Chapter 6: The Standing Corpse

Drip. Drip. Drip. It felt like water was dripping right onto my face. I shrank under the covers, afraid to open my eyes.

The sound was soft at first, almost like rain on the roof, but it grew louder, closer. My skin prickled, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it to stop. The smell of rotten fish was stronger now, suffocating. I held my breath, too scared to move.

A voice, low and urgent, cut through the darkness. “Mason, Mason.”

It sounded like my mother, but there was something off about it, something strained. I curled into a ball, wishing I could disappear into the mattress.

My mom shook me awake. Her hands were cold. “Wake up. Your Uncle Wayne is in trouble—we have to go.”

Her hands were cold and frantic, shaking me harder than usual. The room spun as I sat up, blinking in the dim light. The stench was overwhelming, making my eyes water. I glanced at the clock—it was barely past midnight. Something was wrong, I could feel it in my bones.

“Mom, I smell it again—the rotten fish smell. Like from that rice-borrowing guy.”

I clung to her arm, my voice trembling. She brushed my hair back, trying to smile, but her eyes were wild with fear. "It’s just a nightmare, honey," she whispered, but I could tell she didn’t believe it.

She rushed around, grabbing my sneakers. Voices shouted from downstairs. “You just had a nightmare. Hurry, your Uncle Wayne is in bad shape. Mrs. Ramsey told us all to go.” My mom didn’t care about what I said, quickly helping me find my sneakers.

She rushed around the room, grabbing my shoes and jacket, barely pausing to check if I was dressed right. Her hands shook as she tied my laces, and I could hear voices shouting from downstairs. The whole house felt on edge, like a rubber band stretched too tight.

The sight hit me like a punch. He was slumped over the kitchen counter. Uncle Wayne was dead, his head inside Grandma Carol’s rice jar.

The grown-ups crowded around, their faces twisted in horror. I pressed myself against the wall, trying not to look, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

The jar had been almost empty. Now, it was overflowing.

I thought back to the night Grandma disappeared—the jar had been nearly empty. Now, it was overflowing, grains sticking to the blood and glass. The sight made my stomach lurch, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

The image burned itself into my mind—red and white, blood and rice. Through the gaps between the adults, I sneaked a peek. The rice jar was full of blood, bright red grains of rice stuck all over Uncle Wayne’s head.

Aunt Linda had fainted, Aunt Susan was leaning against the wall vomiting, and Uncle Travis was squatting by the door, chain-smoking. The house was chaos—people crying, shouting, running in circles.

Mrs. Ramsey’s line cut through the noise: “Rice is life. Your mother probably wants to come back.”

Her voice was calm and steady. She stood in the doorway, her face pale but resolute. "The rice is her anchor. She’s not done yet." The words sent a chill through the room, and everyone fell silent, waiting for her to explain.

A standing corpse turns into an evil spirit. Nail the body down. Hurry. “A standing corpse turns into an evil spirit. Nail the body down, and hurry up and fish out the corpse. If you don’t nail the body for seven days, the whole family will die!”

Her words were sharp, urgent. "You’ve got to act fast. Seven days, that’s all you get. After that, it’s too late." The adults nodded, fear etched on their faces. I didn’t understand it all, but I knew we were running out of time.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. The spirit was feeding on our pain. Mrs. Ramsey said Grandma Carol’s evil spirit would only get stronger day by day. Before, it just hurt family members—now it had killed Uncle Wayne.

She explained in a low voice, almost a whisper, that the spirit fed on the family’s pain, growing stronger with every tragedy. Uncle Wayne was just the beginning. If we didn’t stop it, none of us would be safe. The thought made my skin crawl, and I clung to my mother, desperate for comfort.

His voice was barely more than a croak. But he stood up, determination in his eyes. Uncle Travis’s face was pale. “I’ll go to town to rent a pump at dawn.”

Aunt Linda and Aunt Susan also recovered. “We’ll pool the money.” They dug through purses and wallets, counting out crumpled bills.

