Undying Message

The steps of the undead waltz penetrated the apartments’ paper-thin walls, from the first floor all the way to the second. A stomp followed by a dragged foot, and as it had every Wednesday for the past three weeks, the creepy rhythm halted at my front door.

Then, the knocking began.

Before, the raps were persistent and tough, like a life altering message was about to be delivered, and considering my reaction the first time I answered the door under these outlandish circumstances, my life was definitely altered forever. This time, however, the raps were slower; the life was being filtered from the remaining depressed spirit. The visitor’s message wasn’t so important anymore.

I raised my head from my science studies, unsure if I should answer the call this time. While I pondered the issue, a second highly assertive set of knocks pounded the door, shaking the entire structure. I felt forced to answer it before any of the neighbors chose to investigate the rude noises.

The locks were quickly undone, the door was opened, and once again there stood Uncle Phillip whom had been buried at Leslie Palms’ Cemetery one month ago. His skin tone was closer to ash, dried and sagging more than last week with well defined holes in his flesh where the subterranean creatures had begun feeding on him.

“Hello, Michael,” he said.

“Hey, Uncle Phil,” My stomach started turning from the pungent odor that seemed to be a few steps behind him. “C’mon in.”

He limped to his favorite section – the sofa in front of the television. His left foot was turned to a ninety degree angle, explaining the dragging noise, but I didn’t want to think about how it became contorted. I did wonder if anyone had seen him tonight or the previous nights, but I had neither read any nor seen any related reports in the news. The navy blue burial suit had tears in it, probably from being snagged and ripped on unnoticed pointy surfaces and scraped against building surfaces.

“What is that smell?” he asked. He could smell his own festering stench? “Are you having tea?” I guess not.

“Yes,” I was officially befuddled. “Would you….care for some?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he politely accepted. Even in death, some of the undead still practice manners and not brain consumption.

We reconvened at the dining table which was just a few steps away from the sofa, as was the kitchen quarter of the apartment, both with a fresh cup of warm Earl Gray in front of us.

“How are you?” asked Phillip. Seeing him in clearer light, I noticed the right side of his face was starting to sag; the muscles in that respective side of his bottom lip could no longer sustain the muscle tissue. He looked like a partially paralyzed stroke victim with its top corner portion of their lip bitten off, revealing teeth at all times.

“Fine,” I answered, though I couldn’t stop leering at his left eye. It looked like part of the retina had detached. It swayed a bit whenever he spoke or moved.

Then, Uncle Phillip asked the same question from the three previous visits. “How’s Sonjya?” He always asked how his wife was. It seemed that the part of his brain that told him he was dead had eroded or been eaten, because I had told him that he was dead and that she was trying to move on with her life. What I had not told him was that she had already moved on. She was dating again. They didn’t have a perfect marriage, and if Uncle Phil hadn’t died first, he would have continued living a lie because their marriage felt like it was over a long time ago to everyone except Phil, I guess.

“She’s fine. She’s – she’s doing just fine. She is coming to terms with the situation, all that’s happened….” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Good,” he said as an earthworm cascaded down his right cheek, poured from underneath his right eyeball. It chewed on his rotting cheek.

“She’s happy,” Whether it was a question or a clarification, I couldn’t tell. I think he just needed to hear it from someone else besides me, even if it was himself.

“Good.”

That was the last night Uncle Phillip visited me. Part of me was disappointed; I enjoyed his company, but I understood that he wasn’t a person anymore, just a hurting soul. The other part of me was thankful because the other tenants and the landlord no longer accosted me with ugly, damning looks in regards to the muddy trails leading from the outside and ending at my front door.

I visited Uncle Phillips grave site after classes were done that day. I could see the ruptured areas from where he had risen from the ground, only now instead of stressed out imprints of hands digging their way out for salvation, flowers were blooming in their place. Uncle Phillip was leaving a new trail, one that recalled the goodness in his life; one that led him to a final sense of personal peace. I hope to leave a trail like that behind some day, but right now I’m planting the seeds that will blossom into what will hopefully be a beautiful, memorable trail of my own.

Goodbye, Uncle Phillip.