With Bells On… 

A cold chill startles Osmond from his slumber. His surroundings are untouched by light, and his body is squished into a tight space. The stench of rot looms in the stale air, only interrupted by the smell of fresh-cut pine, carnation, and the perfume on his ascot. His left hand is held tightly by the grip of another's palm. Something heavy sits on each eye as he uses his right forearm to brush them away, brushing his knuckles against the wood less than thirty centimeters from his face. Where am I, and how did I get here?

           He pushes the heavy gold coins from his eyes. They glide down the side of his face onto the surface beneath. Only one makes an echoing clink in the claustrophobic containment he has found himself within. He opens his eyes to see only a thin gleam of light hitting him on his left thigh and something dangling within it. Oh, dear Lord, no, I've been buried alive. I bet her brother Edwin had something to do with this; that tricky devil wants the inheritance money.

            He reaches for the string to the grave bells with his left hand, but the fist doesn't loosen its grip much like a cage of flesh within a wooden confine.

            “Bloody hell!” he shouts in frustration, the echo causing his ears to ring.

            “Shhh. I’m trying to rest.” His wife’s voice quietly tingles his eardrum.

            “How are you even talking, love? You were red as the dickens with Scarlet Fever." His voice lowers to a whisper.

            "It is our time to rest, Ozzy. Together. Forever." Her voice fades out.

            “My love, I had strep throat, but I never turned red as you did. I think I have been buried alive, and I shouldn't have agreed to this shared coffin idea. Can you not see they buried us both?" His voice is shaky and dry as he tries not to move, conserving his strength.

            “This is what you agreed to. For once, lie with me and rest my love…” her voice trails off into the cold silence he woke up to.

            He pulls his right arm over his chest, trying to reach for the chord to no avail. He bumps his forehead against the pine, causing dirt to fall on his face and sting his eyes as it mixes with the cold sweat on his brow.

            “Dratted box!" his voice dryly echoes in the enclosed space. "WE aren't dead, Marge. Now let go of my hand so I can ring the grave bell and save myself."

            "But you said at our wedding; we'd be together. Forever." Her voice filled with sorrow and the cold cry of lost love. “Stop avoiding and just lie with me for once…" her voice distances itself in the tomb.

            “That was twenty years ago. This scenario is not what I had in mind when I agreed to this, love." His breathing becomes more rapid as anxiety rushes through his veins. He pulls his forearm, trying to release the cold grip embracing it. He reaches across his chest to pry his paw free, but the soft, smooth satin of her burial clothing forces a moment of pause.

            “Why are you wearing your wedding dress?” His voice is quiet and whispery. No answer is received. "Answer me!" He coughs from the lack of moisture in his throat.

            "I want you to see my love is eternal dear Osmond…now rest with me forevermore…." Her voice travels off into the abyss from which it came.

            Maybe I didn’t spend enough time with her… Perhaps I was wrong…It doesn't matter now, she's gone, and I must escape this dire fate.

            He jams his fingers up under hers, desperately trying to force open Marge's grip but only managing to rip off a fingernail in the scuffle. He can feel a dry, scaly cuticle embeds itself into his soft skin. He pulls away quickly, smacking the pine and causing his knuckles to scrape. "Bollocks," he whispers to himself, knowing another coughing fit will only worsen his plight. If I hope to survive this dratted fate and give that devil Edwin a good hiding, I have one option left.

             "I'm sorry, my love, but I have to do this. Please forgive me."  He pulls her cold tight skinned entanglement of digits to his chin; he kisses her hand, then sinks his teeth into one of her fingers—the crunch of bone and the squelch of tearing flesh and muscle echo. The taste of cold meat and viscera causes his stomach to turn as he rips the index finger from her hand and spits it onto his chest. He works through the rest of what confines his paw as quickly as possible without hesitation. He hurries to get through the grisly task without risking the possibility of drowning in vomit. Finally, his mouth is cold and sticky, his jaw is throbbing, and the remains of something he once held dear is strewn chaotically over his chest, freeing him from the first layer of confinement. His wedding ring catches the light, blinding him for a moment and causing him to pause temporarily in remembrance.

            Am I wrong about this? Should I have spent more time with her? I’ve come this far; I can’t turn back now.

            He reaches for the string, feels that it is taut, and gives it a firm tug. The tension is immediately lost as the rope slithers down, slowly filling his fist with defeat. His only two options now are to scream and claw wildly in hopes the cemetery keeper will come or slowly drift away softly in his sleep beside the now desecrated corpse of his loving wife. He lets out a deep sigh while crossing his arms on his chest.

"Together forever it is then, my love."

***

Jeremiah Alexander is an aspiring writer from Western Pennsylvania. He enjoys reading, gaming, and traveling in his spare time. His favorite destinations are historical landmarks and haunted sites. His work is mainly rooted in horror but does branch out to fantasy and sci-fi. Look for him on his LinkedIn profile or follow him on Twitter @JAlexander5586.