They dug through purses and wallets, counting out crumpled bills and loose change. Every dollar felt like a lifeline. The tension eased just a little, replaced by grim resolve. We had a plan, however desperate.

Rent more pumps. Drain the water before noon. Or someone else will die. “Rent more pumps. Drain the water before noon, or someone else will die tonight. I’ll go get some things ready.” With that, Mrs. Ramsey left.

She moved with purpose, her steps quick and sure. The rest of us watched her go, hope flickering in our eyes. Maybe, just maybe, we could end this nightmare before it claimed anyone else.

When Grandma finally appeared, it was like something out of a bad dream. So, on the fifth day after Grandma Carol disappeared, she slowly emerged as the machines roared.

The pumps thundered all morning, sending muddy water gushing into the river. The pond shrank, its secrets exposed inch by inch. The sun beat down, sweat running down our faces as we waited. When Grandma finally appeared, standing in the muck, it was like something out of a bad dream.

Her dress was bright and cheerful, but soaked through. The colors were faded by mud and water. The water was pumped into the big river nearby. Grandma Carol stood motionless in the center of the pond, still wearing the new floral dress we’d bought her for her birthday.

Her dress was bright and cheerful, covered in little daisies and sunflowers. It clung to her body, soaked through, the colors faded by mud and water. She looked almost peaceful, except for her eyes—wide open, staring at nothing. The sight made my heart ache, and I bit my lip to keep from crying.

He fumbled with matches. The wick sputtered, refusing to catch. The body retriever stepped forward, trying to light a candle to guide the body ashore. But in the scorching summer, after several tries, he still couldn’t get the candle to light.

He fumbled with matches, sweat dripping down his face. The wick sputtered, refusing to catch, as if the air itself didn’t want to help. The townsfolk murmured, exchanging nervous glances. Mrs. Ramsey watched in silence, her jaw clenched tight.

She turned to me, her eyes searching my face. Mrs. Ramsey stood by the pond, her face more serious than ever. “Mason, did you really see the rice-borrowing person?”

I froze, then nodded hard. “I saw him—he was carrying a bucket.” The memory flashed in my mind. The stranger’s wet shoes. The bucket.

Her voice was gentle. I hesitated. Mrs. Ramsey sighed. “What was in the bucket?”

There were snails. The words just slipped out. “There were snails.” The words just slipped out, and I froze. How did I know there were snails?

I stared at my hands, confused. I hadn’t seen inside the bucket, but somehow I knew. The adults exchanged uneasy glances, and Mrs. Ramsey’s eyes narrowed just a bit. The air seemed to crackle with something unseen.

They worked together, ropes and boards creaking. Mrs. Ramsey didn’t ask further, because the body retriever had called his boss, and finally managed to bring Grandma Carol’s body ashore.

They worked together, ropes and boards creaking as they dragged her to the bank. The process was slow, careful, almost reverent. The crowd watched in silence, hats in hand, faces pale. When she finally lay on the grass, the sun glinted off her wet hair, and I felt a lump rise in my throat.

I crept closer, peering at her bare feet. I looked around Grandma’s feet out of curiosity, but didn’t see any nails. Why did Mrs. Ramsey say Grandma was nailed to the bottom of the pond?

There were no marks, no wounds, nothing to suggest she’d been pinned down. I glanced at Mrs. Ramsey, hoping for an answer, but she just shook her head, her eyes distant.

The coffin was simple, lined with white fabric. Following Mrs. Ramsey’s instructions, everyone put Grandma’s body into the prepared coffin.

The coffin was simple, lined with white fabric and a spray of wildflowers. The grown-ups lifted her gently, careful not to disturb her dress. I stood back, watching, my heart pounding. It felt final, like closing the door on a chapter we could never reopen.

The sight was eerie—two coffins, side by side. Uncle Wayne’s coffin was also placed in the yard. Two black coffins lay side by side.

The neighbors gathered at the fence, whispering behind their hands. Aunt Susan wiped her eyes, her face pale and drawn. The whole yard felt heavy, like the air itself was mourning.

