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Death. Mr. Thornburg is in there. He s dead. Thrip took his hand away before the
sensation of nausea could completely wrap him and rock him to the ground.
So we are agreed upon that?
Yes. I guess. Thrip found himself more and more confused.
Now, what you are about to see is a funeral like you ve never seen before, Mr.
Thrip. It is sort of a... reverse funeral.
You re going to raise him from the dead?
That is exactly what I am going to do.
But why?
Because sometimes the dead can t forget. Sometimes the pull of life is too great
and they are not ready to relinquish control of that.
But this is an abomination.
Be careful of what you say in mixed company, Mr. Thrip. You never know who
you might be insulting.
You re dead.
No. I once was dead. Now I am very much alive. Nascent grabbed Thrip s hand
and placed it on his heart. Thrip felt the organ beating slowly but strongly against his
palm.
Let us begin the funeral, Mr. Nascent said.
He pulled a heavy black book from his overcoat and stood at the foot of the
grave. The others at the ceremony gathered around him as he read in a language Thrip did
not recognize. Not only was the language unknown to him, the intonations were strange
and garbled, like nothing he had ever heard before.
Thrip watched as the ground trembled slightly, the grass and dirt being pushed
away before Mr. Thornburg pulled himself up, dragging himself from the earth. The
process was slow, Nascent s chanting oration hallucinatory. With Thornburg halfway out
of the grave, a burly man in a tattered tuxedo who Thrip identified as Dr. Kittinger came
to aid him in his further struggle. Now all the way out, Thornburg looked around at his
surroundings, confusion naked in his eyes.
It is not unlike birth, Nascent said. But imagine being born with all of the
faculties you had at your death.
Thrip turned his head away. He didn t want to make eye contact with the risen
man.
Kittinger? Could you lead him away? Let him know what is happening to him.
Kittinger led the man into the fog on the far side of the cemetery.
I ve seen enough, Thrip said. He didn t think he could bear it anymore. If there
was one thing he had gained through his funeral attendance, it was an immense respect
for the dead. Since he was unable to rationalize death in any other way, he could only
truly see it as a final, eternal rest.
He turned to leave but Nascent grabbed his arm.
Now, Mr. Thrip, wouldn t you like to know why we invited you here this
evening? It seems we are not the only ones with abominable skills.
I would turn it off if I could, Thrip said. Please let go of my arm.
Nascent gripped stronger. Others from the funeral gathered around him.
One of the interesting things about death, Mr. Thrip, is that the deceased never
really remember what death feels like. We don t even remember exactly how it was that
we died. Can you imagine having those gaps in your life... in your life after death?
I don t know what you re getting at.
I think you do know what we re getting at. I want you to come with us. I want
you to tell us the stories of our deaths.
I can t do that.
You don t have a choice. And... Yes. There s something else.
Just let me leave.
I can t let you leave. If I let you leave, then I don t get to hear the story of my
death. Nor do I get to fulfill my life s work.
What is your life s work?
Nascent gripped Thrip s other arm, pulling him closer to his gaunt dead face.
Look closely. Think back about six years.
Thrip studied the man s face, recognition flooding him. Thrip remembered being
in the body of a twenty-year-old woman, staring at the face in front of him as the life left
her. At the time, the face was a little thinner, a little hairier...
Oh God, Thrip said.
That s right. She was not the first. She was merely the apex. I had developed
quite a taste for murder and you stopped that. Well, you stopped me... The taste is still
very much there.
More and more of the incident flooded back to Thrip. The girl s murder had not
been quick and painless. It was the most drawn out, excruciating death he had ever
experienced, keeping him awake for two days while some hidden part of his psyche felt it
all. The man had kept the woman blindfolded the entire time but, at the end, during the
last few seconds of her life, he had removed the blindfold. Thrip felt stupid for not
realizing who Mr. Nascent was from the beginning. But, aside from the surface physical
differences, the context was completely different. Like seeing one of your grade school
teachers in the grocery store. Besides, he had spent years trying to forget that face, trying
to forget that entire episode, just like he did after every death. Most of the time, he could
even manage to forget the name of the deceased. But not this time. Melinda Kendrick.
The name stuck with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.
You re a monster, Thrip said.
Oh, that was just the beginning.
Thrip struggled to get away but Nascent s grip proved to be almost supernaturally
strong and Thrip was not exactly powerful to begin with. There were others surrounding
him, grabbing him, others every bit as strong as Nascent. The more he struggled, the
harder they gripped.
The best part of this whole death business, Nascent said. Is that, the more
people we kill, the stronger we grow, the greater our numbers.
As a whole, the funeral party dragged Thrip into the woods behind the cemetery.
And there, they made him repeat the stories of their deaths. Most nights, Thrip was only
able to get through one story. The stories left him bereft of nearly everything except
sorrow. He ritualistically collapsed onto the ground, weeping and shaking, wanting
desperately to be away from these people, wanting to get beyond the cemetery gates so he
could breathe a single breath of life. And each night, the strange tribe claimed another
victim, bringing them from all over the country but always making sure they died within
the borders of the town, within the perimeter of Thrip s knowledge. The Olden Memorial
Cemetery had long since been used up. Now there were only the new arrivals and the
ones they murdered themselves. Their reach was staggering.
The dead had no concern for him, using him only for the individual stories of
their deaths. And the stories were always told on an individual basis, the deceased and
Thrip, away from the ear shot of all the others because, in the end, death was a very
personal thing. The deceased were given a gun to shoot Thrip with if he tried to get away.
They were instructed not to shoot with intentions of killing.
Afterwards, the gun passed like a morbid baton, they gathered around one
another, some exchanging their new found information and wondering if death would
find them a second time. They speculated on how they would take the next victim,
inventing new ways so the story would always be entertaining. In a way, Thrip thought,
they told the stories themselves.
Soon, Thrip begged them to kill him. He refused to eat so they beat him until he
did so. Nascent told him they could not let him die. Once they killed him, Nascent said,
all of the stories would go with him, along with the memories of his own death.
And, of course, Thrip thought of other ways to die besides starvation. Like
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