Save The Date
It’s late October and the moon hangs in the night sky. Francis, a 26-year-old man with a slim build and clean-shaven face, is driving his car along wet countryside roads in the middle of nowhere. He sighs in frustration as he peers at his surroundings, recognising nothing.In the empty passenger seat beside him lies a grease-stained, crumpled takeaway bag, partially covering a letter titled ‘Eviction Notice’. Buckled safely into the back seats are two carboard boxes – one filled with old-looking ornaments, labelled ‘Work’, and another with clothes and toiletries, labelled ‘Stuff’.Taped to his car’s dashboard on branded notepaper – Authentic Ornaments Ltd – is a list of instructions directing him to a wedding venue located deep in the countryside. Francis remembers the bride herself proudly telling him that the place is “way off grid”. He thinks back to that conversation. He had tried to hide his disappointment as the bride, Pamela, excitedly told him about the venue, the food, the decorations and, most annoyingly of all, the “perfect” groom.“He’s just …” Pamela had said to Francis, her mouth curling up into a broad smile, “the most perfect guy I could ever ask for.” She paused for a second, then added: “Sorry, it’s not like you were bad or anything, it’s just, you know … when you dumped me it hurt like hell … but I really think it was for the best.”In response, Francis faked a smile through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, his mind replayed the year of disappointments he had experienced since he dumped Pamela to make things official with another woman – the aspiring actress, Synthia.He had never been the most down-to-earth man, so it wasn’t much of a surprise to see his head turned by someone as drop-dead gorgeous as Synthia. Her personality wasn’t anything to be proud of, but physically she was way out of his league, and Francis found her completely irresistible. A flurry of fortunate finds in his antique business had left him flush with money, and as a result his bank account was healthy enough to buy her affections.Unfortunately for Francis, the good days wouldn’t last. Synthia soon left him for a wealthy film producer, and he slumped into an alcoholic stupor. A series of bad business decisions would quickly follow which entirely drained his savings. In a matter of months, his life’s glistening shine had been wiped away to reveal a rusting surface underneath.And now, a year after he left Pamela for a better future, Francis finds himself driving to her “perfect” wedding. Well, to be precise, he’s driving to the after party. He wasn’t invited to the ceremony itself. He would never have wanted to see it, of course, but at least it would’ve meant driving through the countryside in the daytime, when visibility was at its peak. Instead, he’s stalking anonymous, tree-lined roads in the dark looking for an old church hall in the middle of nowhere.After driving for what felt like an eternity, eventually he spots a glimmer of hope – what looks like a light glistening atop an old building partially concealed by a thick row of trees.“Fucking finally,” Francis says aloud, with a sigh.Another thirty yards down the desolate road, he turns the car right and drives towards the source of the small light, flickering through the tree branches. As he nears the building – an old, worn-down church – he stops the car by a small graveyard and peers through the windscreen.He opens the car door and gets out, stepping onto the mud-tinged ground. Looking down at his dirt-stained shoes, Francis groans in frustration, before tilting his head upward and scanning the area. The building, surrounded on all sides by trees and bushes, looks in a state of disrepair. At one time, its tall gothic spires and elegant archways would have drawn crowds to pray and worship inside. Now, nature was reclaiming its stone exterior, vines climbing up its walls, small creatures making homes in its weather-worn holes.Francis turns on his phone’s torch and scans the light around the building’s surroundings, pausing when it illuminates the church graveyard. Like the building, it too looks forgotten. Cracks run down the gravestones, patches of dirt and moss covering the names of the dearly departed.Francis turns his head away, craning his neck upward as he points his phone torch at the church’s upper floor. He quickly spots the source of the light he had seen earlier. Resting in a window-shaped hole a half-dozen metres above ground, he sees a flat, round, metallic object reflecting the moonlight.“Huh,” he mutters, before peering around once more, casting his phone torch over the trees and bushes which surround the church. No sounds of laughter or revelry fill the air, no clinking glasses or blaring music. “Well, this is definitely not the place,” he says to himself.Sighing, he turns his torch back towards the metallic object in the upstairs window. Gazing at it, he wonders if it’s an antique tray, perhaps a remnant from when the church held communion. He looks back at his car, thinking of the box of collectible ornaments in the back seat.“Maybe this trip won’t be a complete waste of time.”Walking forward, he approaches the church to find its front door is ajar. He lifts the phone torch up to the gap. Shining the light inside, he sees a large room with an empty stage and rows of vacant, wooden benches.Francis presses his shoulder into the door. It catches on the uneven stone floor, but with a firm push the door swings open, revealing the dark, damp interior. He scans the building with his phone torch. Mould has spread across the wooden surfaces, while patches of moss litter the floor and walls. On the far side of the room his torch illuminates a stone staircase leading to the upper floor. Francis looks at the time on his phone.“Yeah, I can spare a few minutes. The bride can wait,” he says to himself, before walking across the hall to the stone staircase.Using his torch to light the way, he slowly moves up the spiralling stairs until he reaches the upper floor. Francis steps forward carefully, seeing only a large, empty space with an angled, low hanging ceiling and wooden, mould-stained floorboards. He shines his torch along the floor, then up towards the other end of the room where the metallic tray glistens back at him. From here he can see that it’s definitely an antique, with a commemorative message engraved across the middle.