The morning my husband drew his last breath, the funeral director came to the hospital to make final arrangements for the service. We talked about life after, of heaven and hell, the resurrection.
“Most people have the wrong idea about the resurrection,” he said. “They pray to an unseen god and await his bastard son’s return on a cloud. Sounds more like drug-induced delusions to me.”
“Blasphemy! I will hear no more of this!” my father shouted and stormed out.
I should have followed him, but my desperation to see my husband alive and well again overcame me.
“Just one bite, and he will rise and be yours forever.”
I nodded, and he bared his fangs.
Of course, the resurrection didn’t happen immediately. We buried him three days later, placed a lantern next to his grave so that when he rose again, he could find his way home.
Midnight, the fourth night, a knock on the door lured me out of bed.
He stood at the threshold, receding gums revealing sharp edges of newly grown teeth. “Won’t you invite me in?”
© 2022 Nortina Simmons
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