A Husband's Revenge

Reads: 584  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is Kiley Summers first trial. If I get feedback on this, I will begin her first novel. Anyway, Kiley Summers is a necromancy witch. Her job is to raise the dead. But when one client neglects to give her some important information, things get ugly.

Submitted: March 23, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 23, 2012

A A A

A A A


This short story is dedicated to my Granny, Lucille Cagle. Had it not been for her, I would've thrown away my dreams of writing years ago.

 

The short blond woman sat across from me, picking at her fingernails. You could tell she was nervous from the occassional eye dart here, and restless legshake there. Her name was Brandy Thomason. She was my first client of the evening. Looking at her file, I was rising her husband.

"How did he die?" I asked.

"Stroke," she replied.

"His name?"

"James. James Thomason."

I nodded and made a mental note to remember that name. I'd be calling it tonight.

"You can help me right Kiley?"

I looked up at the woman and smiled, "Of course I can. It's my job."

 

The night was cold when I stepped out of my car. My white nikes blew up a bit of dust as I closed the door. Brandy was parked a couple of feet infront of me, smoking a cigaratte. She was tapping her foot out of nervousness. It was beginning to make me nervous.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" I asked, removing a cage that had a chicken in it. It clucked at me.

"What do you mean?" Brandy asked, her eyes slitting at me.

"Nothing, nevermind," I replied and I had her show me to the grave.

The cemetery was big and old, huge trees hung over it, draping it in shadows. Thank God it was still winter or the whole lot would've been yellow with pollen. There were atleast 200 or so graves in the cemetery. Alot of the headstones had gotten so aged and eroded that you couldn't read them anymore. It reminded me of the cemetery I'd been to when I was a kid when my Gran had passed away. I had hid behind her headstone and cried. That's when necromancy found me.

"Here we are," Brandy said.

I put the chicken down and dusted off the grave. It was only a couple of months old and dirt had already set on it.

I started the ritual, chanting the words and filling in the name. Finally, I picked up the chicken, which tried to get loose of my hand.

"With this blood, bring back James Thomason from the dead!" I shouted into the sky and slit the chicken's throat.

Blood ran down my wrists for just a few minutes before I dropped the chicken on the moving ground. The dirt shifted, rolling to the left. There was a sound of wood breaking. I assumed it was the coffin. Then, a hand shot up through the dirt. The fingers were almost green with no color. They pulled up a whole body that was covered in dirt, but as the mud started to run off I realized something. The man's chest was blown in.

"I thought you said he had a stroke!" I yelled.

"Oh! My James!" She said, pushing me backwards. I fell backwards on the chicken, feeling the cooling blood splashing on my back.

Zombies are hard to control when they're murdered. They have only one directive: kill those who killed them.

"Who killed him?" I said cooly.

"I did! I just need him to write his will," Brandy said, grinning evily.

I reached for the gun I kept at my side and realized that I'd forgotten it in the car. So much for safety. I crawled backwards away from the zombie. I didnt think he would attack me, but it seemed smart that I got back.

"Oh James, I have missed you..."

James smiled, his teeth were brown, the color of rotting squash. He moved closer to Brandy, looking as though he would hug her. I knew better. He tackled her, forcing her down to the ground.

"Help me Kiley!"

I stood up and ran to them, trying to push James off. He was too determined and threw me backwards. The air was knocked out of my lungs. I sat up and heard Brandy let out a scream. It was too late now. I realized that as blood started to pool around my ankles. It was warm. It was Brandy's.

James stood up, leaving the corpse of his dead wife there. Then, he climbed back into the hole he was buried in and the ground re-covered him.

I stood up and looked at the body of Brandy Thomason. Sometimes karma is a bitch...


© Copyright 2017 kyledills14. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

avatar

Author
Reply

More Fantasy Short Stories