.
He decided to head to the truck stop down the road and and grab a cup of coffee. Driving down the road, the lines blinked in and out of his vision, making the alure of coffee stronger.By driving slowly he was able to make it to the truck stop. There was only one truck in the parking lot, with a few cars scattered throughout. After struggling to get his from the ignition to his pocket, he set off on the endless trek from car to store. Above the front door, in big green letters, read Earl's.
Inside, Alan sat down at the counter so he could be by himself. Manning the grillwas a large, gorilla of a man, with more hair on his arms than he could have ever had on his head. With one hand propped against the grill and the other around the cigarette in his mouth, he grunded something indecipherable. His odd sound summoned a small, 50-something waitress. Her nametag read Janice.
"Coffee?" she asked. Her voice was rough, but quiet, a side effect of many long nights behind the counter.
Alan nodded. Before he could look up, a cup of hot coffee was in front of him. He held it under his nose and let its warmth awaken him. When he reached for his wallet, he found nothing. The waitress instantly took notice.
"Don't worry about it hon'. It's on me."
"Thank you ma'am," said Alan, suprised by her genorisity, "but my wallet's just out in the..."
She cut him off. "First off, it's Jan, and second, you need it.Hell, you look worse than I do."
"I don't think..."
"Hon', don't try. So, you comin' or goin'?"
Alan sipped at his coffee. "Goin', I suppose."
Jan started wipeing the counters, getting ready for the morning rush. "So," she asked, "you from California?"
Alan was confused by her comment. "No, no, Nevada. What makes you think that?"
She shrugged, "Just look it, I guess. Something 'bout your tan, maybe. Should of known better, though. They're all pricks. You don't seem like a prick to me."
For the first time since the funeral, Alan laughed, choking on his coffee. "Thanks, I guess."
She chuckled, "Don't mention it. Now, I know you ain't no trucker, so whatcha doin' this far out?"
Another long sip from the cup. "Funeral."
"I'm sorry, hon'. So how'd you know John?"
Alan looked up from his coffee. "You know...knew him?"
"Hun', the man was a'hundred'n'two, living in Kentucky. We all knew him. Ain't that right, Earl?"
The Man-Gorilla simply nodded, knocking ashes to the floor.
Jan glared at Earl. "And put that damned thing out."
Earl looked around, and, finding nowhere to toss the smoke, smushed it on the grill.
"Better?" He grunted.
"I'm his great-grandson," Alan chimed in.
"That'd make you Alan, then, right?"
"Yeah. How..."
"Oh, he talked about you all the time."
"Really? What'd he say?"
"If I remember right, he said you were the only person in his family who wasn't a blood sucking leech," she laughed, "pretty good praise comin' from ol' John."
People began trickling in now. A tall man dressed in black sat at the end of the counter, and Jan was tore away to deal with him. Earl fired up the grill without bothering to wipe off the ashes.
Alan decided to try Sarah's phone again. Still, no signal. He grabbed the back of his head and rested his elbows on the counter. Jan took notice.
"It's no good hun'. Can't get no service out here. Somethin' 'bout the mountians, I think."
Alan flipped his phone shut and laid his head down with a long sigh.
"Now if you really need to get through," Jan said, "we got a phone back in the storeroom. You're welcome to use it."
"Ok," Alan said, standing up, "I think I will."
"Go towards the bathrooms and keep on through that back door. Phone's on the left. Can't miss it."
"Thanks"
Alan found his way back to the storeroom. He tried his home phone and got himself on the answering machine. He left his wife a message telling her to call him back. He was about to try her cell when the phone rang.
"Jan!" he called back to the front, "Jan! Phone's ringing!"
Alan heard Jan's voice float back from the diner. "Please answer it hun'. I'll be right back."
Alan picked up the phone "Hello?"
For a moment, there was silence, then a strange deep voice Alan had only heard in his nightmares:
"Hello Alan," said the Preacher-man.