Chapter 1: The Hungry Dead Speak

Grandpa went hungry until he died. On the third day after he passed, I swear I heard him—clear as day—shouting from inside his casket that he was hungry.

It was late afternoon, one of those thick, sticky summer days where every little noise in the house seemed to bounce around louder than it should. I was sitting on the porch steps, knees tucked up to my chest, just listening to the cicadas. That’s when it happened—the voice came, raspy and muffled, but there was no mistaking it: Grandpa’s, hollering like he used to from his old recliner, “I’m hungry!” My skin prickled all over. For a split second, I wondered if maybe the bugs outside were playing tricks on me, but the voice was too sharp, too desperate—like it was coming from right behind the living room door. I just sat there, not sure if I should run or call for someone.

He said he wanted some barbecue.

The way he said it—drawling out “barbecue” like he could already taste those smoky ribs and brisket he used to sneak off for at the county fair—made my heart thump. I almost felt my own stomach growl, but mostly I just went cold all over. Grandpa always loved his barbecue, but hearing him ask for it now, when he was supposed to be gone, made me want to crawl out of my skin.

That night, Grandma put her head into the old wood stove and burned herself alive.

It was the same stove where she’d baked cornbread and roasted sweet potatoes for us on cold nights. The smell of scorched wood and something far worse—something raw and awful—hung in the air for days. Folks in Maple Heights whispered about it, but nobody really knew what to say. It was like a nightmare you couldn’t shake, and nobody wanted to bring it up, not even in the church pews.

On the fourth day, Grandpa’s voice came again. He said he didn’t like the old one—the meat was tough and hard to chew.

His voice was sharper this time, almost sulky, just like when he’d complain about Grandma’s overcooked pot roast. Except now, the words echoed in the dark, bouncing off the funeral tent walls and settling deep in my bones. I yanked the covers over my head, but it didn’t help. The voice was in my head, gnawing away at me.

He said he wanted to eat someone fat. Said fatty meat smells delicious!

The way he dragged out the words, all hungry and greedy, made me shiver. I pictured him, gaunt and grinning, licking his lips the way he did after Thanksgiving dinner—only this time, it wasn’t turkey he was after. The thought made me want to run, but there was nowhere to go.

When I told everyone I’d heard Grandpa shouting that he was hungry, only Grandma believed me. The rest just said I was overreacting.

They patted my head, told me I was just missing Grandpa, said my imagination was running wild from all the stories I’d heard growing up. But Grandma, her eyes watery and tired, squeezed my hand and nodded like she knew exactly what I meant. She always said I had the family’s second sight, but I’d never believed her until that moment.

Grandma said she wanted to fire up the stove and cook a meal for Grandpa.

She shuffled into the kitchen, slippers scraping over the linoleum, and started pulling out pots and pans. She mumbled to herself, talking to Grandpa like he was still sitting at the table, waiting for supper. The rest of us just watched from the hallway, not sure if we should stop her or just let her be. There was a heaviness in the air, like we were all holding our breath, waiting for something to break.

But she didn’t come back for a long time. When we finally went to look for her, her head was already burned, the skin split wide open.

The smell hit us first—sharp, metallic, with ashes and something like burnt sugar gone sour. Aunt Sharon screamed, and Uncle Pete had to drag her away. I just stood there, frozen, staring at the stove. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Grandma used to lean over that very spot, checking her pies, humming old hymns under her breath.

Uncle Mike said Grandma must’ve gotten confused and wanted to follow Grandpa, so he quickly had her put in a casket too, right next to Grandpa’s under the funeral tent.

He didn’t shed a tear. He just picked up the phone, called Mr. Carter the funeral director, and started making arrangements, his voice all clipped and businesslike. The tent went up in the backyard, right under the big oak tree where Grandpa used to whittle sticks and spin tall tales. The two caskets sat side by side, draped in white cloth, with candles flickering at their heads.

The bodies were to be kept for seven days, and the family had to sit up with them day and night.

It was the old way, Uncle Mike said—something about respect, about making sure the spirits found their way home. He set out folding chairs and thermoses of black coffee, and we all took turns sitting with the caskets, whispering prayers and watching the shadows crawl across the yard. The nights felt endless.

On the fourth night, in the funeral tent, it was just me and Uncle Ray. He was dead drunk.

Uncle Ray had finished off half a bottle of whiskey before sundown, slumped in his lawn chair, boots propped on a cooler. His snores rattled the tent walls, mixing with the crickets, a dog barking somewhere far off, and the low hum of the highway. I sat on the edge of my seat, knees hugged to my chest, too scared to close my eyes.

That old, raspy voice was right behind me. I shivered, too scared to turn my head, terrified I’d see something I wasn’t supposed to.

The voice was so close, I could feel its breath tickle the back of my neck. My heart hammered, and my palms went slick with sweat. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting backward from ten like Mom used to tell me during thunderstorms. But the voice just kept going.

The funeral tent was set up in the little backyard where Grandpa and Grandma had lived, right on the edge of Maple Heights. At night, it was dead quiet.

You could hear a pin drop. The kind of quiet that made you hear things you’d rather not. The stars hung low over the trees, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and old grief. Every creak of the tent, every snap of a twig, made me jump. I wished I was anywhere else.

"Hungry... the old woman’s meat is tough, hard to chew. Mikey’s got plenty—cook him up."

The words slithered through the darkness, sticky and mean. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Uncle Ray’s snoring got even louder, like he was trying to drown out the voice, but it was no use. The words stuck to me like burrs.

Grandpa’s voice rang out again, echoing in my ears, louder than Uncle Ray’s snores.

It felt like the whole tent was closing in, squeezing me closer to the caskets. I tried to block out the sound, humming under my breath, but the voice just kept coming, relentless and hungry.

"No, fat people should be roasted, sizzling with grease—smells so good."

The way he said it, you’d think he was talking about Sunday cookouts, when everyone ended up sticky with sauce and laughter. But there was nothing friendly about this voice.

It was cold, greedy, and it made my skin crawl.

Mikey is Uncle Mike’s nickname. I stared stiffly at the dark casket, trying not to blink.

I didn’t dare blink. The casket’s surface shone in the candlelight, and I half-expected the lid to creak open, Grandpa sitting up with that hungry grin. I hugged myself tighter, wishing I was braver, or older, or anywhere but here.

I was there when they sealed the casket, watching Mr. Carter put Grandpa’s shriveled body inside with my own eyes.

He’d looked so small, almost like a child, dressed in his Sunday best. Mr. Carter worked quietly, tucking Grandpa in like he was just settling down for a nap. I tried to remember Grandpa’s laugh, the sound of his boots on the porch, but all I could see was the hollow space where he used to be.

Grandma’s casket was a bit smaller, sitting quietly under the funeral tent too.