"Michael, stop!" his sister pleaded, stepping in front of him. "You're not thinking straight. The grief—it's making you see and hear things that aren't there." Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she clutched his arm as if trying to hold him to reality, but Michael was already slipping away from their rationality.
His focus was locked on the coffin.
Then, louder this time, another thump. Michael's breath hitched.
"There!" He pointed, his voice rising as he turned to the priest. "Tell me you heard that! He's not gone. Ian's still in there!" His voice cracked, and before anyone could react, Michael made his move.
His relatives saw the sudden shift in his posture—the way his eyes locked onto the grave—and they sprang into action, grabbing him by the arms, trying to hold him back.
"Michael, no!" the priest called out, stepping forward, his hand raised as if to calm him. "Please, don't do this. You must accept—"
"Let go of me!" Michael roared, his body surging forward as he wrestled against the arms that restrained him. He twisted, his muscles taut with determination, breaking free of their grasp for just a moment before more hands grabbed him. "I know what I heard!" His voice trembled with raw emotion, tears now streaming down his face. "That's my son in there! He's alive, damn it!"
"Michael, please!" his brother shouted, his grip tightening. "There's nothing there. You're not thinking clearly!"
However, Michael simply wouldn't listen—or perhaps he couldn't bring himself to. The words echoed around him, but they felt like a distant murmur, drowned out by the chaos in his mind. Each attempt to process the situation was met with a thick fog of disbelief and denial, rendering his mind to stop thinking.
The pounding in his chest matched the thumping he'd heard from the coffin. His body moved on instinct, driven by something primal—an unshakable belief that he had to act, that he couldn't let his son be buried alive.
With a surge of strength born from desperation, Michael broke through their hold. "Ian!" he screamed, scrambling toward the grave. He took a leap of faith pouncing on into the hole like a tiger trying to protect their cubs.
"I'm coming, son!" Panic surged through him as his fingers clawed at the earth, frantically tossing aside clumps of soil that felt heavier than they should. Each thump that echoed in his ears intensified his desperation, a visceral reminder of the urgency he felt in his chest.
His mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and determination, grappling with the suffocating weight of the grave. Each handful of dirt removed was both an act of defiance and a surrender to the gravity of the moment, driving him relentlessly toward the coffin, where silence now hung like a heavy shroud.
His relatives stood frozen, their faces pale with shock as they watched him, helpless to stop the madness unfolding before them and then it happened—a faint, almost imperceptible sound carried on the wind. A voice, weak but clear.
"Dad?"
Michael's heart nearly stopped as a cold wave of dread washed over him. He turned to his relatives, his breath ragged and shallow, his body sprawled atop the coffin. His eyes were wide with a frantic intensity, searching their faces for validation. "You heard that, didn't you?"
"Dad... help me," came the voice again, this time louder, unmistakable.
He continued clawing at the dirt with his bare hands, his fingers raw and bleeding. "I'm here, son!"
David, who had also heard the ominous noise earlier, felt a surge of adrenaline course through him. Without hesitation, he sprang into action, grabbing a shovel from nearby and jumping into the grave alongside Michael.
His voice was sharp with urgency as he shouted, "We need to act fast! If he's trapped in there, we might not have much time!" His hands moved swiftly, driving the shovel into the earth with a ferocity fuelled by fear.
Every second felt like a ticking clock, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on them both.
As the mourners began to dig, the air thickened with anxiety, the weight of dread pressing down on every soul present. Michael stood at the grave, breathless and trembling, his heart pounding against his ribs.
"Hold on, Ian! We're going to get you out of there!" His voice wavered, desperate but determined.
The shovels struck the earth with frantic energy, transforming the atmosphere from one of grief to sheer panic.
"Faster! He's still alive!" Michael's command tore through the chaos, his voice raw with fear. His mind raced as the reality of what they were facing began to settle in.
Then came the unmistakable sound—bang! Bang! Bang! The coffin shook violently beneath them, vibrating as if Ian were trapped inside, struggling for release. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
"Did you see that?" someone whispered, disbelief and terror etched across their face.
The priest, usually a figure of calm, stepped back, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "This… this isn't normal," he stammered, his composure crumbling.
From the coffin came a muffled cry—"Ahhhh!" Ian's voice, trembling with panic, echoed through the graveyard, sending chills down their spines.
David, shovel in hand, steadied his voice, trying to pierce through the madness. "Listen to me, Ian! We're here to get you out. Just breathe. Can you do that?" His words received no reply it was now clearly a race against time.
Michael leaned closer to the coffin, his pulse hammering in his ears. "Ian! If you can hear me, keep breathing! We're right there!"
The coffin shook again, the wood splintering beneath the pressure, a desperate plea from the darkness. "Dad, I can't seem to breathe! Hurry!" Ian's voice cracked, filled with terror and confusion.
The crowd recoiled in horror. "This can't be happening!" someone cried, their face pale, stepping back as disbelief settled in.
David spoke hurriedly, "He's disoriented from the lack of oxygen. We need to get him out—now!"
Michael's hands trembled, gripped by the paralyzing fear threatening to swallow him whole. "Ian, it's okay. We're going to get you out. Just hold on!"
With a deep breath, Michael fumbled with the latch, his fingers shaking as the coffin's lid creaked, the sound ominous in the tense air.
The wood groaned as it gave way, a sliver of darkness spilling open and then, through the crack, Ian's pale face emerged, eyes wide, flickering between fear and confusion, his breaths shallow and panicked.
Tears streamed down Michael's face as he grabbed his son's hands, pulling him from the suffocating depths into the light.
"I thought I lost you," Michael sobbed while hugging his son, his voice breaking as relief surged through him, overwhelming in its intensity.
Ian's voice, fragile and trembling, whispered, "I need air."
Michael gave him space, his arms still tight around his son. "It's okay, son. You're safe now. I've got you."
The crowd which was frozen from shock, erupted into a mix of disbelief and relief, their voices colliding in the air like a chaotic symphony. Michael looked over to Lilly, who stood motionless, tears pouring down her face.
Their eyes met, and in that instant, a silent understanding passed between them—a shared recognition of the fragility of life and the strength that binds family through even the darkest moments.
Together, they had faced the void, and love had pulled them back from the brink. The darkness had been beaten back, if only for a moment, by the unyielding light of their bond.