John Murphy had been the most successful funeral director in the township since he had gone into business fifty years ago. As he told everyone he met, If youre not buried by John Murphy, theres a good chance youve not been buried at all.

Murphy drew his clientele, as he liked to call them, from not only the town of Carbon, a small, one-main-street town in the middle of the township, but from all the surrounding areas, Elk Mountain, Crystal Lake, Vandling, Fell, and the entire farming community surrounding Carbon.

He made sure to stop in every bar in the area at least once a week to buy the patrons drinks. He himself, however, treated his business as a holy mandate, and he would not indulge in drink lest his reputation suffer the least stain of impropriety. In his less generous moments, he entertained the thought the more people abused alcohol and tobacco, the sooner they would end up in one of his caskets.

His one flaw, if one can call it that, was that he loved money, and the more funerals he had, the more he could watch his money grow. Yet no one took him for a miser except his wife who longed for a vacation now and then, something he frowned on.

Suppose someone dies and Im on vacation, he would say to her. How would that look? Wouldnt they remind me for the rest of my days that I wasnt here when their mother or father or husband or wife died? Id be ashamed every time I ran into them.

For the first time in his many years in business, John Murphy could not control a situation. The pandemonium and chaos grew into hysteria and madness. People were fainting or rushing to get away from the resurrected Bill Carroll, or shouting praise for the wonders of the Lord, or crying and falling on their knees in prayer, or terrified by the miracle they were witnessing.

John Murphy had leaned against a wall behind the casket, and gradually let his body slide down until he was sitting on the floor. He held his head in his hands, trying to put pressure on his temples so his mounting headache would not turn into a stroke.

Since no one could see him, he allowed tears to come to his eyes as he thought of the money he had lost on this funeral, thousands of dollars which he had seen as another layer in his large cache. What could he charge Mary for? Not for the casket. Not for the concrete vault. Not for the hearse or the limousines and least of all for the embalming.

Sometimes people would remark to him about their fear of being buried alive, and he assured them such fear was unfounded if a person was embalmed since there would be no blood left to sustain them. Now what would he say to them? People would scoff at all of the patented answers he had developed through the years. How do you know? Look at what happened to Bill Carroll, they would say in a tone of mockery.

As he began to think even more deeply, he realized this could ruin his reputation. It could make him a pariah among not only other undertakers, but among his own people. Hatred of Jeremiah filled his heart, and he damned the miracle worker. Nothing good could come of any of this.