The Last Rites of the Copper Road

It was about 9:45 on a Tuesday night when the old station wagon—a rust-bitten Ford Country Squire we called ‘The Whale’—began to shudder like a dog shaking off water. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. I turned the key three times, but the only sound was the click of the relay, dead as a doornail.

We were five miles out of town on the Old Copper Road, a stretch that hadn’t seen a working streetlight since the seventies. Rain pelted the windshield in thick sheets, and the smell of wet upholstery and stale cigarette smoke filled the cabin. My friend Marcus, who knew more about cars than the rest of us combined, popped the hood and fiddled with the battery, but after a few minutes of cussing, he slammed it shut. “She’s not coming back tonight,” he said, wiping rain from his face. We had no cell phones—they were for rich kids—so we did the only thing we could: we pushed The Whale to the side of the road, turned on the hazards, and started walking.

We trudged through mud and potholes, our sneakers soaked through within minutes. The rain wasn’t just falling; it was pelting, stinging our skin like needles. We passed a few darkened farmhouses, but no one answered their doors. After about a mile, we saw a single light in the distance, glowing pale yellow through the downpour. As we got closer, we realized it was a church—the old St. Catherine’s, which had been deconsecrated years ago and turned into a funeral home. Marcus, a lapsed Catholic, crossed himself, and our friend Delia laughed nervously. “It’s just a building,” she said, but her voice was thin.

We jogged up the gravel path, past a rusted iron gate that creaked in the wind, and reached the heavy oak doors. They were unlocked. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of formaldehyde and wilted flowers. The lobby was dim, lit only by a single desk lamp and the flickering light of a television playing static in the corner. An old man sat behind the desk, his face creased like a walnut. He wore a ratty black suit that hung off his thin frame. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice dry and brittle. I explained our situation. He didn’t react, just stared at us with watery eyes that seemed to look through us. Then he smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “You can wait here,” he said. “There’s a phone in the back, but it’s out of order due to the storm. You’re welcome to stay until it passes.”

We didn’t have much choice. He led us down a narrow hallway past a set of double doors that led to the viewing rooms. I caught a glimpse of a casket, its lid half-open, and I quickly averted my eyes. The old man brought us to a small parlor with worn velvet chairs and a fireplace that somehow had a roaring fire, though I hadn’t seen him start it. We sat, grateful for the warmth, and tried to ignore the eerie silence. There was no ticking clock, no hum of appliances, just the crackle of the fire and the rain hammering against the windows.

Delia broke the silence. “Hey, you think they have a bathroom?” The old man appeared in the doorway, as if he’d been listening. “Down the hall, third door on your left,” he said, and vanished. Delia stood and left.

About five minutes later, we heard a faint, rhythmic thumping from somewhere in the building. Jeff, our other friend, nervously laughed. “It’s just the pipes.” I wasn’t so sure. The thumping seemed to be coming from the ceiling, right above us. Then it stopped.

Delia came back, her face pale. She sat down close to me, her whole body trembling. “I think I saw something,” she whispered. I asked what. She shook her head. “In the bathroom, the mirror. It was fogged up, but there was a word written in it. It said ‘stay.'” Marcus scoffed, but I saw his hands tighten on his knees.

The fire suddenly died, plunging the room into near darkness. In the dim light from the hallway, we saw the old man standing at the threshold, holding a lantern. “It’s time to visit the body,” he said matter-of-factly. “What?” I asked, my heart starting to race. “The body in the casket. Mr. Ellison, he passed three days ago. But he insists on having visitors tonight.” His voice was flat, but his eyes glinted with something that looked like amusement.

We followed him, not out of curiosity but because we felt compelled, like we were being herded. He led us to the viewing room where we’d seen the casket. Now it was fully open, and a man lay inside, dressed in a cheap black suit, his hands folded over his chest. The old man gestured for us to come closer. “Pay your respects,” he said. We hesitated, but then the corpse’s fingers twitched. I felt my blood run cold.

We turned to run, but the door slammed shut behind us. The old man was no longer in the room. The lamp flickered, and the corpse sat up. Its eyes were open, milky white, and its mouth moved as if speaking, but no sound came out. It slowly turned its head toward us, and then it pointed at the corner of the room. I followed its finger and saw something on the floor: a ring, a small gold band, glittering in the lamplight.

Delia screamed. The corpse fell back with a thud, lying still as if nothing had happened. The door creaked open, and we stumbled out into the hallway, only to find the old man waiting with a phone in his hand. “I found a working phone,” he said, holding it out to us. “There’s a tow truck coming for your car. You should be gone before it arrives.”

We didn’t ask questions. We called the number he gave, and within half an hour, a tow truck arrived. We piled into the warmth of the cab, not saying a word until we were back on the main road. The driver asked where our car was, and we gave directions. He shook his head. “I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’ve never seen a funeral home on that stretch of road. You must have been by a church that burned down in the 80s.”

We looked at each other, drenched and shivering. We never spoke of that night again, but to this day, whenever I see a gold ring, I can’t help but feel like I’m being watched. And sometimes, when the rain comes down hard, I swear I can hear a faint thumping, as if someone is knocking from inside a coffin, asking to be let out.