It was after the funeral, after everyone had left, late at night. The black squirrel crouched on the new, unstained tombstone, its whiskers twitching with sorcery. Stealthily, it crawled down the side of the stone and stood before it, seeming to read the inscribed name: Zephyr Morgon Kingscourt. 1985-2005.

The squirrel shook its head sadly. They were dying so young these days. With that thought, it began to scrape at the loose dirt of the grave until, were anyone watching, it would become apparent that the small squirrel was attempting to dig the body up. Of course, if this were a normal squirrel, it could never hope to dig an entire grave in half a night by itself. It would not be able to, nor would it even be thinking of something so preposterous for a squirrel. But the black squirrel whom our story has so far revolved around was not a normal squirrel, but a great sorcerer trapped in the rodent’s body, as are most all black squirrels, for one reason or another. Using his magic, he made it as though a hundred squirrels were digging, which is about equivalent to ten men, and that is plenty to dig a grave.

Twenty minutes went by, and the squirrel was finally finished, sitting on the wooden coffin, grooming the dirt clots out of his fur. He leapt out of the grave nimbly and back onto the tombstone, where he raised his little paws to the heavens. In response, the hinged top of the coffin broke off with a snap of splintering wood. It glided haphazardly out of the grave and onto the ground beside it. From his perch, the squirrel looked down at the body in the grave. The boy’s skin was a pale waxy gray and his black hair hung limply across his relaxed forehead.

He doesn’t look so bad, the squirrel thought, Not so bad at all. This should be easy.

He jumped back into the grave, landing on the boy’s chest. Climbing onto his face, the squirrel drew in a deep breath and let out a tiny rodent cough that held in it a load of magic as big as the moon. With a jolt and a gasp, the dead boy’s glazed eyes flew open and he sprang forward, crouching in the deep, cold hole. The squirrel had been knocked to the bottom of the coffin, in a dark corner where his black fur blended with the shadows.

“Where am I…?” Zephyr whispered.

“Your grave,” was the answer. He looked down at the black squirrel and furrowed his brow.

“My…my what? You’re a squirrel, aren’t you…?”

The squirrel clambered onto Zephyr’s shoulders and gave him an encouraging pat on the head.

“It’s alright,” he consoled him, “It may come as a bit of a shock, but you’re dead. Or undead, rather. And yes, I am a squirrel, but I’m also a sorcerer. My name is Jasper.”

“So I’m a zombie,” Zephyr said uncertainly.

“That’s right. You died too young, so I figured I’d give you a little more time,” Jasper said.

“A little more time?” Zephyr asked. “But if I’m undead, won’t I always be? I mean, if the movies are right.”

“Traditionally,” Jasper conceded, “yes, but I brought you back to life, so to speak, so I can put you to rest again if you wish.”

“Why me?” Zephyr asked out of curiosity. He inspected his cold, gray hands.

“A hunch,” Jasper shrugged ambiguously, “that you have some sorcery in you.”

“Sorcery! Really?”

“Don’t think too much on it, it’s a complicated subject.”

“Oh…Well now what?”

The squirrel shifted uncomfortably.

“I was afraid you’d ask that,” he said, “You see, I need some help.”

Zephyr patiently waited for him to continue.

“I’m stuck,” Jasper said, “in this body. I’m not really a squirrel, but I was careless one day and accidentally…well…”

His orange eyes darted nervously before he whispered embarrassedly in Zephyr’s ear, “I accidentally turned myself into a squirrel.”

He covered his small face with his paws in humiliation.

“That’s too bad,” Zephyr said sympathetically. He didn’t really think it was that embarrassing, but then again, he had never done anything like that to himself so he wasn’t one to talk.

“So now I need your help,” Jasper said. “I’m afraid that’s the real reason why I reanimated you. You see, I need a fingernail of the undead for the potion to change me back…”

Zephyr laughed. “A fingernail, is that all you want?” he asked. “Alright.”

“Well,” Jasper huffed, “it’s not that simple! There are all sorts of conditions and variables and what-not. We have to wait for a full moon for one thing.”

They both looked up at the lopsided moon. It had just begun to wane.

“We’ll have to wait until next month,” Zephyr said, “What do we do until then?”

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Jasper said, “We’re not going to spend the time cooped up in a coffin!”

Zephyr smiled and set Jasper on the ground beside his tombstone. Before climbing out, he stared at it.

“I really am dead, aren’t I?” he mused. “Weird…”

He pulled himself out of the grave and stood, brushing off his suit.

“We can go wherever you want,” Jasper said as he climbed back onto Zephyr’s shoulder, “Just so long as you stay with me! That’s important, Zephyr. If you get too far away, you’ll start dying again.”

“And…how far away is ‘too far away’?” Zephyr asked as they walked through the dark cemetery.

“Believe me,” Jasper said, “You’ll know. Now! Where are we going?”

“My house, I suppose.”

Jasper coughed. “Is that such a good idea? Won’t your parents be a little…surprised?”

“Oh, yes,” Zephyr said, grinning, “But won’t it be great to tell them that their son is a zombie?”