Chapter 2: The Funeral Scheme

She barked orders from the hallway, her voice echoing down the linoleum. “Hurry up! Don’t embarrass me in front of our guests.” I shoved the rag under the sink, heart pounding.

She’d hired an old preacher for the funeral, wanting to give my sister a grand send-off.

He showed up in a battered Ford, collar crooked, smelling of mothballs and cheap aftershave. His eyes flickered with suspicion as he glanced around our shabby living room.

He asked, “How old was she?”

His voice was soft, almost afraid of the answer—like youth was an offense to God in this place.

Mom replied, “In her twenties.”

She said it quick, as if age was an inconvenience. Her voice was tight, brittle.

The preacher’s eyes widened. “Dying in your twenties is unnatural. How could you hold a big funeral for that?”

He shook his head, almost backing out the door. “That’s not right,” he muttered. “You can’t celebrate a tragedy. It’s not how it’s done.”

I knew this too. Big funerals are for peaceful deaths, celebrating a long life. Unnatural deaths stay quiet. Who’d celebrate someone dying young?

In our town, big send-offs were for folks who made it to eighty—after a Sunday potluck, not a midnight tragedy. We all knew, even if we never said it out loud.

But Mom didn’t care. All that mattered was the money. She said eagerly, “I’ll give you two hundred more.”

She waved bills like they could erase the shame. Money always talked for her, even when decency should have had the last word.

The preacher shook his head again and again, saying a big funeral for an unnatural death would bring disaster. He wouldn’t do it for any price.

He pulled his jacket tighter, muttering about omens and angry spirits. “Some things aren’t meant for show,” he insisted. “Not for any price.”

He turned to leave. Mom’s anger shook her whole body as she screamed at him for being heartless, swearing she’d just do it herself.

Her voice rose into a shrill screech, chasing him down the steps. “You’ll see! I’ll handle it myself and keep my money!”

The preacher stopped and snapped, "You think you can just say any old prayer? You screw this up, and she’ll come back madder than hell. You’ll bring disaster on yourself!"

He jabbed a finger at the house, his voice shaking. “Don’t think you can cheat death like you cheat your neighbors.”

He stormed off, but Mom just grumbled about ungrateful preachers and greedy mourners. “Why pay a dime when you can do it yourself?” she muttered, plotting her next move.

Inside, she suddenly lost it and slapped me hard across the face.

The slap echoed in the cramped kitchen, burning my cheek. For a second, I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth.

I was stunned. She pointed at the wall, yelling, “Didn’t I tell you to clean it thoroughly?”

She jabbed a finger at the wall, eyes wild, as if the stains were an act of rebellion.

I was dumbfounded. The wall was covered in bloody handprints. But I’d just scrubbed it clean.

I stared at my hands, red and raw from bleach. The wall was spotless—wasn’t it?

I reached out, and my hand came away slick with bright, wet blood.

It was sticky, warm, fresh—impossible. I stumbled back, breath coming in short gasps.

My sister’s blood should have dried long ago. Even if I’d used water, it couldn’t be this thick.

It was as if the wall itself was bleeding, oozing crimson that dripped onto my sneakers. The metallic scent filled the room, sharper than before.

I gagged, eyes watering. The air felt thick, almost syrupy. Goosebumps prickled up my arms as I wiped my hand on my jeans.

Mom sat nearby, nagging me to hurry while staring at her phone.

She hardly looked up, her thumbs flying. Her voice was just background noise, more focused on her screen than me.

I glanced at her phone. She was on a money transfer page.

I caught a flash of numbers—an app with green and white buttons, the faint whir of notifications.

I asked, “Who are you sending money to? Where’d you get the money?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but my heart pounded. “Are you really wiring more?”

She said, “The dowry.”

She barely looked up, as if that explained everything.

I was shocked. “My sister’s gone now. Shouldn’t you return the dowry?”

My voice cracked, disbelief and anger mixing in my gut. I stared, waiting for an answer that made sense.

She said casually, “You don’t understand. This is the man who helped me get rich before. I just wired the dowry to him. He said he can help me unfreeze the funds and get back all the money I lost.”

Her eyes were wild with hope, like every loss was just a step to this final, miraculous payout. She clung to the lie, wrapping herself in it.

I was completely stunned.

My thoughts spun. How many times could you fall for the same trick before you stopped believing in miracles?

Scammers are impossible to catch, yet she found the same one again.

I wanted to laugh and cry at once. Was it stubbornness, or just a desperate need to believe?

She injected her own daughter for a dowry, just to unfreeze the old funds. She still wanted to prove it wasn’t her fault—it was us.

She was chasing a fantasy, one that made everyone else pay the price. I realized she’d watch the world burn before admitting she was wrong.

Looking at my sister’s body, I felt a bitter irony.

