This is the 34th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
Three years later, the coffin was still full of Jello. Lynn maintained she didn’t do it, but her aunt would never believe the truth.
Lynn refused to clean the coffin out as a matter of principle. If her aunt had asked nicely, Lynn would’ve done it right away, but she couldn’t abide the accusations and demands. Lynn’s father—shocked by his daughter’s behavior and sympathetic to his sister’s plight—drove Lynn to the funeral home every Saturday. This would continue as long as the Jello remained, he told her again and again and again.
Last Saturday, Lynn was standing in the back office, filing papers, when she heard rhythmic tapping on the doorframe. She assumed her cousin had come to bother her—he did that—but when she spun to tell him to buzz off, no one was there. Shrugging, she turned back to her files to see a pale, slender hand covering the top.
“I see you’re still refusing to clean up my mess,” a raspy voice said.
Staring at her shoes, Lynn avoided its eyes; she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She tried to just breathe. When the hand grabbed her arm, she screamed.
The creature had vanished by the time her aunt appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled. Lynn insisted the creature’s hand had left a mark, but once again, her aunt didn’t believe her.
When her father woke her up at the start of the following weekend, she refused to go.
Miles Away 