Part 2:
The satin lining, a pristine, almost mocking white, lay completely undisturbed. The heavy silver crucifix they had placed on his chest was gone. The silk tie she had so carefully knotted just hours ago was gone.
He was gone.
A collective gasp sucked all the remaining air from the chapel. The priest dropped his prayer book, the thud shockingly loud against the stone floor. Eleanor’s brother staggered backward, his face ashen, clutching the nearest pew for support.
Buster, however, didn’t stop barking. In fact, his frantic energy seemed to shift. He wasn’t barking at the empty space where his master should have been. He had his nose pressed firmly into the deep corner of the casket, near the hinge, scratching frantically at the tufted fabric.
“Eleanor…” her brother managed to choke out. “Where… where is Arthur?”
Eleanor couldn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on the empty coffin. It wasn’t just that he was missing. There was no sign of a struggle, no ripped fabric, no indication that the heavy lid had been disturbed from the inside. It was as if he had evaporated.
The two security guards, regaining some composure, stepped forward cautiously. “Ma’am, we need to clear the room,” one said, his voice tight. “We need to call the police.”
“Wait,” Eleanor whispered, her voice surprisingly steady, though her hands were shaking violently. “Look at the dog.”
Buster had stopped scratching. He was now furiously digging with his snout, tearing at the pristine white satin in the corner.
“Stop him!” the priest cried. “This is a desecration!”
“Let him be!” Eleanor commanded, a sudden, fierce authority in her tone that silenced the room.
With a sharp riiiip, Buster tore away a section of the lining. He backed away slightly, panting heavily, and looked up at Eleanor again.
Eleanor leaned closer, peering into the exposed corner of the heavy wooden box. Beneath the torn fabric, there was no solid mahogany. Instead, there was a jagged, dark hole. It looked as though the wood had been eaten away, or perhaps, shattered from underneath.
And from that small, dark opening, a faint, cold breeze was blowing upward, carrying with it a smell that was definitely not lilies. It was the smell of damp earth, rust, and something else… something sharp and metallic.
Suddenly, a faint scraping sound echoed from deep within the hole, followed by a voice. It was barely a whisper, distorted and echoing as if coming from a long tunnel.
“…Eleanor…”
The entire chapel froze. It was Arthur’s voice.
Before anyone could react, Buster let out one final, sharp bark, and then, impossibly, squeezed his large frame into the hole, disappearing into the darkness below.
To be continued…
