'Christopher missed his father every day but now on this first Christmas without him it was worse for it was on Christmas Eve last that his father had taken his own life. Yes, another seasonal suicide.
His father had been a writer by profession. But he had also been a waiter, bus driver, hospital porter, salesman, hamburger flipper, taxi driver and a few other thousand things he had to do in order to feed his family.
“It’s only a means to an end, Chris. You’ll see!”
His father would say this as he addressed yet another envelope with yet another work of fiction in it. Chris saved every magazine his father’s work was published in. He admired him so very much.
And then last Christmas the very worst happened. His father bowed out.
As for Chris, he had come to an important decision. It just happened. He decided he would raise his father up!
Of course he didn’t really know what the hell would crawl out of the grave—or how decomposed his father might be.
“I’m going to do it anyway!”
Yes, he was rather emotional and frankly his emotions got the better of him.
He had made a veritable shrine to his father’s memory. His desk was left untouched, piled high with query letters ready to go and the envelopes all stamped and addressed.
Whatever published work was at hand was tacked up so the world could see all his father had written. It was mainly fiction. There were loads of living dead stories and a few horror novels as well. Sadly few people had ever heard of his father or read his writing.
Aside from fiction writing, his father had penned a pretty informative book about necromancy. It was well-researched and listed the historical roots of the rite. But besides that there were also included a fair amount of incantations; incantations that his father swore were genuine.
Chris suspected he had actually tried them out because of how adamant he was with his warning.
“Don’t ever try to do any of them Chris! Just don’t!”
Chris swore he wouldn’t and his father was satisfied.
The mother had deserted years ago. The lean times weren’t for her. She could never adjust. That didn’t help his dad’s frame of mind any. He made his first suicide attempt about that time and got talked down from quite a few roof tops.
Time passed and everything seemed better. Chris grew up no longer worrying about his father's frame of mind.
The two spent their last Thanksgiving together but then his father vanished a few weeks later. Chris didn’t know what to think.
His poor father did it on Christmas Eve. He blew his brains out. Chris didn’t find him. Some hapless hotel clerk did. Chris didn’t get over it. He wouldn’t get over it. Instead he started to study that book.
One year to the day, to that terrible day found the grieving son at his father’s grave—book in hand:
His voice clear and as strong as he could make it, he commanded:
“Rise from thy grave, come yea forth from the doom of your tomb!”
He said a few other choice things when suddenly the earth began to shift and split apart. The grave was opening and his father began to crawl out!
He fainted. When he opened his eyes he screamed his friggin head off. For there in the light of a full moon he could see the rot and the maggots—his father’s rotting flesh hanging off his moldering frame--and the stench!
His father spoke to him then. His voice muffled and mushy-sounding.
“Why’d you do it son! Why? You brought me back for what? So I could check the sales rankings for my shitty books?! Don’t you know how that eats a person up? Why it’s worse than maggots!
“No buts about it! You can’t make people buy your books, see? It’s just the way it is!”
Chris nodded and began to speak but his father’s horrific scream interrupted him. For suddenly it seemed his father had discovered a great truth: “No son! Tell me it isn’t so! You’re not--!”
“Yes! I have a manuscript that’s making the rounds now. I’m hopeful. I really am! I am determined!”
“No! Put me back,” his father wailed. “Put me back son. And I’ll save a place for you!”
© Copyright 2011 Carole Gill