Everyone thought the little boy was just overcome with grief, until he pulled an old hand saw from his coat and went straight for the brass latch.

The noise that tore through the chapel was unlike anything anyone present had ever heard. It was not a ghost story; it was the raw, primal sound of human survival.

A woman’s pale, bruised hand—fingernails broken and stained with dark varnish—slid out from the narrow gap between the lid and the casket wall, her fingers gripping the polished exterior rim with white-knuckled desperation.

"CLARA!" Dr. Vance screamed, abandoning all professional restraint as he surged past Arthur, vaulting up the altar steps.

"MOMMY!" Toby shrieked, tears pouring down his face as he grabbed his mother's pale fingers.

Several men from the front pews—Julian, two neighbors, and the funeral director—rushed the altar in a chaotic wave. Together, they grabbed the heavy rosewood lid and threw it back.

The lid slammed against the wooden wall behind the catafalque with a deafening crash.

Inside the satin-lined interior lay Clara Pendelton.

She was dressed in a high-collared white silk burial gown, her face pale as marble, but her dark hair was matted with sweat. Her lips, previously painted a dark burgundy by the mortician, were cracked and bleeding where she had bitten them. Her chest heaved violently under the silk fabric as her lungs fought to process the oxygen flooding her body.

"Get her up! Get her out of there!" Dr. Vance ordered, reaching into the casket to support her neck and back. "Julian, help me!"

As they lifted Clara’s weak, trembling frame from the satin lining, her dark eyes fluttered open. They were bloodshot, unfocused, and filled with a primal, suffocating terror. She looked around the bright, candle-lit chapel, her gaze sweeping past the shocked faces of her neighbors, past her sobbing son, until her eyes locked directly onto Arthur standing frozen at the base of the altar.