'Earth to Earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Thus we return the body of Elias Marsh to the ground and pray, O Lord, that his spirit returns to You and Your gloried presence.'

So saying, Father Jonas Thom sprinkled a handful of soil onto the simple wooden casket that housed the mortal remains of Elias Marsh, and ended his part in the burial of the deceased man.  All that remained now was for the groundskeeper to lower the coffin into the ground and replace the soil.

It was a sad thing, he thought, as he walked back to the shelter of the church, that no other person had seen fit to attend this final solemn rite in the life of another human being.  Perhaps the man had no family?  But, surely, he must have friends, someone to mourn his passing?

As Father Thom stood in the entrance porch taking shelter from a sudden chill wind that had blown up (bringing, he noted, rain later probably), his mind pondered his own situation.  He, too, had no family - at least not within any appreciable radius, and only a minor circle of friends.  Indeed, it was to escape memories of his broken family that he had enrolled in the priesthood; so eager to forget his former life, that he had changed his name, or at least truncated it somewhat, and had used only this nom-faux for so long that it now seemed more right than his original name.

Thomas, Silas Thomas - a name he had not spoken, even in his mind, for many years.  The name of a drunkard, a bully and a coward - the name of his father.  Many years before, actually nearly twenty five - twenty five years! - his father's drunken anger had been turned, too fiercely that time, upon his wife, Jonas' mother.  That night, that awful night, Silas Thomas had shattered young Jonas' life - as well as his mother's skull.  He and his brother, Elias  (my God! Of course, the dead man's name was the same as his brother's, for so long forgotten, and it was obviously the similarity which had set him to thinking along this morbid train of thought).  He and his brother had fled their father's fury - ultimately leading them to a neighbour and the arrest of their father.  In the years following, the two brothers had drifted apart - Jonas to become a priest, losing contact with his twin brother completely.

As the slow drizzle began to fall, Father Thom resumed his duties within the church, placing the uncomfortable thoughts that had arisen to the back of his mind, with the promise that he would, someday soon, try to find his brother.

The weather growing inexplicably worse as the evening wore on resulted in almost nobody attending evening mass, leaving Father Thom to continue with the minor, but many, chores that need to be performed to keep his small parish church functioning.

Looking at the small alter , his mind once again returning to the man lying in his coffin outside the church, Father Thom's eyes fell upon the collection of personal effects laid out on a nearby trestle.  His, the man's, Elias Marsh's belongings.  Here by the good grace of the poor soul who found the body.  Father Thom had hoped that one of the funeral guests might have collected them but, of course, no one had come, no one had come to wish this soul rest, no one had come to relieve the crushing loneliness of performing a funeral for a man almost his own age.  Yes, that was what it was like, the loneliness tempting you to just finish the rite early and be done with it, for if no one else cared then surely the empty words of a priest have no meaning.  Although, he always stayed, he always finished the prayers and always felt the same feeling of - what? fear? tension?  No, it was more like unease - the dead man lying so close, his belongings there to touch.  

Knowing it to be the wrong thing to do, Father Thom began to look through the collection of items laid on the table.  A pocket knife, a journal, some trinkets of no real worth - no loose change, of course; the poor soul who had discovered the body apparently not being that full of good grace.  The only odd item of any value, that stood out among the other possessions because of its very incongruity, was a silver cigarette case, dented and dirty.  Monogrammed with the initials 'ST' -

(Silas Thomas)

- obviously stolen.  

Why had he thought of his father?  Other than the initials being the same, there was no logical reason to jump to that particular thought.  Father Thom put the case down.  He picked up the journal and opened it, preparing to read the personal thoughts of this dead man to whom he had begun to attach some morbid fascination.

Lightning flashed.

Drawing his attention to the large windows of the church and further out to the suddenly silhouetted image of the coffin still waiting above its final resting place.  Again, another flash, followed by the loud crack of thunder -

(Mother)

- the sound and image too much like a painful memory.  With hands barely controlled beyond shaking, Father Thom began to read.  With growing apprehension he read on, the details of his own life seemingly mirrored in the dead man's words.  Turning pages quickly now, not reading anymore but fitting in details to half read sentences, he suddenly stopped, a cold sweat on his brow - the next pages were missing, torn out at the spine.  

The storm grew in its immensity, Father Thom's anxiety growing in tandem.  

'ST' - the initials on the cigarette case, his father's initials, the life of this man with the same name as his brother, the coffin waiting...waiting...for what?

For him?

For him to go to it?

He picked up the cigarette case and opened it.  Not thinking, acting automatically, he ripped out the cigarettes within and saw what he dreaded finding, yet what he knew would be there - papers, pages from the journal, kept where his father had always kept betting slips!  Unfolding the pages, Father Thom read on, terror slipping its icy fingers around his heart as he saw the two words he hoped not to see - 'Silas Thomas'!

Elias!  It was Elias lying in the unmarked wooden casket in his, his, graveyard!

As the lightning lit the ghastly scene again and the thunder crashed around the small church, the priest walked to the door, opening it to face the full fury of the storm.  And into the gale toward the coffin and its terrible occupant lurched the figure in black.  Struggling against the downpour and mumbling incoherently Father Thom reached the coffin.  Feeling its grainy surface beneath his fingers, he regained a little of his composure -

(Elias, my brother)

With the disturbing thoughts still playing on his mind, he knew he must open the coffin to finally settle the matter.  The mound of earth on which he stood, and the intense rain, gave a poor surface on which to manhandle the casket; instead he decided to pry the lid off while the wooden box still lay on its rails.  Sharp splinters drawing blood from his hands as he worked, he managed to pull the lid away enough to allow him to place one hand into the blackness within.  Touching the body, he moved his hands to the dead man's chest and felt the coldness of the crossed hands, seemingly protecting what he sought within their lifeless clasp.  The horror of this awful reality struck when Father Thom felt the familiar shape of what could only be a ring, his father's ring, on the finger of this man, his brother.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning startled him, illuminating the interior of the coffin for a split second -

(the eyes were open!)

- then plunging the cemetery into blackness once again.  Horror, of both the momentary image and of his own actions, caused Father Thom to step away from the coffin; startled, his foot slipped in the wed mud and earth and he began to fall into the open mouth of the grave.  Clutching frantically for a hand hold, he dislodged the coffin from its rails and it too also toppled into the hole.  Landing in the open grave, disorientated by the fall, Father Thom tried to lift the heavy wooden box.  The dead man's hand -

(o god! the eyes, the eyes were open!)

- fell from the upturned coffin and landed across his face.  Panic rose in the priest's chest, too terrified even to scream, he clawed desperately at the earth walls, effectively immobilised by the heavy, awkward weight above him.  

The wind howled in the trees of the churchyard and the rain lashed down more savagely as lightning once again flashed, burning Father Thom's final sight into his very soul. Within the rectangle of sky visible from beneath the coffin, stood a man -

(father?)

- laughing hysterically.  

Slowly, earth from the mound above the grave began to run down into the hole, the small trickle quickly becoming a torrent, choking the priest and forcing dirt into his eyes and mouth as he was buried alive under the coffin.  As the final handfuls of dirt filled the hole, the rain stopped and a final flash of lightning lit up the graveyard, calm now, grass covering the raw earth of the new grave, its headstone fixed securely in place.  The only word carved into its surface, the identity of its macabre contents – ‘THOMAS’