The room felt colder, shadows heavier. I wondered if my sister, in some twisted way, was better off than us left behind.

My sister did everything to protect us, but Mom still saw her as a curse.

That’s the cruelest truth—no matter what my sister did, Mom only saw loss and blame. No redemption, no way to prove yourself worthy.

I asked, “Did you transfer all of it? What if they ask for more?”

My words tumbled out, fear and disbelief choking me. I wanted to scream, to shake her until she woke up.

She said impatiently, “After tonight, when my funds come in, I’ll be richer than him. I’ll be a millionaire soon. Why should I be afraid of him?”

She smiled at her reflection in the screen, as if she could already feel the money in her hands. Nothing—not loss, not blood, not death—could shake her faith in the next miracle.

I walked out nervously. Mom called after me, “Where are you going?”

Her voice was sharp but distracted. She barely turned her head.

I stammered that I was getting water for the wall, but really, I was planning to run.

I grabbed my old backpack, stuffed in a clean T-shirt, a battered wallet, and a half-empty bag of trail mix. My heart hammered as I slipped out the back door, careful not to make a sound.

In our corner of Ohio, if you have money, you can do anything. The law doesn’t matter. If you’ve got enough status, you can kill someone, bury them in the woods, and nobody will say a word. Even the cops wouldn’t bother.

People here talked about right and wrong, but nobody crossed the ones who held the keys to the only jobs in town. I’d heard stories—some true, some whispered late at night—but all with the same warning: don’t mess with the powerful.

Mom wouldn’t get the dowry back, and the richest family wouldn’t let her off. I couldn’t die with her.

I thought of the woods behind our house, dark and endless, the ground full of secrets. If I stayed, I might end up as one, lost and unmourned.

Even if they killed us all, nobody would call the police.

Here, everyone owed their lives to the same handful of men. Justice was just another thing you couldn’t afford.

Because the richest man owned the only factory. If anyone reported him, the whole town would lose their jobs and have to move away.

Even the sheriff’s wife packed boxes at night; nobody wanted to risk it all for a stranger.

The cruelest fate was leaving your hometown, becoming a stranger, working a thousand miles from home, never belonging, always hustling. Folks here would do anything to avoid it.

No one would offend the richest man for me and have to leave.

I realized then I was on my own. Run, or be lost like all the others swallowed by the city.

Mom thought I was obedient and didn’t care about me.

I was invisible to her, a shadow in the corner—easy to sacrifice.

I packed up and tried to slip away, but hadn’t gone far when I saw the old preacher sneaking around the house.

His silhouette moved between the barn and the mailbox, glancing over his shoulder. His shoes crunched on the gravel as he circled the porch.

He asked, “Where are you going? You can’t leave.”

His voice startled me, low and urgent. He stepped closer, peering at my backpack.

I knew the ‘fetching water’ excuse wouldn’t fool him—my backpack was on.

No hiding it, not with my hand on the zipper and my eyes on the road.

I asked, “Why can’t I leave?”

I tried to sound tough, but even I heard the tremor in my voice.

The preacher said, “Did your sister die with a grudge?”

He spoke softly, like the words might bring her back. I thought of the blood, the cries, the anger.

I thought of the bloody handprints and nodded.

The memory flashed—those desperate marks, that final plea. I couldn’t deny it.

He stomped his foot. “Your mother’s not just planning a big funeral—she’s arranging a ghost wedding for a vengeful spirit. I heard she just bought a red wedding dress. She hasn’t done anything right, and she’s done everything wrong. Your family’s in deep trouble.”

He rattled off the list, his words tumbling like an old ghost story, the kind my grandma used to tell with the windows rattling.

I said, “It was all my mother’s doing. Why should I be dragged in?”

A hot spike of anger, defiance mixed with fear. I didn’t ask for this—why did I have to pay?

He said urgently, “When a vengeful ghost appears, it kills blood relatives first. You’re her brother—she won’t let you go. If you want to live, you have to handle her funeral right, or you won’t survive the night.”

He gripped my shoulder, voice trembling. “You have to do it right, or you’re next. No room for mistakes.”

I didn’t bother with him. I was desperate to escape before the richest man came for us.

I shrugged him off, eyes on the darkness beyond the mailbox. The urgency pressed at my back, time slipping away.

Seeing me leave, the preacher chased me, shouting, “If you don’t believe me, you’ll die tonight!”

His voice echoed down the empty lane, desperation coloring every word. I didn’t look back.

Halfway there, I stopped.

The wind rustled through the dry cornstalks, carrying his words behind me like an old hymn. I paused, breath caught in my throat.

Seeing me turn back, the preacher looked relieved and excited.

His shoulders slumped, his eyes lit up as if I’d finally seen sense.

But I brushed past him and ran back to the house, up to my small room on the second floor.

