Chapter 2: Accusations and Old Wounds

Jason was about to swing, but Grandpa Joe squeezed through the crowd, working his best peacekeeper smile. “Jason, it’s your wedding—don’t let things get ugly. Bad luck.”

Grandpa’s steady hand landed on Jason’s shoulder, the same way he’d break up Little League fights at the Fourth of July picnic. The smell of fried chicken and coleslaw hung in the air, somehow making the tension even more out of place.

Jason snorted. “Uncle Joe, I’m having my reception here because we’re locals. Why let any random guy in? Just asking for trouble.”

He glared at Grandpa, frustration bubbling up. His buddies crossed their arms, ready to back him.

Grandpa tried to laugh it off. “He means well. If there really were a corpse bride, we’d all be in danger.”

But his eyes flicked around the room, measuring every face for a hint of trouble. He knew how fast a story like this could get out of hand.

Jason curled his lip. “There’s no drought or anything—how could there be a corpse bride? He’s a scammer. Get him out.”

He shot the man a look full of contempt, jaw set. Some guests murmured their agreement, eager for things to get back to normal.

Grandpa nodded, apologetic. “Alright, alright, I’ll walk him out.”

He tried to usher the man to the door, but the man just stared at the bride, refusing to move.

Jason shoved him. “Look again and I’ll knock your teeth out!”

The man glared right back. “I followed my compass here. There’s a corpse bride inside. While it’s light, I can destroy her. But when night falls, everyone within fifty miles is dead.”

His voice was flat, cold. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Some older folks crossed themselves, whispering old prayers.

Jason spat. “Quit scaring people! Even if there was a corpse bride, it can’t be my wife. She was with people from the minute she left her family. How could she be a corpse?”

He looked for support among his friends. His mom at the front table just twisted her napkin, eyes down.

The man snapped, “I checked everyone in the store. All living, except the bride under the red veil. I can’t see her face. If I’m right, she’s the corpse bride—quiet now because of the charm. But at night, it won’t hold. Then, nobody survives.”

The old-timers always said: when a corpse bride comes, she drinks blood, and for fifty miles, no one makes it out alive.

The memory of those stories clung to the air. Even the bravest men in town never laughed them off all the way.

As soon as the man finished, Jason stomped and roared, “You damn lunatic! Keep talking and I’ll shut you up!”

He lunged, but Grandpa blocked him. “Jason, calm down! It’s your big day—no fighting!”

Grandpa’s voice sliced through the tension, the kind that settled more bar fights than you could count. He shot Jason a look that meant business.

Jason slammed the table, pointing at the man. “He’s the problem! He’s bad news.”

A hush fell, everyone waiting.

Grandpa turned to the man. “Listen, son, town tradition says the veil can only be lifted in the bridal suite. Wanting to see the bride now is out of line.”

The whole room nodded. Around here, traditions were law. You didn’t cross certain lines at a wedding.

The man frowned. “But if we wait until dark, it’ll be too late.”

His voice was desperate, pleading with anyone to listen.

Jason sneered, “Too late for what? You’re just here to stir things up. Are you the guy Rachel dated back in college?”

The crowd shifted, gossip bubbling to the surface.

Rachel was the college girl of our town, always away at school. Word was, she’d dated someone there. Jason insisted on marrying her, and her family didn’t dare refuse. In the end, Rachel married Jason.

The air thickened. Folks glanced around, old rumors flickering in their eyes.

The man’s face hardened. “I’m not. Stop making stuff up.”

He looked like he’d heard this before, fists clenching at his sides.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Rachel’s my wife now. Some people tried to compete for her, but none of them lasted. You’re an outsider. Best get lost while you can.”

His words were a warning—a threat you could feel. In a town like ours, outsiders got no favors, not from someone like Jason.

At that, Mr. Daniels, the town council head, glared at Jason. “You animal! A couple drinks and you start spouting garbage. Run your mouth again and I’ll put you in your place.”

Mr. Daniels had been mayor, postmaster, Little League umpire. His word was law. His glare could shut up the rowdiest drunk at the Elk’s Lodge. Folks straightened in their seats, reminded who ran things here.

There were rumors in town: when my younger uncle was alive, he and Rachel were close—planning to apply to the same college. Both got in, but the day before my uncle was to leave, he was found dead in the woods behind town. Seventy stab wounds. His privates cut off.

That story was a shadow—never spoken above a whisper. The details never changed. People still lit candles by the woods on the anniversary, and some said you could hear crying at night if you listened close. The pain in the room was sudden, raw, and old.