She worked quickly, her hands shaking as she looped the cords. Aunt Susan, following Mrs. Ramsey’s orders, tied a mouse, two rabbits, three roosters, and four black dogs next to the coffins.

The creatures squirmed and squeaked, their fear palpable. The townsfolk watched in uneasy silence, unsure whether to help or look away. The scene was surreal, like something out of an old folk tale.

The crowd pressed closer, curiosity outweighing fear. Some brave townsfolk gathered at the yard gate to watch. My mother shielded me behind her, standing in the corner.

Mom pulled me close, her arm a protective barrier. I peeked out from behind her, heart racing, not sure if I wanted to see what happened next.

Aunt Susan’s hands trembled as she worked. Mrs. Ramsey had Aunt Susan slit the throats of the mouse, rabbits, and so on, letting their blood flow.

Blood pooled on the grass, dark and sticky. The animals’ cries echoed in my ears, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the sight. The grown-ups whispered prayers, their voices shaky.

She dipped her fingers in the blood, tracing symbols. Mrs. Ramsey smeared the mixed blood on the outside of Grandma Carol’s coffin.

The smell was overpowering, metallic and raw. The crowd held its breath, watching her every move. I felt a shiver run down my spine, the ritual both terrifying and fascinating.

Her voice rose and fell, the words strange and haunting. She chanted, but I only caught a few scattered lines:

“One mouse goes, two rabbits die, three roosters crow, four dogs bark.”

The rhythm of her chant seemed to seep into the ground, making the air vibrate. I tried to memorize the words, but they slipped away like water through my fingers.

She hammered each nail with a force that belied her age. Finally, Mrs. Ramsey used a blood-smeared long nail to nail the animal corpses onto Grandma’s coffin.

The animals hung limp, their blood staining the wood. The sight was gruesome, but nobody dared look away. Mrs. Ramsey’s face was set, determined, as if she was fighting something only she could see.

The noise was relentless, each blow sending a jolt through my body. One strike after another, Mrs. Ramsey hammered with all her strength. The clang of metal echoed in my ears, making me uneasy.

I shook my head, and my mom reached out to touch me. Her hand was warm on my shoulder, grounding me. “Mason, what’s wrong?”

I shook my head again, unable to put my fear into words. She pulled me close, her heartbeat steady against my ear. I clung to her, wishing the nightmare would end.

She stroked my hair, whispering soothing words. Lying in my mother’s arms, I shook my head again.

I closed my eyes, letting her voice wash over me. For a moment, I almost felt safe.

Tyler moved slowly, his hands trembling. Mrs. Ramsey also had my cousin Tyler scatter rice into Uncle Wayne’s coffin.

The grains bounced off the wood, some sticking to the blood. The ritual felt strange, but nobody questioned it. We all watched in silence, waiting for something—anything—to change.

The whispers grew louder, spreading through the crowd. The townsfolk all whispered that the whole jar of rice was Uncle Wayne’s life, and that his life had been taken by Grandma’s ghost.

"He shouldn’t have touched the jar," someone muttered. "That rice was cursed." The words made my skin crawl, and I edged closer to my mother, desperate for comfort.

It’s done. Bury him tonight. Put Wayne beside your mother. “It’s done. Bury him tonight. Put Wayne beside your mother.”

Mrs. Ramsey wiped her brow, her voice weary. "Don’t wait till morning. Get it over with before the sun comes up." The grown-ups nodded, their faces grim. The sense of urgency was palpable, as if we were racing against something unseen.

Her hair stuck to her forehead, her clothes stained with blood. Mrs. Ramsey was drenched in sweat, as if she’d used up all her strength.

She leaned on her cane, breathing hard. Even the bravest among us looked at her with awe, realizing how much she’d risked for our family.

Her voice trembled, her worry plain. “Mrs. Ramsey, my husband died so horribly. Why do we have to bury him at night? What if it ruins my son’s luck?”

