Chapter 3: A Town on Edge

Jason didn’t answer, lips curled in a sneer.

Mr. Daniels, at the head table, said coldly, “Son, the rules are clear—the veil can’t be lifted now, it’s bad luck. But since you say there’s a corpse bride here, for everyone’s safety, I’ll make an exception. If she’s a corpse bride, you’re the hero. If not, you’ll leave both hands behind before you go.”

His voice rang out, hard as hickory. Nobody doubted he meant it—Daniels once chased a burglar out with nothing but a tire iron and a bad temper.

He looked at Jason. “Jason, lift your wife’s veil.”

A hush dropped over the store—you could hear the rain start, tapping the tin roof.

Before Jason could speak, Grandpa piped up, “Daniels, he’s just an outsider who doesn’t know our ways. Today’s a happy day—don’t take it to heart.”

Grandpa’s voice was softer, almost pleading. He looked at Daniels with the weary eyes of someone who’d seen too much loss.

Mr. Daniels snorted. “I want to see if this punk is really here to cause trouble. Jason, lift the veil.”

He nodded, arms folded. The other councilmen at the back straightened up, ready for whatever came next.

Thunder rattled the store, making my teeth buzz.

Everyone froze, staring at the windows.

The sky had turned charcoal in minutes. Lightning lit up the American flag outside and rain poured off the eaves. The old store felt suddenly fragile, like something enormous was pressing in.

In a blink, the clouds pressed low, rain sheeting down. A cold wind swept through, sending chills through the room.

The air smelled sharp and electric, the way it does before a tornado. Folks clutched their coffee cups tighter, eyes darting for comfort.

A wave of dread washed over me, like something terrible was about to happen.

Goosebumps prickled my arms. Even the kids in the corner stopped their games and stared, wide-eyed.

Grandpa tried to smile. “Daniels, blood on a wedding day is bad luck. Let’s have the bride speak. If she can talk, she’s not a corpse bride.”

He was trying to steer the room back to reason, his voice catching at the end. He looked at the man, searching for a nod.

A bolt of lightning split the sky, blinding. It lit up the bride’s white dress, the red veil glowing like a shroud.

For a second, I thought I saw something move under the veil—just a flicker. I squeezed Grandpa’s arm, feeling his pulse race.

I ducked behind Grandpa, clutching his arm.

My heart hammered, like it did during tornado drills at school. I pressed my face into his flannel, the smell of soap and aftershave grounding me.

Mr. Daniels grunted. “Fine idea.”

He nodded, giving the go-ahead.

Grandpa turned to the man. “Son, corpse brides can’t speak. You agree?”

The man nodded. “I agree.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes never left the bride. Sweat beaded at his temples, shining in the storm light.

Grandpa nodded. “Jason, have your wife say something.”

Jason walked to the bride, trying to sound cheerful. “Hey, honey, say something.”

He forced a grin, but his voice shook. The crowd held its breath.

Thunder boomed again, shaking the walls. The lights flickered, buzzing with a harsh zzzzz.

The old store lights, strung since the seventies, flashed on and off, casting weird shadows. Someone yelped, the sound slicing the tension.

Everyone stared up at the ceiling.

The only sound was rain hammering the windows, and the hum of the dying light.

Grandpa forced a laugh. “Just the rain—wiring’s old.”

His voice was thin, like someone whistling in the dark. He fiddled with the switch behind the counter, as if he could will the lights to hold.

The flicker made Grandpa’s face look twisted and strange.

For a moment, he looked older than I’d ever seen—gaunt, haunted, his eyes full of memories he’d never share.

Mr. Daniels barked, “You run a store—stop being so cheap. Fix the wiring.”

A couple folks snorted with laughter, grateful for the distraction, but the humor faded quick.

The wires overhead had been put in when my uncle was alive. Grandpa never wanted to change them, always feeling like his son was still watching over us.

He’d told me once, late at night, as long as those wires hummed, it felt like his son was still there. Now, that comfort seemed to flicker away with every flash.

Grandpa smiled. “I’ll fix them soon.”

He tried to sound reassuring, but his hands shook as he shoved them in his pockets.

As soon as he finished, the lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room, just enough light to see faces.

In the dark, someone’s phone glowed, casting weird blue shadows. The rain sounded louder than ever, drumming the roof like a thousand fists.

Everyone looked up at the dead bulb.

A hush fell, the kind you get at funerals or when the power fails in a storm.

Then, Rachel’s voice rang out: “Jason.”

She sounded just like usual.