Chapter 1: The Stranger at the Reception

When I was a kid, a man walked into our family store. Grandpa Joe grinned at him from behind the counter and said, “Sorry, buddy, we’re hosting a wedding reception today—every seat’s taken.”

The shop always smelled like fresh coffee and baking bread, a Main Street classic—half grocery, half diner, with a neon Budweiser sign buzzing above the counter and a stack of church bulletins by the register. Grandpa, in his flannel, hustled between tables draped in white-and-blue streamers. He made everyone feel at home, even when he was turning someone away. Laughter spilled from the back where an old boom box played country hits, and for a moment, it felt like nothing bad could ever happen here.

The man’s voice was low, uneasy: “There’s a corpse bride in this store.”

He almost got lost in the chatter, but something in his tone made folks at the tables look over, unease flickering in their eyes. The air thickened, as if a cold draft had slipped in through the battered front door.

Grandpa Joe paused mid-step, then said, “How could there be a corpse bride in broad daylight? Everyone here’s from our town—I know every face. No strangers among us.”

He scanned the crowd—cousins, friends, church regulars, neighbors. You could draw a family tree from this guest list. He didn’t miss a beat, standing as solid as a man who’d run this store longer than most folks had been alive.

As soon as Grandpa finished, the man’s eyes locked on the bride.

The bride sat quietly in the corner, her head veiled in deep red.

The red veil was out of place—around here, brides wore white or maybe a hint of pastel. The crimson was a jolt in a room of white balloons and baby’s breath, theatrical as a Southern gothic. The bride hadn’t shifted once—not to sip punch, not to fix her veil. Even her chest barely moved.

Grandpa dropped his voice, jaw tight. “Listen, son, this is a big day—don’t start any trouble. Everyone here’s connected. Best you just move along.”

His tone stayed polite, but you could hear the steel underneath. In a place like this, news traveled fast, and Grandpa Joe wouldn’t let a stranger spoil the biggest day the store had seen in years.

The man’s nerves showed. “Sir, I’m not trying to start trouble. There really is a corpse bride here. The undead can’t stand sunlight. As long as it’s bright, I can handle her. But when night falls, everyone in town will die.”

He sounded heartbreakingly sincere. No wild eyes, no twitching hands—just quiet, desperate honesty. Some of the old-timers leaned in, frowning. Folks here didn’t put much faith in ghost stories, but everyone had heard the legends—especially after a few too many at the VFW.

He sounded so sure, you almost wanted to believe him.

Grandpa hesitated, then said, “Alright, you can look around—but don’t bother the guests. It’s a wedding day.”

His tone was steady, but tension crept in. He nodded at a few regulars to keep watch, the kind of second chance he believed in—unless it threatened his family.

The man nodded and circled the store twice.

His boots thumped on worn linoleum as he moved past the cake table, eyes scanning every face. People watched, some whispering behind their hands. Outside, the American flag by the post office fluttered in the breeze, sunlight slicing through dust motes in the air.

Grandpa whispered, “Well, did you find the corpse bride?”

The man shook his head. “No.”

Grandpa let out a long breath and smiled. “See? Told you—no corpse bride in broad daylight.”

He laughed, trying to warm up the room, patting a groomsman’s shoulder. The tension eased, melting away like frost in spring.

But then the man asked, “Sir, how did the bride come into the store?”

Grandpa frowned. “Usually, the groom carries the bride in—her feet never touch the ground. But Jason threw out his back, so four young guys carried her in.”

The crowd chuckled. Jason’s back was famous for failing at the worst times. Carrying the bride was tradition, but folks here always found a workaround.

The man’s face darkened. “It takes four men to carry a bride? She must be heavy.”

He stared hard at the bride.

Grandpa’s voice sharpened. “What are you getting at?”

The room went taut, everyone waiting for the next shoe to drop.

The man whispered, “I think... the bride is the corpse bride.”

Grandpa burst out laughing. “Kid, I saw a real corpse bride when I was young. They’re mindless—see a living person, they pounce to drink blood. How could one just sit there, quiet as a church mouse?”

The laughter was too loud, bouncing off the tin ceiling. Grandpa shot a reassuring look to the family, trying to smother the uneasy murmurs at the back table.

The man’s gaze didn’t budge from the bride. “What if there’s a charm stuck to her forehead?”

At those words, Grandpa’s eyes widened. He glanced at a faded family photo behind the counter, then slipped his hand into his pocket, rubbing the lucky coin he’d carried since the war. Panic flickered across his face. His voice trembled. “No way... right? We’re all from this town. If there really was a corpse bride, none of us would get out alive.”

His hands shook, just a little. Even the toughest men in town had superstitions they never spoke of, especially on nights when the wind howled. Grandpa’s mind flashed to stories his own father had told him by the woodstove—tales he’d never really believed, until now.

The man said nothing, just kept squinting at the bride as he walked toward her.

He got within a few feet before Jason blocked his way.

Jason, tipsy and swaying, squared up. “Who the hell are you? I’ve seen you pacing around, staring at my wife. You trying to steal the bride?”

Jason’s words were thick with beer and bravado, his bow tie crooked. His buddies from the auto shop and a couple cousins stood, chairs scraping. The mood simmered, ready to boil over.

At his words, everyone at the table stood, ready to jump in.

The man didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to steal the bride. There’s a corpse bride in the store—I think it’s the bride.”

His words hit hard. The store went silent except for the whirr of the old fridge.

Jason jabbed a finger at him. “You’re nuts! My wife’s not a corpse—get out before I make you.”

Someone at the next table muttered, “Always some nut at a wedding,” and a few folks laughed nervously. But the mood had shifted—this was real now.