The End

Dave awoke to the pungent smell of freshly stirred earth, and the sight of Alec’s face silhouetted by the starry night above. It was a calm, almost peaceful look. His eyes, his golden brown eyes, shone with a gleam of interest, resembling that of a dog when it cocks its head to the side.

                “Alec, what… what happened?” Without a sound, Alec stood up and hopped out of the grave.

                “Hey,” Dave cried out, trying to get up. Tightly tied around his wrists, ankles, and chest were straps, pinning him to the bottom of the plush coffin.

                “Hey, let me out of here!”

                Returning to the edge of the grave, Alec peered down with his satchel over his shoulder and a shovel in his hand. He reached into his bag, digging for a bit before pulling out a small, black device. He tossed the device into the grave, right into the corner above Dave’s head.

                “It’s a mic, so I can listen to what you have to say.”

                “Listen to what I have to say? I’ll tell you now, just let me out of this damn hole!”

                “No. That wouldn’t work. You have to die for it to work.”

                “For what to work?” Dave asked.

                “My experiment. I’m doing work on how people act in their last moments.”

                “Well you don’t have to actually kill me! Just… just let me out, I’ll answer any questions you have, I’ll help! Just let me out!”

                Smoothly, Alec dipped his foot into the grave.

                “Too late.”

                He kicked the top of the coffin, causing the lid to slam shut. With a look of utmost relief, Alec took a deep breath through his nose, then sighed, smiling. The sound of screaming was dull, masked by the thick coffin lid. And, thankfully, the dirt was much easier to put back on top of the coffin rather than digging it up. It was only a minute or two of scooping before the screaming was completely muffled by the layer of dirt.

                Alec stretched out, cracking his knuckles and neck, before reaching into his bag for one last thing. It was a black notebook, weathered and well used. Slowly, with a clear look of satisfaction, he began flipping through the pages. Each one was labeled with a page number, and at the top was a name clearly written in large blue ink, followed by a scribble of notes. He went through two pages, five pages, ten. It wasn’t until number thirty four that he came to a blank page.

                He pulled a plain blue pen out of his pocket and popped off the cap. In clear, neat writing, he began writing at the top of the page: ‘Dave G. – The Grave Robber’.