Witness to My Own Funeral

The darkness came first, then awareness. Not the gentle awakening from sleep, but a violent snap into consciousness—like a circuit suddenly completing. I existed, suspended in perfect blackness, my mind racing while my body lay still as carved stone.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

I couldn’t move. Yet I wasn’t suffocating. Instead, I existed in a state of suspended animation, my consciousness trapped in an immobile shell.

Voices filtered through the darkness, muffled at first, then gradually clearer. A somber baritone resonated above me.

“…Russel Mercer was a man of passion and conviction. In his forty-seven years, he touched many lives with his generosity and spirit…”

My name. My age. My eulogy.

Panic surged through my mind like an electrical storm, but my pulse remained undetectable. I was at my own funeral. The realization crystallized with horrifying clarity—I was presumed dead, yet fully, agonizingly aware.

The air around me was heavy with the mingled scents of lilies and formaldehyde. The polished wood of what I now understood to be my coffin felt cold against my back, even through the suit I’d been dressed in. My final suit, chosen without my consent.

“…He leaves behind his loving wife, Margaret, and his daughter, Emily, both of whom he cherished above all else…”

Margaret. Her face appeared in my mind—soft brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled, chestnut hair that caught the light, slender fingers that had touched my face just days ago. Or had it been longer? Time had become fluid, unreliable.

I strained against my paralysis, willing just one finger to twitch, one eyelid to flutter. Nothing. My body remained a prison of flesh, unresponsive to my desperate commands.

As the prayer ended, footsteps approached. The coffin creaked slightly as someone leaned over it. A drop of moisture—a tear—fell onto my cheek and slid down to my ear. I couldn’t even flinch at the sensation.

“Oh, Russel.” Margaret’s voice, choked with emotion. “I’ll miss you so much.”

Her words should have comforted me. Instead, they sent a chill through my paralyzed form. Something in her tone, some subtle note beneath the grief, registered as wrong. Like an instrument slightly out of tune—not enough for most to notice, but jarring to those who knew the true sound.

Memory flickered like a faltering flame. The night before… what I thought was my death. Margaret bringing me a glass of whiskey. The unusual bitter aftertaste. The creeping numbness that had started in my fingertips and spread inward. My heartbeat slowing.

Her face, watching. Not with horror or concern, but with patience.

***

“The Tranquil Passage process is revolutionary,” a professional voice explained above me. Dr. Howard, I presumed—the mortician from Serenity Gardens Memorial. “The synthetic preservation compound allows natural death processes to conclude while preventing decomposition.”

The funeral home’s specialization in this “advanced” method now seemed like cruel irony. I was trapped in the midpoint between mortality and preservation, held in stasis by chemicals that maintained my appearance while my consciousness remained horrifyingly intact.

“And you’re certain he’s… gone?” Emily’s voice, my daughter. Twenty-four years old, analytical like me, suspicious of convenient truths. Even in my state, pride flickered within me at her questioning tone.

“Standard protocol requires a twenty-four hour waiting period before final sealing,” Dr. Howard continued. “It’s mostly tradition, of course. We’ll complete the preservation process tomorrow morning.”

Twenty-four hours. A window of opportunity.

“That’s… thoughtful,” Margaret remarked, her voice tight. “Though I can’t imagine why we’d need to wait.”

The scent of her perfume—vanilla and amber—drifted over me as she leaned closer to the coffin. I felt her fingers brush against mine, a featherlight touch that arranged my hands more perfectly over my chest.

“The law requires it,” Dr. Howard replied, his tone professionally neutral. “State regulations for the Tranquil Passage method are quite specific.”

I heard Margaret’s slight intake of breath—so subtle that only someone who had shared a bed with her for fifteen years would recognize it as frustration.

The paralysis from the tetrodotoxin—I was certain now that’s what she had used—left me unable even to regulate my awareness. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t drift into unconsciousness to escape this nightmare. I could only think, remember, and realize with growing horror what had happened.

A door opened. The sound of high heels clicking against the floor grew louder, then stopped beside my coffin.

“Russel.” Margaret’s voice, no longer performatively grief-stricken. “I need to make sure you understand why this is happening.”

Her fingertips traced the edge of the coffin, inches from my face.

“You never truly saw me, did you? Always focused on your own needs, your own desires. Fifteen years in your shadow, adjusting myself to fit your expectations.” Her voice remained quiet, controlled. “Did you know I started painting again last year? No, you didn’t notice the studio I set up in the garage. Just like you didn’t notice when I stopped loving you three years ago.”

Her words sliced through me more effectively than any scalpel. I hadn’t noticed.

