Death is permanent. This is the falsehood that we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night. It’s the lie that we tell our children so they don’t carry their little kitten’s corpse to the old cemetery deep in the forest, in the grove where nothing living grows. It’s the myth that we wrap ourselves in so we can ignore the gut-wrenching terror of what really follows death–the unfathomable unknown.
The truth is that some things don’t stay dead.
The child at the end of the dock that drowned years before. That woman who your husband was having an affair with–the woman who disappeared shortly after your husband stopped dating her. The prettiest girl in school, gift-wrapped for you in an old, forest cabin. The vampire that hovers around her old grave. Two Russian rock stars with a taste for human flesh and blood. These are The Misbehaving Dead, and they just won’t stay where we buried them.