They say there is a church, buried deep in some forest miles east of here, where the dead congregate.

The church used to be a church for the living, you see. That’s because the church used to be in the center of a town and living people just so happen to inhabit towns. It was never the mecca of anything, never bustling or busy, but it was a steady town with enough folk to get by. It may even have still been out there today, save for what happened.

What happened, you ask?

Well, Karla Sue went to church.

Now, Karla Sue went to church every Sunday, morning and afternoon, and more than not on Wednesdays, too. It just so happens to be a Sunday morning we’re talking about, by the way. Anyway, Karla Sue was no stranger to the church, and it should’ve come to no one’s surprise she was there, dressed in her finest, ready to give praise to the Lord.

The problem was that, Karla Sue?

She had died Thursday afternoon.

But there she sat, in the pew she always sat in, looking and smelling fairly ripe. Her nice clothes were the ones they’d buried her in, and she kept her gaze locked front and center, eyes directed at the pastor. As she always had.

Well, folks didn’t rightfully know what to do. They were so shocked that not a one of them screamed, and they waited to see what Karla Sue might say or do, but—there was nothing. She just sat there, watching the pastor, as though waiting for service to begin.

It did, of course, begin. Eventually. The townsfolk didn’t know what else to do. No one wanted to touch her or talk to her and she didn’t seem inclined to leave them in peace anytime soon, so—service then. Maybe Karla Sue had just needed one last sermon before she could be laid to rest.

And maybe that was the case, because when the sermon was over? Old Karla Sue got up and walked right out of the church. People say right back to her grave, because whilst it was found with the dirt disturbed, it had been covered properly again.

That might’ve been the end of all things, except the next Sunday came, and there Karla Sue was again.

And she wasn’t alone this time.

Craig Powell, who had been dead some sixth months from a heart attack, was also seated in his usual spot when the congregation began to file in. Oh, but did his wife faint at the sight of her rotting husband, sitting there as though this were any other Sunday.

This time, one of the men worked up the courage to ask Karla Sue what she was doing and what she wanted, but she didn’t so much as look at him, let alone answer. Craig Powell was just as empty when the same man tried him a few minutes later.

They were just sitting and staring, watching an increasingly uncomfortable pastor as he pretended to go over his notes for the day.

And so again, service was held with the dead in attendance on account of people not knowing what else to do. It wasn’t like they were going to be driven from their own place of worship, and the idea of not having church at all? That was even more of an abomination, apparently, than the dead sitting vigil with you.

Every week from thereon, a new member of the deceased would join their worship service. They came at all walks of decomposition, down to even little Apple Steiner, who had been dead so long she was nothing but bones. They each sat, and they waited with the patience of a saint for service to begin.

At some point, a few people worked up the nerve to try to physically remove the dead, but even the tiny Apple Steiner who was but bones could not be swayed. Not even with three full grown, fit men tugging on her desperately as though she were rope in a game.

There were full-blown town hall meetings over these dead. Not just their presence, but that they were starting to overfill the church, to take the places of living, breathing members of the congregation. Folks were being made to stand off to the side to watch the sermon, always looking over uncomfortably at the corpse that had taken their seat.

But no answers were ever found. The pastor blessed the church again and again. He even blessed the dead, bidding them to their eternal rest. Nothing seemed to affect or sway those expired people from attending sermons. They showed up faithfully every week, stronger by one each time.

This continued until it reached its natural course, wherein the dead completely outnumbered the living. Not on Wednesday service or even the late Sunday one, but every Sunday morning, without fail—the dead were there. Listening to the preacher’s sermons, receiving their blessings.

Taking up every seat in the building.

As always, they sat silently and left silently and could never be found outside the church itself; even when people watched directly as a member of the dead exited the building, they just sort of disappeared into the wind. When graves were opened, the undead were found to be again dead in their resting places, so somehow they were getting back and forth, but—

Well, it didn’t really matter.

The point of the story is that the undead overtook that church, and what good is a town without a church? Folks found it so creepy and unsettling, and they feared things would progress, that the undead would start to go further than just Sunday morning, so a lot of them—well, they split. Moved on to other, less gruesome prospects.

Rumor says the only one who wound up staying behind was that old pastor. Not that he wasn’t unsettled or bothered by having an undead congregation, but didn’t he have an obligation to God that outweighed it all? To preach to the people who needed it, to the people who wanted to hear the Word?

They say that he’s one of them now, lasting some ten years before keeling over right there at the podium just to get back up and continue as though nothing had happened. They say the undead congregation still meets every Sunday morning and that if you’re brave enough, or dumb enough, and you dig far enough into the eastside of the forest of the old highway—you can find that church.

And if you find it on a Sunday morning?

Well, at least you can stand to the sides, watching the sermon as it goes on.

Maybe the dead still won’t bother with you.