“Well, what have we here? If you’re half as old as this church, you might actually be worth something,” he says aloud, his eyes locked on the metallic tray.He looks at the floorboards, damp and partially rotten. After a moment of hesitation, he steps forward slowly, pressing his foot against the floor.“Seems sturdy enough,” he decides, before taking another step forward. The wood creaks beneath him. Another step. Then one more. “Not dead yet.”Keeping himself to the edge of the room, Francis moves onward slowly, one hand holding his phone while the other clasps onto the stone walls. He soon notices holes in the floorboards, causing his heartrate to quicken, but he continues on nonetheless, until eventually he reaches the metallic tray. As he stands over it, gazing at its delicately engraved surface, a grin spreads across his face.“You were definitely worth the trip.”Francis picks it up, holding it close to his face as he examines every inch. He looks at the commemorative engraving etched into its surface and reads it aloud:‘Marie and James Maidstone, to be married today, 7th July 1896.’He extends his arm, turning the tray around to see it from all angles. As he does so, he notices something shimmering on the stone window ledge – a silver wedding band meant for a groom.“Oh … Very nice,” he says, as he puts down the tray and picks up the silver ring. He holds it up to his eye, spotting an inscription on the inside: ‘together forever’.Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, Francis peers over at his own, bare fingers. He smirks to himself, then puts down his phone and uses his free hand to slide the ring on to his finger.“You’ll fetch a very pretty penny,” he says to the ring. He takes a moment to admire it, still shining after all these years.Satisfied, he puts the ornamental tray under his left arm and grabs his phone, then carefully makes his way back around the edge of the room and down the stone staircase to the ground floor. After giving the church interior one last look, Francis steps back outside into the cold night air. He looks across at his car, parked a few metres from the church graveyard, and starts walking.Suddenly, he stops. A strange sound is unsettling the quiet air. Some kind of growl, or groan. He turns his head left, then right, but sees nothing. Standing in this isolated patch of countryside, miles from civilisation, Francis starts to think about how far he is from help. His stomach sinks.After a moment of hesitation, he takes a deep breath and walks quickly towards his car. As he passes the graveyard, he gives it a quick glance, and notices something unusual. In front of one of the gravestones, a large hole has appeared, dirt scattered around it. He shakes his head and continues on to his car. Grabbing the keys from his pocket, he presses his finger on the unlock button.“Lover,” says a croaking voice behind him.Francis shudders, dread seeping into his bones. Slowly, he turns his head. Standing a few metres away, draped in a dirt-stained wedding dress, a skeletal corpse stares at him, longingly. Francis stares back at it, disgust brewing in the pit of his stomach as its rotten stench hits his nostrils. Soil trickles down the corpse’s bony cheeks, worms writhing in its sunken eye sockets.Francis’ legs begin to shake, his mouth falling open. The long-dead creature lowers its gaze, staring at the shining silver ring on his left index finger. It opens its bony jaws:“I’ve been waiting so long,” it groans, as its mouth slowly contorts into a skeletal smile. Lifting its mould-stained feet, the bride moves forward, ambling closer to Francis.He stares at it, terrified, then suddenly snaps out of his frozen fear.“Fuck this!” He blurts out, before turning around and grabbing the car door handle. As he pulls open the door, the corpse bride lunges at him, hurling her bony frame onto his back.Francis cries out in terror, feeling its cold body pressed against his own. He swings at it with one arm, pushing it away as he crawls into the car seat. The creature clamps its icy, dead hand onto his ankle, forcing him to flail his leg until the rotting bride loses its grip.His hand trembles while he forces the car key into the ignition and turns on the engine. As the car roars into life, he feels a pair of skeletal fingers digging into his shoulder, trying to pull him back out of the car. Francis slams his foot down on the accelerator, his door still open as the car races away from the church, sliding from one side to the other. The muddy surface offers little grip at this speed, but he refuses to slow down.Seeing the road up ahead, he turns the steering wheel sharply, ready to race off in any direction. But, as the car veers to one side, he feels the steering wheel loosen, the tires failing to grip the mud-soaked surface below. It spins around, losing control completely.“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Francis shouts in a panic as he desperately tries to steady the car. With a loud crunch, one side of the car slams into a tree, hurling him towards the window. His skull cracks the glass, sending him into a daze as he loses consciousness, slumping over the wheel. As he lies there, motionless, the car door opens, and a pair of skeletal fingers clasp on to him.Sometime later, Francis begins to awaken. He opens his eyes but sees nothing except darkness. The air feels heavy and damp, while something cold presses against his body. He tries to move, but his arms and legs knock against planks of wood. He screams and flails to no avail, his cries muffled by the four feet of dirt piled on top of his coffin. Suddenly, a croaking voice whispers into his ear, letting him know he’s not alone:“Together forever.” Credit: Emmet K Young Official Site Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.