“I could have just left,” she continued, her voice thoughtful. “Divorce is so common, isn’t it? But then I’d get half of everything at best. This way…” She paused, and I could almost see her smile. “This way, I get it all. The house, the investments, the insurance. A fresh start.”

“The funny thing is,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “no one will ever suspect. Your high blood pressure, your family history of heart problems… everyone saw this coming eventually. Just not quite so soon.”

“Twenty-four hours,” she murmured. “Then it will be over. I’m sorry it has to be this way, Russel. But I’ve waited long enough for my life to begin.”

***

Time distorted in the coffin. Only the subtle changes in ambient sound gave me any sense of time’s passage.

The paralysis was absolute, yet paradoxically, I felt everything. The slight pressure of the coffin’s padded interior. The unnatural stiffness of my starched collar. Most of all, I felt the crushing weight of Margaret’s betrayal pressing against my chest more heavily than any physical constraint.

The sound of the funeral home’s front door opening interrupted my thoughts. Multiple footsteps approached my room.

“I just want to see him one more time.” Emily’s voice, tight with emotion. “Before tomorrow.”

“Of course, Miss Mercer. Take all the time you need.” Dr. Howard’s professional compassion.

“Dad.” Emily’s voice was closer now, directly above me.

If only I could move. If only I could signal to her. My daughter—the one person who might question, who might look closely enough to see the truth.

“He doesn’t look right,” she said suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” Dr. Howard’s voice, confused.

“Something’s off. His color. It’s not like… when someone’s passed.” Emily’s voice grew firmer. “And look at his eyes.”

“The eyelids naturally settle in a slightly open position sometimes,” Dr. Howard explained. “We generally close them fully before the final preservation.”

“No, it’s not that. I swear… I swear they moved.”

My consciousness surged at her words. Yes! Yes, Emily! Look closer!

“Miss Mercer,” Dr. Howard’s voice was gentle but firm. “I understand this is incredibly difficult. Many people experience these moments, seeing what they wish to see.”

“I’m not imagining it,” Emily insisted. “Something’s wrong. Dad had this… thing about being buried alive. It was like a phobia for him. He made me promise I’d always check, always be sure.”

She was right. After reading Poe as a teenager, I’d developed an irrational fear of premature burial. The bitter irony of my current situation wasn’t lost on me.

“I want another doctor to look at him,” Emily’s voice cracked slightly. “Please. Just to be sure.”

“That would be… unusual,” Dr. Howard said carefully. “But not impossible. However, we would need next-of-kin approval. That would be your mother.”

“Then call her,” Emily said. “Call her right now.”

The sound of a phone being dialed. Rings echoed through the quiet room.

“Margaret Mercer.” My wife’s voice, slightly surprised.

After brief explanations, Margaret’s voice acquired a careful neutrality.

“Emily,” she finally said, softly chiding. “You’re traumatized. We all are. But this isn’t healthy.”

“Mom, please—”

“Dr. Howard,” Margaret interrupted, “is there any medical reason to believe my husband isn’t deceased?”

“No, Mrs. Mercer. All standard protocols were followed.”

“Then I think we need to accept reality and allow the grieving process to proceed naturally.”

The call ended. I felt a surge of desperate hope as Dr. Howard moved closer to the coffin.

“I’ll perform a standard examination,” he explained to Emily.

I felt his cool, gloved fingers press against my neck, searching for a pulse that the tetrodotoxin had rendered imperceptible. He lifted one of my eyelids fully—the first change in my visual field since awakening in this nightmare.

This was my chance. If any part of me could move—any minute twitch or dilation—now was the moment.

“Pupillary response is absent,” Dr. Howard noted clinically. “No sign of cardiovascular activity.”

No! I screamed within the prison of my mind. I’m here! I’m alive!

“Wait.” Emily’s voice was sharp. “Do that again. Check his eyes again.”

Dr. Howard obliged, lifting my eyelid once more.

“I swear I saw something,” Emily insisted. “A tiny movement.”

“There are certain… substances that can create a death-like state,” he said carefully. “Extremely rare cases, but in my forty years of practice, I’ve read about them.”

“What are you saying?” Emily’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Given your concerns and certain subtle anomalies I’m observing, I believe we should delay the final preservation process until we can conduct more thorough tests. Just to be absolutely certain.”

In the stillness of my paralysis, a spark of hope flared to life.

***

I was alone with Dr. Howard. After Emily left to make arrangements for additional tests, he had remained in the viewing room.

“Mr. Mercer,” he finally said, his voice low and measured. “If you can hear me, I want you to know that I suspect what might have happened to you.”

