Don’t Poke the Dead
Children Shouldn't Play With Grief. The Dead Take It Personally.
A young sibling's morbid curiosity and callous exploitation of sympathy awakens something that should have remained in the grave.
The following story is rated H for horror. It is intended for a mature audience. Reader discretion is advised.
Don’t Poke the Dead
My brother is dead, and it's awesome!
I know everyone says I should be sad because it's always sad when someone dies, but he was never even alive. I heard Mommy telling Grandma he was born dead. Why should I be sad about someone I never met?
The funeral was boring. It almost made me wish I was in school. Almost. Everyone kept saying they were sorry for my loss, but I didn't lose anything. Grown-ups are weird.
I saw my first real tombstone there. When I read the name and asked who Timothy was, Mommy started crying again. Daddy said it was my brother's name. Grandma hissed at me and told me not to poke the dead. That sounded cool—everyone at school would be so jealous.
I changed my mind, though. He smelled bad, like rotten meat. Even in the ground.
Dad said I couldn't smell him, that it was all in my head, that he was too far down. But I swore I could. Even in the car. Sometimes around the house now.
When I went back to school, I discovered something cool: I could get out of anything! Whenever Mrs. Sparks wanted me to do something, I'd start crying and say I missed Timothy. She'd cry too and let me skip it. It was perfect.
It worked on Mommy and Daddy too. Not Grandma, though. She'd just narrow her eyes and whisper, "Don't poke the dead, child."
Sometimes at night, I hear laughing from the baby's room. I thought it was Mommy—she goes there to cry sometimes. But when I looked, the room was empty. There's that smell again.
Mommy and Daddy went to therapy tonight, leaving me with Grandma.
She made me go to bed early, but I can't sleep. Something's scratching at my window. The laughing's back too.
And my room stinks.
Maybe the cat brought in another dead mouse? I turn on the light and see him—eyes shining from the light.
Timothy.
His skin is grey and covered in mud. His sewn-shut eyes follow me as I try to run. I fall out of bed, can't move. The blanket's wrapped around my legs.
He crawls through the window, falling to the floor. When he lands, I hear his soft baby bones crack. He likes it. Starts laughing.
That laugh.
I scream. Grandma opens the door. She sees him but doesn't flinch.
"I told you not to invoke the dead." She shakes her head and closes the door.
I hear the click of her locking it.
"No! Let me out!"
He's crawling closer.
A black streak of mud stains the carpet behind him.
I taste his sour rot on my tongue.
That tiny mouth opens.
Big.
Bigger.
His little black tongue wiggles.
Drool falls on my face.
Oh God.
Mommy.
Granny ain’t see nothing. 😭🙏
Incredibly creepy with a pretty accurate voice. I too was a cruel child that used guilt to my advantage, so this story really puts me in that headspace.