The Bride, The Corpse, and The Exorcist.

Date: 11/4/2025

Church bells pierce through the wind — loud, discordant, like they’re arguing. I’m at a wedding. My daughter, Phoebe, is getting married. To who, I’m not entirely sure. The groom seems to shift faces every time I look at him. But I’m here, dutifully dressed in my Sunday best, playing the proud mother-of-the-bride — whatever that’s supposed to mean. We stand outside the church, the stone walls yawning with centuries of ceremony. A small cluster of us hover by the wooden doors, smiling too hard, adjusting hats that don’t fit right. I’m desperate to document it all — to prove I was present for this fleeting, sacred chaos. My mother-in-law, Lesley, couldn’t attend in person, but she’s dialled in via podcast — her idea of being omnipresent. I narrate into my phone like a BBC field reporter: “Bride radiant. Wind aggressive. Groom… unclear.” Then, without warning, I’m summoned. Mike wants to “speak to me.” Mike from Breaking Bad. I sigh, the kind of sigh that comes from generations of women being interrupted at their daughters’ weddings. I follow the sound of clanging metal until I find him waiting beside a huge, rust-stained shipping container. He looks exactly as he does on TV—face carved from desert rock, voice made of gravel and judgement. “What’s the deal, Mike?” I ask. “Why am I here?” He folds his arms with military precision. business. We’ve got unfinished” “Well, now’s not a good time,” I say, clutching my clutch “It’s my daughter’s wedding.” “It’s now or never,” he says. His tone doesn’t bend. Rage flashes through me like a match to fuel. “Do you have kids, Mike?” I ask, “Would you miss their wedding day?” He stares at me — stone-cold, unblinking. “Do you even care about them at all?” I snap. A flicker. Barely there. But I see it — a tremor in the desert. I storm out, my heels clanging against the metal floor like gunfire. When I emerge, everything’s changed. The ceremony is over. Confetti clings to the wet pavement, the guests already drunk, the bride nowhere to be found. Lesley’s voice bursts through my phone: “Did you catch the main event?” “No,” I say, hollow. “I missed it all.” At the bar, the crowd has shifted. It’s full of teenagers — laughing too loudly, smelling of sexual tension and spirits. I try to blend in, but I’m painfully aware I look like a time traveller from the wrong decade. Then, a familiar face emerges through the haze. Sylvie. Tom’s wife. Only she’s eighteen again — wide-eyed and luminous, the ghost of her own youth. She buys me a drink, says I look like I need one. “Do I?” I ask, sipping white wine that tastes faintly of communion. She exhales, long and heavy. “Tom’s lost his mind.” “How so?” She gestures toward the churchyard. A single gravestone stands alone in the grass. Tom Lawson – 1989–2025. “He’s dead?” She shakes her head. “No, he’s alive. He just… keeps planting these. Everywhere we go. Like a dog marking graves instead of trees.” Her face morphs mid-sentence — youth melting into exhaustion. “It’s weird,” she says flatly. “Yeah, no shit,” I reply. Then I freeze. Tom is standing at the bar. Smiling. “Did you see my gravestone?” I nod mutely, mumble something about needing air. The conservatory calls to me like a sunlit confession box. Inside, the light fractures through glass and dust. I spot Ed — dreadlocks, skeletal frame, the scent of stale tobacco and trouble. I sit beside him. “How’s it going?” He stares into the middle distance. “I’ve gone back to the rock, Amanda. I’m a lousy addict. Always will be.” “You won’t always be,” I say, automatic, hopeful. “I’m a useless junkie!” he screams, spittle catching the light. I don’t argue. Some people worship their demons too faithfully to be converted. Then — a bang. A door slams open. A man strides in, late fifties, hair like old straw, spectacles glinting with mania. “RIGHT—SCRAM!” he bellows. “I’m performing an EXORCISM!” Nobody moves. Ed and I sit frozen, fascinated. He sweeps his arms, tossing chairs aside like he’s clearing a stage for a showdown with the unseen. “I said BEAT IT!” We take the hint and shuffle out, just as Lesley bursts in, panting, pearls askew. “Tell me you saw the damn exorcism,” she says. “No,” I mutter. “Missed that too.” Through the glass doors, I can hear the man chanting, his voice rising into something ancient and furious. He’s hung sheets over every window, but sound leaks through the cracks. “Show yourself!” he roars. “Tell me your name!” The air drops dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Then, from somewhere deep inside that white-draped room, a voice answers — thin, defiant, unmistakable. “My name is motherfucking Tom Lawson, bitch!” My heart plummets. “But… he’s alive, isn’t he?