“In my younger years, I worked briefly in Haiti,” he continued. “I witnessed cases there… substances that could induce states virtually indistinguishable from death. Tetrodotoxin is one such agent.”

Yes! My mind screamed. That’s it!

The door opened. The familiar sound of Margaret’s heels approached.

“Dr. Howard,” she said, her voice carefully modulated. “I’d like a word.”

Their footsteps receded, leaving me alone once more. Minutes stretched endlessly until the door opened again.

“I appreciate your understanding, Dr. Howard.” Margaret’s voice had regained its composure.

Something in his tone had changed. The certainty, the suspicion from earlier had been replaced by a strange formality.

Dr. Howard’s footsteps retreated, and the door closed, leaving me alone with my would-be murderer.

“Well,” Margaret said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That was inconvenient.”

“Your dutiful daughter nearly complicated things,” she continued. “But fortunately, Dr. Howard is a practical man. When faced with the choice between pursuing an unlikely theory or accepting a generous donation to the funeral home’s renovation fund, he made the sensible decision.”

Cold horror washed over me. She had bought his silence, his complicity.

“The tests won’t happen,” she explained calmly. “Instead, they’ll complete the preservation process tonight. A small adjustment to the schedule, that’s all.”

Her perfume—once comforting, now sickening—enveloped me as she leaned closer.

“This isn’t just about money. This is about freedom. From your expectations. From your subtle control.”

“The truth is, I’ve been dead for years in our marriage,” she said. “Now it’s just making official what’s been true all along. One of us needed to go, and you always said you’d die for me. Now you get to keep that promise.”

Time passed—minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell. The door opened again, and multiple sets of footsteps entered.

“We’ll begin the final preservation now,” Dr. Howard’s voice announced. “Mrs. Mercer has signed all the necessary authorizations.”

I felt hands positioning equipment near the coffin, heard the soft hiss of pressurized systems being prepared.

“Begin the process,” Dr. Howard instructed.

I heard a mechanical sound, then the subtle hiss of gas being released into the coffin.

The door burst open with a crash.

“Stop!” Emily’s voice, breathless and commanding. “Stop right now!”

“Miss Mercer, your mother has—”

“I don’t care what she authorized,” Emily interrupted fiercely. “I have a court order.”

“This is… highly unusual,” Dr. Howard said, his voice tight.

“Judge Harriman is a family friend,” Emily explained. “And he takes potential medical malpractice very seriously. This emergency order requires independent verification before any further procedures.”

“And I’ve brought someone who can help with that,” Emily continued. “Dr. Langhorne from County General. She specializes in toxicology.”

“Dr. Howard,” a new female voice greeted coolly. “I understand there’s some question about this death certificate. I’d like to perform some tests immediately.”

I felt the preservation gas being shut off. Hands moved around me, unfastening something near the coffin’s edge.

“I’m drawing blood for immediate analysis,” Dr. Langhorne explained. “And I’m administering a counteragent that will neutralize certain paralytic toxins, if present.”

Something cold entered my veins. The sensation—the first active feeling beyond passive awareness since this nightmare began—was shockingly intense.

Hands moved over me, clinical and thorough. Fingers pressed against my neck, lifted my eyelids, checked my reflexes.

“Interesting,” Dr. Langhorne murmured. “Very interesting.”

And then—a miracle. The slightest twitch in my index finger. Imperceptible to anyone not watching for it, but to me, it was an earthquake, a revolution, a resurrection.

“There!” Emily’s voice, triumphant. “His finger moved! I saw it!”

“Indeed,” Dr. Langhorne confirmed, her voice calm but urgent. “We need to get him to the hospital immediately. This man is not dead—he’s been poisoned with a neurotoxin that mimics death.”

The room erupted into activity. I felt my body being lifted, transferred, moved with urgent care.

“Someone should inform Mrs. Mercer,” Dr. Howard suggested, his voice strained.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Emily said, her voice carrying a hardness I’d never heard before. “The police are already speaking with her. They were very interested in the contents of her evening tea.”

“Her tea?” Dr. Langhorne asked.

“Yes,” Emily replied, and I could hear the grim satisfaction in her voice. “The one containing the same substance that nearly killed my father. The one I’ve been replacing with harmless herb tea for the past week, ever since I found her research on tetrodotoxin on her laptop.”

As they wheeled me toward the ambulance, I felt the paralysis receding further. A finger twitch became a hand flexing. An eyelid flickered. My lungs expanded slightly more with each breath.

I was coming back from the dead—and Margaret was going to a cell.

Justice, like life itself, sometimes hangs by the thinnest of threads. But when that thread holds, resurrection is possible.