Chapter 2 - The Sound Beneath the Wood
The sound froze the blood in Julian’s veins.
Thud. Thud.
It was muffled, rhythmic, and unmistakably organic. Not settling wood. Not the contraction of metal hinges under changing temperatures. It was the frantic, desperate cadence of a fist striking the underside of an inner lining.
The congregation had gone entirely silent. Even Monsignor O’Malley stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging half-open, his eyes darting toward the front of the altar.
Maria let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Her knees buckled slightly, and she caught herself against the edge of the golden catafalque, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. "Don't listen to him," she screamed out to the room, her voice verging on total hysteria. "It’s... it’s the hydraulic pressure! The nitrogen seals! The casket is depressurizing! It’s normal! Everyone sit down!"
Nobody sat down.
Richard Vance stood up from the front pew, his face pale as paper, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand. "Julian... what is the meaning of this? Is this some sort of morbid stunt?"
Julian didn't answer. All the noise of the cathedral—the whispering, the breathing, the distant hum of the rain—faded into a roaring vacuum in his ears. He looked down at the gleaming gold handles of the casket.
Thud-thud-thud.
There was no mistaking it now. Someone was inside. Someone was trapped in the absolute, pitch-black dark, fighting for every microscopic molecule of oxygen left beneath the airtight seal.
With a sudden, violent motion, Julian shoved past Maria. She stumbled back against the brass candelabra, knocking over three tall candles that hit the stone floor with dull, sputtering crashes.
"Julian, stop!" she shrieked, lunging at his back. "You’ll kill us all! You’ll—"
Julian whirled around and slammed his palm against her shoulder with enough force to send her crashing backward into the arms of a stunned board member. "If you touch me again," Julian snarled, his voice vibrating with a lethal fury that silenced every whisper in the room, "I will throw you into that hole in the ground myself."
He turned back to the casket.
The polished mahogany surface was cold to the touch. He pressed his ear against the heavy wood, right above where the upper torso should be resting.
Inside, there was a faint, frantic scratching sound. Followed by a wet, ragged gasp—the sound of a man trying to drag air through a throat blocked by something thick and suffocating.
"Dad?" Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "Dad, are you in there?"
A muffled, agonized groan vibrated against the wood, shaking the gold inlay beneath Julian’s fingertips.
The crowd erupted.
The pious silence shattered instantly into a chaotic wave of screams, gasps, and panicked shouting. Several women in the front rows bolted for the heavy oak exit doors, their heels clicking frantically against the stone. Board members stood up in unison, shouting over one another, while Richard Vance clutched his chest, looking as though he were about to suffer the heart attack Arthur Sterling was supposed to have had.
"Get a crowbar!" Julian roared, turning back to face the fleeing ushers and the paralyzed security guards standing near the entrance. "Get a crowbar right now, or I swear to God I’ll tear this lid off with my bare hands!"
"Mr. Sterling, we can't!" shouted one of the private security guards, a burly man in a tight black suit who remained rooted near the door, sweating profusely. "The... the legal protocols! The insurance—"
"I don't give a damn about the insurance!" Julian screamed, leaping onto the dais and grabbing the heavy brass vase of white roses, hurling it against the stained-glass window behind the altar. The crash of breaking glass echoed like a gunshot. "Bring me a tool or I’ll break every bone in your body!"
Panic took over. Two junior ushers scrambled down the side aisle toward the vestry, while Maria, realizing the game was utterly and catastrophically lost, turned and bolted down the southern corridor toward the private courtyard exit.
Julian didn't chase her. He didn't have time.
He dropped to his knees beside the casket, pressing his hands against the heavy brass latches. They were secured with high-security combination locks—the kind used for Swiss bank deposit boxes.
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Think, Julian told himself, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Think! What combination would he use?
Inside the box, the scratching grew more frantic, accompanied by a wet, choking rattle that signaled the air was running out.