"It’s bad luck to bury at night. What if it follows Tyler?" The old traditions ran deep, and fear of bad luck was stronger than ever. The neighbors murmured in agreement, their eyes darting between the coffins and the darkening sky.

She crossed her arms, scowling at Mrs. Ramsey. Aunt Linda was unhappy, because in our area, burials usually happened at dawn after the rooster crowed.

"We always wait for sunrise. That’s how it’s done." The tension in the yard thickened, everyone waiting to see what Mrs. Ramsey would say.

Her words were sharp, cutting through the fear. Mrs. Ramsey sneered, “Luck? You should just be glad you’re still alive.”

"You want to talk about luck? Count your blessings you’re not in one of those boxes." Aunt Linda fell silent, her face pale. The rest of us shifted uncomfortably, unsure whose side to take.

Her face was pale. Uncle Travis glared gloomily at the neighbors. Aunt Susan stayed silent, her face pale. Uncle Travis glared gloomily at the neighbors. “Mrs. Ramsey, about my mother—can you tell who did this?”

His voice was low, almost a growl. He stared at Mrs. Ramsey, his eyes red-rimmed. The neighbors edged away, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. The question hung in the air, heavy with accusation.

Her words sent a ripple of fear through the crowd. “There’s a pile of snail shells at your mother’s feet. I’m afraid the person who came to borrow rice wasn’t human.” Mrs. Ramsey sighed, seemed to think of something, then shook her head.

"Not human?" someone whispered. Mrs. Ramsey looked tired, her eyes haunted. She glanced at me, then away, as if she didn’t want to say more. The silence stretched, heavy and ominous.

She looked at me, her eyes pleading for answers. “That rice-borrowing person?” Aunt Susan turned to me. “Only Wayne and Mason saw him.”

I shrank back, not sure what to say. The grown-ups waited, their faces tense. I wished I could disappear, to escape the weight of their expectations.

She pulled me close, her arm a barrier. My mom shielded me. “Mason didn’t see his face clearly.”

Her voice was firm, protective. The others backed off, grumbling, but nobody pressed further. I breathed a little easier, grateful for her defense.

She moved slowly, her limp more pronounced. Even though Aunt Linda was unhappy, she still followed Mrs. Ramsey’s instructions to prepare the burial.

The rest of the family worked in silence, digging graves, arranging flowers, lighting candles. The air was thick with grief and fear, but we pressed on, determined to finish before nightfall.

The weight of it all pressed down on us—two deaths, a family in ruins. Grandma Carol died a violent death and brought evil. Uncle Wayne died horribly in the rice jar, and Uncle Travis had to spend money to find people to carry the coffins.

Uncle Travis grumbled as he handed over bills to the grave diggers, his face set in a scowl. The neighbors watched from a distance, whispering about curses and bad omens.

The men grunted and strained, but the coffin wouldn’t budge. But at the time Mrs. Ramsey had calculated, even twelve strong men couldn’t lift Grandma’s coffin.

Sweat poured down their faces, but the coffin wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had grown roots, anchoring itself to the earth. The crowd murmured, fear rising. Mrs. Ramsey frowned, her eyes darting between the coffin and the pond.

She knelt by the coffin, pressing her hand to the wood. Mrs. Ramsey went to check. Under the porch light, she saw water slowly seeping out of the coffin, and the yard was filled with the thick stench of rotten fish.

Water oozed from the seams, pooling around her fingers. The smell hit us all at once—overpowering, nauseating. People covered their noses, backing away. Mrs. Ramsey’s face turned grim, her jaw set in determination.

She stood up abruptly, her cane clattering against the porch. Mrs. Ramsey’s face changed drastically. She hurried toward the town pond.

"Come on!" she shouted, and everyone scrambled to follow. The urgency in her voice was unmistakable, and fear drove us forward, stumbling through the dark.

The crowd moved as one, a wave of panic and dread. Even without knowing the details, everyone sensed something terrible had happened and followed her to the pond.

Flashlights bobbed in the darkness, illuminating the path. The cicadas were louder than ever, their song rising to a fever pitch. I clung to my mother’s hand, heart pounding.

