The Unfinished Wake

The last time I saw my great-uncle Marcus, he was wearing a tie I’d never seen before. It was a garish thing, a pattern of red and gold parrots against a black background, and it clashed horribly with his usual flannel shirts. He’d been a birdwatcher, you see, and I think that tie was his way of holding onto the hobby he could no longer enjoy after the cancer ate through his spine. He died on a Thursday, the 14th of July, at the age of 89, in the small farmhouse he’d built himself in the middle of the Nebraska plains. My father, his nephew, and my aunt and uncle decided to hold the wake and burial together on the following Saturday, to get it over with quickly. Marcus had specified in his will that he wanted to be buried in the family plot on the hill behind the farmhouse, next to his wife, who’d passed a decade earlier. He’d also requested, a bit strangely, that there be no embalming. He was a Quaker, and Quakers have a simple burial tradition, but the no-embalming thing was unusual even for them. My father said it was because Marcus was a bit of an eccentric, always going on about ‘returning to the earth’ and ‘not wanting to be preserved like a museum piece.’ I didn’t know him well. I’d only met him a handful of times, when I was a kid, and he’d always seemed distant, more interested in the birds on his property than in his relatives. Still, I felt I should go to the wake, out of respect for my father if nothing else.

When we arrived at the farmhouse, the sun was just beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the wheat fields that stretched to the horizon. The air smelled of dust and dried grass, and there was a strange stillness that made my skin prickle. The wake was held in the living room, which had been cleared of most furniture. A simple wooden coffin stood on a trestle at the far end of the room, and I could see Marcus’s gaunt face above folded hands. He was dressed in his usual flannel shirt, but the parrot tie was gone. I noticed it later, draped over a chair in the corner, as if someone had taken it off him. The room was filled with people I vaguely recognized: distant cousins, old neighbors, a few of Marcus’s birdwatching buddies. They all spoke in hushed tones, but the air felt wrong. My father, usually stoic, seemed on edge, and my aunt kept glancing at the coffin as if she expected something to happen. When it was time for last respects, I hung back. I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of touching a dead body, or even getting close to one. So I stood by the window, watching the evening birds flit across the sky, trying to ignore the smell that was starting to permeate the room. It was a sweet, earthy smell, like wet soil and rot, even though Marcus had only been dead for two days. I figured it was just the lack of embalming, and the fact that it was July, and the thermometer was creeping up to 95 degrees even as the sun set.

Night fell, and the house grew oppressive. The kerosene lamps that someone had lit cast long, dancing shadows on the walls. I found myself drawn to the tie, that ridiculous parrot tie, and I picked it up. It was thick, almost like it was coated in something. I thought I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned, it was just the wind rattling the screen door. But the tie felt warm, warmer than the room. I set it down quickly, and it stuck to my fingers. There was a faint residue on my hand, and it smelled exactly like the rot smell, but more concentrated. I wiped my hands on my pants, but the smell lingered.

Then the coffin creaked.

It was a low, wooden groan, like the expansion of the wood in the heat, but it was followed by a second creak, more rhythmic. People fell silent. My father took a step toward the coffin, his face pale. The creaking continued, a slow, steady creak-creak-creak, as if someone was rocking side to side. I saw the tie slide off the chair, landing on the floor with a soft thump. The lamps flickered, and in that uncertain light, I swear I saw the parrot pattern on the tie change. The birds’ eyes, which were just dots, seemed to be looking at me. Then the coffin lid burst open.

A wave of putrid air hit us, and Marcus sat up. His eyes were wide and white, and his mouth was open in a silent scream. He started to claw at his throat, making a wet, gurgling sound. You could see the flesh on his hands starting to blister and peel. He turned his head, and his gaze locked onto me, the one who had stayed by the window. He pointed a shaking finger at me, and his lips moved, but the only sound he made was that awful gurgle. I looked down at my hand, the one that had touched the tie, and I saw a red, inflamed rash forming on the skin. The smell coming off me was overwhelming. Marcus fell back into the coffin with a thud, and the lid slammed shut on its own.

Panic broke out. People ran for the doors, pushing and shoving. My father grabbed my arm, pulling me outside into the cool night air. I looked back at the house, and I saw the windows were all dark now, except for one: the living room, where a faint, flickering light danced. I could hear the creaking again, and then a sound like a thousand birds taking flight all at once. The next morning, we found the coffin empty. There was a trail of dirt leading from the house to the hill, and at the top, next to the grave that was supposed to be filled, there was a hole, deep and dark, as if something had clawed its way out. My hand still bears the mark of that tie, a red, scarring pattern that looks like a parrot’s claw. They say that when people die, a part of them lingers, especially if they have unfinished business. But I think my uncle’s business was never about the living. It was about the birds, and the moment I touched his tie, I became part of his flock.