I had no choice—danger was coming from every direction. My room was the only refuge I had left.

Because I saw the richest man coming.

His black Lincoln glided up the gravel, headlights slicing through twilight. Men in leather jackets piled out, boots crunching on the stones.

I hid upstairs as they stormed in—voices raised, fists flying. Soon, I saw Mom dragged out by her hair.

Through the slatted window, I watched as they yanked her onto the porch. She shrieked, arms flailing, mud streaking her nightgown.

The richest man thundered, “Your daughter’s dead—give me back the dowry now!”

His voice shook the yard, threat thick in every word.

Mom was thrown to the ground. “What’s the rush? I’ll give it to you tomorrow!”

She scrambled, trying to sound tough.

“Now. Give it to me immediately.”

The men closed in, forming a tight circle. The air grew heavier.

“If you beat me to death, I still don’t have the money now. But after midnight tonight, I’ll have money—just wait, I’ll give you double.”

Her voice cracked with desperation, hope clinging to every word.

The richest man paused, lips curling in a half-smile, half-snarl.

He asked, “And if you don’t?”

His tone was ice, dangerous and final. I noticed his hands flexing at his sides, jaw clenching—small, chilling signals of what could come next.

Mom snapped, “Then you can tear me apart, piece by piece! Don’t act tough. You’ve only got a few million—I’ll soon have more than you.”

She spat the words, wild and ragged, daring him.

He nodded, turned to his men. “Fine, she said it herself. Show her what it means to be torn apart, piece by piece.”

He gave the signal, cold and casual, like he was ordering another round at the bar.

The man walked to Mom, and without caring that she was a woman, yanked her shirt up, exposing her back.

Mom screamed, threatening that if they touched her, she’d never return the money.

Her shrieks were high, mixing fear with fury. For a second, the whole yard froze.

But they didn’t violate her.

Instead, their cruelty was designed to terrify and humiliate.

They pressed her onto a bench, exposing her back.

She fought, but it was no use—the men pinned her down.

The man went inside, grabbed a bowl, smashed it, picked up a sharp shard, and slashed it hard across Mom’s back.

The sound of shattering porcelain echoed, followed by a scream so raw it made my skin crawl.

Mom let out a pig-like scream.

The noise was inhuman—half agony, half rage. The scene was so brutal I had to look away.

Porcelain shards are like dull knives—they cut skin, but not cleanly. Like a blunt blade, they carved a deep gash into Mom’s back.

Blood welled up, soaking her nightgown. The pain twisted her face into something monstrous.

It was a hundred times worse than a knife.

She writhed and howled, tears and snot streaming. The men watched, stone-faced.

Mom rolled on the ground, clutching her back, the pain so intense she vomited up her breakfast.

I watched from the window, stomach twisting. The yard reeked of fear and humiliation.

The richest man said coldly, “Remember this. This is what it feels like to be torn apart. You’ve had one taste. At midnight, I’ll come for the money. If you don’t have it, I’ll take ten pounds of flesh from you and your son, and I promise you won’t die quick.”

His voice was businesslike, eyes flat—no mercy at all.

Hearing this, goosebumps broke out all over me.

It felt like icy water pouring down my back. I pressed myself to the wall, trying to disappear.

It was clearly Mom’s fault, but I was dragged in too.

I wanted to scream at the injustice, but there was no escape. Here, the sins of the parent always fall on the child.

The richest man left, but two men stayed behind to watch us.

They leaned against the battered pickup, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the house. Their presence was a silent threat, as good as any lock.

Mom cried and shouted in the yard, “When I’m richer than you, I’ll pay someone to kill you too!”

Her voice rose to a shrill pitch, echoing across the fields. It was bluster, but the words hung like a curse.

I was so anxious I didn’t know what to do. Just then, someone patted me on the back.

I spun, breath caught in my throat. The preacher stood there, eyes serious, hands trembling just slightly.

He’d moved silently over the old wood floor. He looked at me with a weary pity that made my skin crawl.

He whispered, “No wonder you want to run. But even if you escape this debt, you can’t escape your sister.”

His words landed like a warning you hear too late. He glanced toward the stairs.

I snapped, “Don’t talk about my sister. It was my mother who killed her. She won’t come for me.”

My voice was sharp, brittle, echoing off the hallway walls. I wanted to believe it, but doubt gnawed at me.

The preacher shook his head. “If you don’t believe me, try lighting a candle and saying a prayer for your sister tonight. You’ll see.”

He spoke like my grandma did when warning about old spirits—firm, certain, convinced the worst was coming.

I was on the verge of panic. Just then, Mom called me downstairs, crying, telling me to get ready to entertain the relatives.

Her wailing floated up the stairs, desperate and demanding. I wiped my face, forced myself to look calm as I headed down.