The moonlight danced on the water, casting silver shadows. On a summer night, with cicadas chirping and the moon shining, the pond surrounded by oak trees seemed a little less frightening.

The oak trees rustled in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets. For a moment, the beauty of the night almost made me forget why we were there.

There, in the shallow water, stood Grandma Carol, her eyes wide open. But when everyone saw the center of the pond, they backed away in panic.

The sight was so shocking that people screamed, stumbling back, tripping over roots and each other. The air was thick with fear, the pond no longer a place of childhood games but a stage for something unspeakable.

The mud sucked at our shoes, the water cold against our skin. The pond, drained earlier that day, had water only up to an adult’s calf.

The pond was almost empty, but its secrets were still hidden beneath the surface. The sight of Grandma standing there, unmoving, made my blood run cold.

She looked otherworldly, her dress clinging to her body. In the cold moonlight, Grandma Carol—who should have been in her coffin—stood in the middle of the pond, eyes wide open, motionless.

Her dress clung to her body, hair plastered to her cheeks. Her eyes glinted in the moonlight, unblinking. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the pumps and the frantic breathing of the crowd.

She gripped her cane with white knuckles, her face pale. Mrs. Ramsey was clearly frightened too, stepping back several times before steadying herself.

For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes—a deep, bone-chilling terror. But she stood her ground, refusing to turn away. The rest of us huddled together, waiting for her to act.

Her voice trembled, barely more than a whisper. “She’s turned into an evil spirit. She’s become an evil spirit.”

The words sent a wave of panic through the crowd. People crossed themselves, muttering prayers. Aunt Linda clung to Aunt Susan, both of them sobbing softly. The world felt like it was coming apart at the seams.

His face was twisted with rage, eyes wild. Uncle Travis, furious, grabbed a hatchet and waded into the water toward Grandma. “Damn it, I’m going all out! I’ll chop you up—let’s see how you kill me!”

He splashed through the water, swinging the hatchet over his head. The rest of us shouted for him to stop, but he ignored us, driven by grief and anger. The moonlight glinted off the blade, casting strange shadows on the water.

She called his name, her voice desperate. Mrs. Ramsey tried to stop him, but Uncle Travis just glanced back, his bloodshot eyes startling us all.

He turned to look at her, his eyes red and hollow, and for a moment, it was like he didn’t recognize any of us. The fear in the air was suffocating, pressing down on us like a weight.

He stumbled, his steps growing sluggish. But as Uncle Travis approached Grandma, his movements slowed strangely, and he dropped the hatchet.

The hatchet slipped from his hand, splashing into the mud. He stared at Grandma, his face blank, and I felt a chill run down my spine. Something was very wrong.

He knelt, bowing his head until it was submerged. Before anyone could react, he actually lowered his head into the water at Grandma’s feet.

The water rippled around him, and for a moment, everything was still. The crowd gasped, frozen in shock. I clung to my mother, unable to look away.

She sobbed, grabbing Mrs. Ramsey’s sleeve. “Save my brother, Mrs. Ramsey, save him!” Aunt Susan pleaded, shaking Mrs. Ramsey’s arm.

The rest of us watched, helpless, as Travis remained motionless, his head underwater. The fear in the air was suffocating, pressing down on us like a heavy blanket.

The cries echoed across the pond, but Travis didn’t move. “Travis, lift your head! Lift your head!”

The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of cicadas. I squeezed my mother’s hand, praying for a miracle.

It didn’t make sense—he could have stood up at any time. But no one dared to go over. Everyone watched as Uncle Travis drowned, head down, in water that barely reached his calves.

The crowd watched in horror, too afraid to intervene. The pond, once a place of laughter and games, was now a place of death.

We stood in silence, the weight of what we’d witnessed pressing down on us. Aunt Susan’s cries echoed in the night, and the rest of us just stared at the water, unable to process what had happened. The moon shone down, cold and indifferent, as another member of our family slipped away.