The man she buried is back and knocking.

Three loud knocks, to be exact, on Mabel McSnort’s front door. It was 3:47 p.m. on a Wednesday. Mabel was in the middle of alphabetizing her hamster Gary’s bowtie collection when she heard it.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

She froze.

Then slowly turned to Gary.

“Did you hear that?”

Gary, who was wearing his ‘Sassy Plaid’ bowtie, nodded solemnly. As solemnly as a hamster can, anyway.

Mabel tiptoed to the door, pulled back the curtain, and gasped.

There, on her porch, stood Mr. Bumbletwit — covered in dirt, one shoe missing, and a very determined dandelion growing out of his left ear.

He looked… remarkably cheerful for a man who’d been buried under her petunia bed three days ago.

“MR. BUMBLETWIT?!” she shrieked, flinging open the door.

“Well, hello there!” he chirped, brushing some soil off his nose. “Lovely weather we’re having. Mind if I come in? I’ve brought muffins!”

Mabel blinked. Then blinked again. “But… I buried you.”

“Oh yes, I remember!” Mr. Bumbletwit said, stepping inside and leaving muddy footprints shaped like ducks. “Very cozy down there, though I must say the worms were a bit chatty. One of them told me his name was Kevin. Lovely fellow, bit wiggly.”

Let’s rewind.

Three days earlier, Mabel had found Mr. Bumbletwit lying completely still in her garden. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, one rubber boot, and a colander on his head like a crown.

After poking him with a stick and yelling “WAKE UP!” several times (including one attempt with a megaphone made out of a toilet paper roll), Mabel concluded — quite logically — that he had become “permanently snoozy.”

So, with all the respect and ceremony a nine-year-old could muster, she buried him.

Kind of.

She only used one bag of potting soil and tucked a granola bar in his pocket “for the afterlife snack break.” She even wrote him a farewell letter that said:

Dear Mr. Bumbletwit, you were very nice and mostly made sense. I hope there are many cats and spoons wherever you are. Love, Mabel.

Then she went inside, made a peanut butter sandwich, and told Gary not to worry.

But now… now the man she buried was eating a muffin on her couch and talking to a goldfish.

“I named him Susan,” Mr. Bumbletwit said, pointing at the fish. “He seems agreeable.”

Mabel sat down, staring. “How… are you not dead?”

“Oh, I wasn’t dead!” he laughed. “Just had one of my deep garden naps. Happens every spring. I hibernate like a confused hedgehog.”

“You slept for three days!”

“I once slept through an entire winter and a cheese festival.”

“You were buried.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I was quite cozy.”

Mabel groaned and flopped onto the carpet. “I am in so much trouble if anyone finds out I buried you alive.”

Mr. Bumbletwit looked thoughtful. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Then let’s keep it our little secret. I’ll trade you for two muffins and a coupon for free hugs.”

Gary squeaked approvingly. He was a big fan of muffins.

Now that Mr. Bumbletwit was “unburied and breathing,” things in Wiggly Bottom got even weirder. He became a local celebrity.

“THE MAN WHO CAME BACK FROM THE DIRT,” the town newspaper screamed in bold letters, with a photo of him holding a garden rake like a sword.

People asked him to sign flowerpots.

The mayor gave him a medal shaped like a carrot.

He started a podcast called "Mornings with Muddy Bumble." (It was mostly him talking about jam and how to befriend bees.)

But every so often, he’d knock on Mabel’s door with a new “thank you gift.”

A loaf of banana bread shaped like a duck.

A hand-knitted sweater that said “Certified Unburied.”

A framed picture of a worm named Kevin.

And one day, he showed up with a tiny tuba.

“What’s that for?” Mabel asked.

“A parade!” he grinned. “In your honor! For giving me the best nap I’ve ever had!”

The “Thanks for Accidentally Burying Me” parade was held the following Saturday. It featured:

The Wiggly Bottom Marching Band (all four members).
A float made of compost.
Gary the Hamster in a top hat.
And, of course, Mr. Bumbletwit himself, riding in a wheelbarrow, waving a spoon like a scepter.

Mabel rode behind on her scooter, wearing sunglasses and trying not to make eye contact with her principal.

When the parade ended, Mr. Bumbletwit leaned down and whispered, “Best burial ever. Five stars.”

Later that night, after brushing Gary’s whiskers and putting on her pajamas, Mabel heard a knock at the door.

She opened it to find Mr. Bumbletwit again — this time with a small suitcase and a map.

“I’m off on an adventure!” he announced. “Going to visit Kevin. He says the compost pile out back is excellent this time of year.”

Mabel nodded. “Just… please don’t nap in any holes this time.”

“No promises!” he laughed, tipping his flowerpot hat. “But if I do, I’ll be sure to leave a note.”

And with that, Mr. Bumbletwit marched off into the moonlight — whistling, twirling his spoon, and occasionally waving to squirrels.

The End.

(Until he takes another nap.)

Candice

@sunnysquirrel22

Candice has not written a story.