Buried On Sunday Direct

As the ropes groaned, lowering Silas into the mud, a strange thing happened. The sun pierced through a jagged tear in the clouds, hitting the brass nameplate just before it disappeared below the surface. For a second, the grave glowed. The first shovel of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thump .

When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a heavy, rhythmic rain—the kind that turned the churchyard soil into a hungry, dark porridge. Buried on Sunday

The Vicar spoke of "eternal rest" and "the cycle of the week," but the villagers were looking at the hole. There was an old superstition in Oakhaven: a Sunday burial meant the soul didn't have to wait in the vestibule of the afterlife. It went straight to the head of the line, fresh for the Monday of eternity. As the ropes groaned, lowering Silas into the

"Late to his own party," she whispered as the pallbearers stumbled slightly on the slick grass. The first shovel of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thump