The fact that the rose was upright astonished Marcy. She looked around the garden; the other flowers were blooming wonderfully. Maybe it’s not deep enough she thought, and decided to replant it. She removed the rose carefully and dug until the trowel hit an object that clanged upon impact. Peering into the hole, she saw a thick, gold band. On a skeleton finger.
The skeleton hand shot up, clutched Marcy and pulled her through the earth which churned and filled her open, shrieking mouth. It then settled flat as if untouched.
The rose lay withering, dying, until it too, disappeared.
He’d planned it; Mrs. Merriwether would answer the door in her Sunday morning housecoat, smiling sweetly. She would thank him for bringing Saturday’s mail from the mailbox, and he would step inside slightly to inquire if she needed help; she was elderly after all.
She would pause to think and then he’d punch her to the floor. After that, with gloves on, he’d locate and steal the inheritance she’d been wittering on about banking for the past decade.
However, the snow (and potentially incriminating footsteps) had given Mrs. Merriwether a reprieve.