Resurrection Sunday

The bell of St. Catherina’s Chapel rang out over the town of Black Hollow, its mournful toll cutting through the crisp Easter morning. The sound sent shivers down the spines of the townsfolk, who hurried to the chapel with lowered heads and heavy hearts. Easter was no time for joy in Black Hollow. It was a time of reckoning.

At the center of the chapel, Father Merrick stood robed in black, the usual Easter lilies replaced by withered branches and candles that dripped red wax like blood. His voice boomed with authority, echoing against the cracked stone walls. “Today, as every Resurrection Sunday, we gather to uphold our sacred duty. The dead demand justice, and we must answer.”

The congregation sat in fearful silence. They all knew the story, passed down for generations. Long ago, St. Catherina’s was built over a mass grave. The church’s founding priest had promised to protect the restless spirits buried there, but his betrayal—selling the bodies to gravediggers for profit—unleashed a curse. Now, every Easter, the dead rose, clawing their way from the earth to demand retribution.

The ritual had become the town’s dark tradition. The spirits would only rest if a sinner was sacrificed. For weeks leading up to Easter, townsfolk would whisper accusations and dredge up secrets, desperate to ensure the "sinner" chosen wasn’t them. This year, the name on everyone’s lips was Marjorie Tate.

Marjorie sat in the back pew, her sharp features defiant despite the glares and whispers aimed her way. A widow with a sharp tongue and no patience for pleasantries, she’d made enemies of nearly everyone in town. Rumors swirled: she’d poisoned her husband; she practiced witchcraft; she cursed crops and spoiled milk. Whether true or not, Marjorie was the perfect scapegoat.

When Father Merrick’s bony finger pointed her way, the congregation exhaled in relief. Two men seized her arms, dragging her to the altar as she spat curses at the crowd. “Cowards!” she shrieked. “You think this will save you? It won’t!”

The ground outside began to tremble, the cursed soil splitting open as skeletal hands clawed their way to the surface. The dead emerged, gaunt figures with hollow eyes that burned with otherworldly light. They moved in unison, their movements jerky but purposeful, until they filled the chapel, their stench of decay suffocating.

Father Merrick raised his hands in supplication. “We bring you the sinner! Let her punishment be enough to grant us peace for another year!”

The spirits descended on Marjorie. She screamed as bony fingers gripped her limbs, pulling her toward the open graveyard outside. The congregation looked away, but the sounds of tearing flesh and her final, choked cries were impossible to ignore.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the spirits retreated to their graves, dragging Marjorie’s mangled body with them. The townsfolk left the chapel in silence, thankful to have survived another Resurrection Sunday.

But something was different this year.

The next morning, the townspeople awoke to find their windows smeared with blood. On their doorsteps lay rotting hands and feet, as if the dead had left behind pieces of themselves. In the town square, Father Merrick’s body hung from the chapel bell, his mouth agape in a silent scream.

Whispers spread like wildfire: Marjorie’s final words had been a curse. "You think this will save you? It won’t!"

The next Resurrection Sunday came early. The dead rose again, not to demand a sinner, but to consume the town whole.