It was Sunday at my church. We're one of those Continuing Anglican churches that have practically been driven out by the Episcopalians here in the United States and some of us don't really have an actual building to attend services. We used to meet at a Methodist church but they were charging us way too much on rent. So we found a local cemetery who volunteered to rent out their mausoleum for free.
It was a normal Sunday as usual. Priest was there early. I got there early. I helped him set up the altar. Another couple arrived there as well with the wine and the water and a table-cloth. Another couple arrived with their friends and refreshments for after the Mass. Another couple arrived with the coffee and warm water for tea and hot chocolate.
We started the Mass and everything went normal. It was Palm Sunday and we received crosses made out of palm leaves. After the Mass, we had our normal gathering enjoying the refreshments and the coffee and the hot chocolate and the cookies. I always am obsessed with the cellar spiders we find there in the mausoleum. No one seems to come in and sweep the place during the week. There's one little fellow who's been hanging on the same spot for at least a month. I presume it to be dead and I always have a friendly debate with another woman at our church who thinks it can't possibly be dead. I always argue it's attached to a wall.
Still searching, I find one spider. One of the men thinks it's dead. But I see it start to move. Excited, I announce the discovery to the others there. "We've got a live one!" as I point toward the mausoleum wall in the vicinity where someone is buried. The priest lets out a chuckle. I turn my head. I now realize I wasn't pointing toward a spider but toward a name. Outside the mausoleum wall I see a hand extending through a crack. It twitches.