This is an excerpt from my short story The Beast in the Basement that appears in the Twisted Tails III: Pure Fear anthology.

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Eleanore Twining’s funeral was a flop, as funerals go. Oh, not that funerals can be rated on a one to ten success scale, not even pass or fail. It was rather that the turnout was dismally small. Two patrol cars from the Laurelville PD, one hearse, and five cars. From the five cars, eight mourners emerged to gather at the graveside. A chilling midmorning drizzle descended on the little group. None brought umbrellas because the meteorologists stated in open confidence that an early Spring had arrived in Laurelville and the day would be clear, temperatures in the high seventies with no wind. Well, the temperature soared all the way to the lower fifties and the sun remained hidden in a dense cloud curtain, gray as death, so to speak. The wind was beginning to build to just short of hurricane strength. The pastor turned his back to the coming storm, which meant he was also turned away from the future, eternal home of Eleanore Twining. He hunched over to shield the bible with his body and began droning out the prayer for the recently departed.

Angela Langley couldn’t help noticing that the prayer didn’t make much sense. It was obvious to her that he truncated and frequently cut full sections in some weird places, plainly anxious to get it done with and return to the shelter of his little church in the Snob Hill district. In many ways there hovered a comic air over something that should, she guessed, be at least serious, if not somber. An old friend lay cold and pale in front of her in a fancy ebony box with ornate polished bronze hinges and latches. Eleanore could afford things like that. A yawning grave gaped. The gravedigger poked the business end of his shovel impatiently at a mound of dirt that was rapidly turning to muck under his feet. A bright yellow backhoe rented from Digger Dan’s sat a couple of yards behind the small brown mountain, its noisy engine pinging and clacking, helping the wind drown out the pastor’s weak, squirrel-like voice. It was just as well.

My God, what a farce, she thought. Good thing El can’t see what’s going on. After all, she had paid enough to feed and clothe the nation’s homeless for a year. She, El, paid for all this in advance and Angela knew, although Eleanore had no idea what was transpiring, that she had expected much more for her money than what she was getting.

As for the turnout, that wasn’t much of a surprise, though it was something of a disappointment. Eleanore was never the outgoing type. She didn’t make friends with any ease. Not even back in school when she had youth and good looks working for her. Breasts that stood up and out, a tiny waist, hips and prominent buttocks that rocked, both in appearance and movement—movement that would bring a lather to the lips of the dead and, supporting it all, a pair of legs most women would kill to possess. To top all of that off, she wore a face framed in golden-brown hair that was as perfect as any face could be...with a complexion to match. But she had shunned most personal contact and ran from young men as if they carried a deadly disease. Angela wondered if El ever tumbled to the fact that Angela had used her for chum as she trolled the campus for lustful eligibles. Eleanore remained good bait, even into her fifties and Angela took full advantage of that whenever she could pry her out of the house.