Grave Digger by Steve Stred

by Steve Stred


My shovel struck the lid of the coffin at 2:15 in the morning. Up until then, my brother had been helping, but he’d started to slow down, complaining about getting caught or how in high school he had a concussion and he felt dizzy. He was a useless human, but he was my brother and I loved him. I stopped for a cup of coffee and made small talk with him. We both sat on the edge of the grave, legs dangling into the hole we’d been digging. If you took a photo of us and squinted just right, you’d almost think it was two boys sitting on the edge of a pier, legs dipping into the water. I was done listening to him moan about how much his back hurt, seeing as how I’d dug at least 75% of this dirt, when we heard a noise behind us. We both instinctively dropped into the grave, feet landing with a loud thud on the lid.

“Shhhhhh,” we both said simultaneously, likely creating even more noise.

We peered over the edge, looking for anything, any movement. We didn’t see anything.
We’d been digging graves for decades now. Someone needs a body, you called us. All of the coroners and morticians in the area would gladly hand out our card, for a fee.

But this one. This one was our job.

We’d nearly been caught a dozen times over the years, care takers, grieving families returning for one last look. Hell, even the cops a time or two. But that was the case. Nearly been caught. Our record was perfect and we planned on keeping it that way.

I was practically giddy with this one. When I’d read the news and saw the internment information, I giggled like a school girl. This was the funeral of the century in this small town. We were going to make big money from this one.

A freshly dead celebrity? Unheard of.

Miller McConnell was the be-all-end-all of super-hero, mega movie stars right now. He’d been the face of DC and Marvel for almost thirty movies. He’d made over $100 billion dollars in his short movie career. Then they found him face down in his hotel bath tub, coke and a bunch of ground up pills lined up nicely beside him.

We never even knew that McConnell was a fake name and that the mega star was actually Jimbo Jenkins Jr. I’d went to school with his sister, but he was a few years younger than me so I didn’t pay any attention. When they announced that he’d be buried in his home town, we couldn’t believe it. Security lined the streets as the hearse transported his body from the church to this here hole.

Now we were about to cash in on his untimely demise.

“Hand me that pry bar,” I said. He tossed it over and I wedged it in, cracking the lid open.

“What’s he look like,” my brother called down.

“He ain’t dead,” I replied, staring at a smiling face.



About the Author


Steve is an indie author with a number of works out. Most recently he’s had two drabbles featured in 100 Word Horrors 3 from Kevin J. Kennedy Publishing. His author website is Outside of writing, he lives in Edmonton, AB, Canada and enjoys spending time with his wife, son, and dog.