Chapter 2 - The Sound Against the Mahogany
The guests gasped in unison, several women pulling back as the rain-soaked boy stepped onto the carpeted aisle.
"Toby!" shouted Arthur’s brother, Julian, rising from the front pew. "What on earth are you doing? Drop that!"
Toby ignored him completely. His large brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a wild, terrifying focus. He didn't look at his uncle, nor did he acknowledge the shocked faces of the neighbors staring at his mud-splattered boots. His gaze was locked entirely onto the dark rosewood box sitting at the altar.
"Toby, stop right there!" Arthur demanded, his voice ringing across the wooden rafters like a whip crack.
The boy broke into a desperate sprint, his wet boots squeaking against the polished floorboards. He sprinted past his uncle, ignored the funeral director who reached out to grab his sleeve, and threw his body forward, dropping heavily onto his knees directly beside the brass catafalque.
He tossed the hand saw onto the carpet with a dull thud, pressed both of his small, muddy palms flat against the cold wood of the casket side panel, and slammed his left ear directly against the polished mahogany.
"Toby, get up this instant!" Arthur roared, taking three fast, aggressive strides down the altar steps toward his son.
"BE QUIET!" Toby shrieked, his voice cracking with raw, unadulterated panic. "EVERYONE BE QUIET!"
The room fell into an immediate, breathless stillness. Even the rain outside seemed to soften against the glass.
For five agonizing seconds, Toby remained motionless. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the floorboards, his chest heaving up and down under his wet slicker.
Then, a single, fat tear rolled down his pale cheek, leaving a clean track through the grime on his skin. He lifted his head slowly, his small lips trembling as he turned toward the crowded pews.
"My mommy is alive in here!" Toby sobbed.
A collective gasp rippled through the chapel. Mrs. Gable pressed her hand over her mouth, her eyes darting between the boy and the closed casket.
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Arthur reached his son in two long strides, his face flushed with dark, furious crimson. He grabbed Toby forcefully by the upper arm, hauling the eight-year-old off his knees with unyielding strength.
"Stop this nonsense right now!" Arthur hissed, his grip tightening until the fabric of Toby’s slicker bunched up. "You are hysterical! Your mother is gone, Toby! You're making a scene!"
