Rising From the Grave

Anthony was up the remainder of the evening and well past the time the sun rose and started to stream beams of sunlight over the large expanse of his bed. His mind racing at the words he had heard from the other end of the phone just hours before. Had Wendy found out he was responsible for Emilia’s death? Was she pulling his leg as revenge for being so callous to her?

He didn’t want to wait until the police came to his door to find out. Donning clothes, he left his apartment so fast he almost left behind the keys to his car and his wallet.

The drive over to Wendy’s was nerve wracking—his nerves already fried from the lack of proper sleep. He didn’t bother parking correctly once he reached the sprawling estate, the car blocking most of the large driveway as he trudged through the snow to the front door. He wasted no time and rang the bell furiously.

Over and over he pushed the button until finally Wendy answered the door, a look of surprise coming to her aging features, “Anthony? What are you doing here?”

“You know why I’m here! You called me last night trying to fuck with my head, didn’t you?”

“I have no id—”

“Don’t fuck with me!” Anthony questioned furiously, “How long have you known? Did you know this whole time?”

Wendy shied away from her son-in-law in terror, fear of physical harm overcoming her. “Anthony please calm down. I don’t know what your talking about. Know about what?”

Anthony stomped forward, fully intending on grabbing Wendy when a picture fell off the wall behind her, drawing his attention. “Who’s here with you?”

“Nobody!” Wendy cried fearfully, stepped back farther from him. "Please just leave, Anthony. You're scaring me."

Anthony ignored her plea and shoved past her into the house he was so familiar with; Emilia and he had spent a lot of time at her parents home. He stomped towards the picture that had fallen to the floor, not bothering to pick it up and stared in disbelief. It was a picture from his wedding day; of Emilia looking like the happiest bride in the world and him holding her in his arms. The glass in the large frame had cracked directly over his face, as if something had hit it.

Out if the corner of his eye he caught a movement of white and he turned quickly but missed it as the figured circled the corner towards the staircase.

Anthony ignored Wendy as she yelled at him to get out of her house and ran after the figure in white. Almost slipping in a puddle of water, he caught himself on the banister and cursed as he steadied himself.

Taking the stairs two at a time he reached the second floor and frozen in his tracks. At the end of the hall—a hall full of pictures of the wife he killed, of the life he untimely ended—stood the figure in white.

Her back was to him but Anthony knew it was Emilia. He would always recognize her, even as the white dress he killed her in clung to her body, the white of the fabric transparent revealed her pale skin beneath, her chestnut hair dangling in wet tendrils down her back.

As if sensing his disbelieving stare; Emilia turned slowly, her feet splashing in the water that was running in rivulets down her body. She looked just as she had the day he had strangled her; her skin a bit paler and her eyes a bit dimmer but exactly the same in every last way. Right now to the bruises that encased her throat.

“H-How?” Anthony stammered, terror striking into his soul at the impossibility of what he was seeing. There was no way she could have gotten free of the chains, no way she could have survived at all. “Y-you're not real,” He insisted incredulously.

“I am very real,” she breathed, the raspy quality of her voice identical to the one he had heard over the phone the night prior. Distant sirens were heard in the distance, queuing him in that Wendy had no doubt called the police. “I loved you Anthony,” Emilia's rough voice wailed sadly, “How could you do this to me?”

Anthony took a step back, his hand on the railing of the stairs as he tentatively set his foot down a step, ready to run if need be. “I’m sorry…”

Fury erupted from the vision before him, glass shattered in the frames of the pictures, raining down shards to the floor, “You’re lying!”

Anthony cowered back trying to keep himself from blubbering like an idiot, “No! I s-swear I’m not! I really am s-sorry!”

“No,” Emilia growled as she began to stalk towards him, her feet breezing over the glass as if it was not there, “You’re not.”

Anthony shrieked in a way unbecoming of a man and turned quickly to run down the stairs, tripping over his own feet as he did.

The world fell off kilter as he flailed, trying to catch himself on the railing but he wasn’t able. Anthony hit every stair on his tumble down until finally coming to a halt at the very bottom. He laid there unmoving but aware, afraid to twitch even as bare feet came into view, the little nails painted bright red as water pooled around them. Anthony closed his eyes in terror, not wanting to see her anymore; not wanting to be reminded of his guilt.

“And leave my mother alone,” Emilia hissed against his ear, her cool breath sending chills down his body.

Anthony expected more pain to come, for the ghost of his wife passed to strike him but the blow never came. He only opened his eyes when the police grabbed him and forced him over to his side.