Buried Things

The damp soil clung to your shovel as you dug, the night air thick with the scent of earth and decay. It was 2:30 AM, a time you never imagined spending in a graveyard, but desperation was a powerful motivator.
Beside you, your father, Rodger Cooke, worked with a frantic energy. The shovel struck something hard – a coffin. A wave of nausea washed over you, quickly followed by a surge of panic as a flashlight beam cut through the darkness. The graveyard caretaker had found you.
There was no turning back. With the crowbar, you struck the ancient coffin, shattering the lid. Inside lay a man, perfectly preserved despite being buried for years. He was still. He was dead. Until your father chanted, squeezing the hex bag.
His eyes snapped open, fixing on you. And then, he lunged.