Chapter 3: The Dead Return for Answers

His name was Derek Mason, a successful local business owner. He and his late wife, Lillian, had known each other for five years. They’d just recently gotten married, thinking their happy life was about to start. But only a few days later, Lillian was in a car accident.

In a place like Cedar Grove, everyone hears about tragedy before the ink’s dry on the police blotter. Derek’s name carried weight around town—a new restaurant, a string of rental properties. But heartbreak doesn’t care about your tax bracket.

It was a pickup truck—maybe she was in the driver’s blind spot. Lillian was swept under the vehicle, and when they pulled her out, half her head had been crushed.

Folks said the old Ford barely stopped before it barreled down Route 9. The papers ran her picture—a bright smile, newlywed glow, now frozen in time. There was a whole town mourning, but nobody more than Derek.

The driver, afraid of being held responsible, fled the scene and hasn’t been caught to this day.

The local news ran the story for a week. “Hit-and-run tragedy leaves family shattered.” Derek’s face was everywhere: somber, angry, lost. The cops had no leads. Some said it was a stranger passing through. Others whispered darker things about business rivals. In the end, the pain was the same.

A newlywed woman dying such an unnatural death—her anger must be immense.

In my experience, the dead don’t always leave peacefully when they’re taken before their time. And when the living can’t let go, that grief festers until it soaks into the walls.

Later, Derek arranged his wife’s funeral. According to her family’s traditions, she had to be buried in the ground. But on the day she was sent to the funeral home, something strange happened.

It’s not unusual for small-town families to have strong feelings about burial—no cremation, no fancy mausoleums. Lillian’s parents insisted on a simple pine plot at St. Augustine’s cemetery. Derek did everything by the book, or so he thought.

The casket was made of oak, and Lillian’s body lay inside. Yet six strong men couldn’t lift it at all.

The funeral director, an old friend of the family, swore the coffin hadn’t been tampered with. Pallbearers grunted and sweated, but the thing wouldn’t budge—not an inch.

The funeral workers immediately understood: her anger hadn’t faded—she refused to rest in peace.

The whispers started almost immediately—"the body’s too heavy, the soul’s still here." People crossed themselves, murmured prayers. It was the kind of story that spreads like wildfire at every diner counter in town.

They asked Derek what he wanted to do. If they forced the casket away with a machine, it could be moved, but it might anger the dead and bring more misfortune.

A couple of the guys offered to go get the backhoe. Others wanted to just wait it out. The funeral director pulled Derek aside and spoke in low tones about respect, tradition, and not tempting fate.

Or, they suggested, let it rest for now and invite someone to perform a blessing first.

One of the groundskeepers—a superstitious old man named Rudy—suggested calling in a local priest, or maybe one of the traveling preachers who dealt with restless spirits. In a place like this, even the skeptics get nervous when a casket won’t budge.

At the time, Derek didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. He thought these people were just trying to squeeze more money out of him. Not wanting to cause trouble on such a day, he had the casket forcibly moved.

Derek said he didn’t want to look like a fool in front of his in-laws, so he told them to get on with it—get the job done. He wrote a check, waved the funeral workers off, and tried to put it out of his mind. But he never really did.

After that, Derek dreamed of his buried wife every night.

It started the night after the burial. He’d drift off, only to jolt awake drenched in sweat. The bedroom felt colder, and he kept hearing footsteps in the hallway that stopped just outside his door.

In his dreams, Lillian’s face was unrecognizable. She wore the same white dress from the day of the accident, stained with blood, and just stood at the door of Derek’s bedroom—never speaking, just staring at him.

He said he’d see her pale hand pressed against the glass, her hair tangled and dripping, eyes hollow. She never called out. She just waited, patient and silent, until he woke up gasping for air.

After several days, Derek’s nerves started to fray. He didn’t understand why Lillian would appear in his dreams in such a ruined state.

He’d started leaving the TV on all night, just for some company, but nothing helped. The shadows in the house seemed to grow longer, and he’d find himself talking to Lillian’s picture like she might answer back.

He asked me, “Does Lillian bear a grudge against me?”

His voice cracked, and his hands twisted the wedding band like he might snap it in two. I could feel his desperation, the kind that settles in your chest and won’t let go.

“The one who hurt her is still out there. She can’t rest. And at a time like this, you forced her burial, so of course she’s upset.”

I watched him flinch, but it was the truth. Sometimes the dead are more honest than the living. If Lillian’s spirit was still here, it was because she needed something unfinished settled first.

“But this isn’t hard to fix. But when I calculated just now, your wife has been gone for over twenty days. Why are you only coming now?”

I leaned in, my voice gentler now. "Most folks come right away. Why’d you wait this long?"

Derek said he’d already hired several so-called mediums, who performed blessings at his home for three days straight. In the end, they claimed Lillian’s spirit had been released and would no longer trouble him.

He’d searched online, scrolled through late-night TV commercials, called anyone who promised relief for a fee. He said they brought bells, incense, and holy water, chanting until dawn. One even sprayed lavender oil on every doorknob.

That night, Derek really did sleep soundly—no dreams. But the next morning, he suddenly smelled a rotting stench in his room.

He said it was thick—like something dead was caught under the floorboards. He tried to air the place out, but nothing worked.

He woke up groggy, sniffed again, and realized the smell was coming from right beside him.

His stomach turned. He remembered wishing it was just a mouse or some old food, but the truth was much, much worse.

He rolled over and bumped into something. Looking closely, it was his already-buried wife, Lillian.

She lay there, silent, eyes wide open and staring straight ahead. He said he froze, every muscle locked in terror.

Derek was so terrified he couldn’t make a sound. By then, Lillian no longer had her former beauty. Her head had been damaged in the accident, and at the funeral home, the mortician had filled it with plaster.

He described how the left side of her face was caved in, patched crudely with something gray and powdery. Her mouth twisted, half-smiling, half-snarling.

So, lying next to Derek, Lillian’s face was half her own, half made of plaster.

He said the two halves didn’t fit together, and when she turned to look at him, her hair spilled out like riverweed. There was no mistaking her, even after death. She’d come home, just like she promised she would.