"Morning, Eliza."

Fred was like that, always friendly, always holding the door. Or trying to, I suppose.

"Who've we got today?"

"Car crash in the first three biers, cancer in the fourth, natural causes in the fifth."

I set up and began working on the crash people first; they were heading straight to cremation since there wasn't going to be much point in a coffin service.

"Fred, can you make a note for me to call Happy Wags and let them know that the Fielder's dog hasn't been fed since Monday night?"

"Aw, poor thing. Are they worried?"

"I told them we'd take care of it. Let's see..."

"Little Eliza, is that you?"

It took me a half-second to turn, trying to make sure I had a nice smile on before I came about.
"Mrs. Johansson, I thought that was you."

"My goodness, dear, I haven't seen you since you left the grade school. Is this there where you work now?"

Her voice trailed off.

"And why am I... oh."

She stared down at herself.

"Oh, my."

I put a hand on her shoulder, careful not to push through it.

"Are you okay?"

"Y-yes, I suppose so, dear." she said absently. "I just wasn't expecting... do you know how?"

"I can check for you, if you like," I said. "Fred?"

Fred slid smoothly through the wall.

"Lessee... Olive Johansson, seventy-four... says here she had a fall. Paramedics found her on her floor. DOA."

Mrs. Johansson's face creased thoughtfully.

"No... no that doesn't sound right," she said. "There was a young man. Who was he? I recognized him..."

Her voice trailed off again as she stared at Fred.

"How do you do?" she said.

He tipped his oversized security cap.

"Ma'am."

"And this is what you do all day, dear?" she asked me. "Talk with the... 'living-challenged'?"

I smiled. "Mostly. Make sure people are at peace, do what we can for them."

She snapped her fingers.

"It was that Edgar boy. Edgar Deems, from down the street. Always looking at my old jewelry. Always coming around the back door when he thought I wasn't home. He frightened me a little, Eliza."

I waited.

"I came home and he was in the kitchen. He was... he was looking through the drawers, looking for something. I surprised him. He struck me, he struck me with... with my favorite cast-iron skillet."

She stopped.

"That's never going to come out," she said matter-of-factly.

​

Detective Lawrence had come and gone; Edgar had been falling over himself to confess when they picked him up at the bus station, several of Mrs. Johansson's necklaces in his pockets. I was sitting back in my office chair when Fred came drifting up from below.

"Did you remember to call Happy Wags?" he asked.

(on mobile phone so excuse poor formatting)

as a kid, i always had what my parents called ‘imaginary friends’ the thing is, they weren’t imaginary. i swore this to them for years, they sent me to a psychiatrist who shoved seroquel and lorazepam down my throat. this did nothing but sedate and scare me enough to no longer speak of it. i knew that i had a gift and decided to open a funeral home. this way i could give them proper respect and burials, and give their families reassurance that they needed. that was 39 years ago, rumors in purgatory started to spread though. eventually i had a line of every victim of every brutal cold case.

it started with a young woman named tamara. she came to me in the middle of the night, and told me the gruesome details. her father had discovered her, hung in a tree, with no clothes, and a lot of exterior damage in their front yard. at least that was his story. she came to me, asking for help. she told me what he did to her. vile things i don’t care to repeat. i try not to think of happened to these souls, for that is not who they are. most of them still carry their personalities. some have been stuck in purgatory for so long, that all they held was vengeance and sorrow. they slowly lost themselves over time, those are the old old souls.

you see, in purgatory, you don’t just stare into limbo. you’re trapped to your family, stuck lingering around them. watching their lives go on, generation through generation, except on new moons. something about the lack of light, allows them to be free of their tether. they don’t know why, many whisper of conspiracies. i’m unsure of how these souls found me but they did.

i began only take the ones with their killers still alive, and gave advice on how to move on to those who had passed, and were trapped here with them. it’s almost like being a therapist, but for lost souls.

Another day, another death. Another soul crowds the halls. They say this place is cursed, that the recent string of murders are so grisly and violent that no mortician lasts for more than a month or two. In any case, someone still has to fill the position, and who better than me?

"Trish Ballard. Age... thirty-two. Cause of death..."

I trail off again, keeping my finger held on the button of the dictation recorder. I reach across the desk and turn off the small fan, letting the silence wash over me and thinking about the body. The police say they apprehended a suspect this time, but something doesn't sit right with their report. I can't really blame them, they don't have the resources to deal with these cases. I know they're connected, they have to be, but I can't present what I know as evidence, regardless of how right I might be. Even they can tell this one struggled.
Getting up from the office chair, I feel my migraine slice through the painkillers. How much longer can I keep this up? If only I could think clearly. I walk over to the body again, passing the hallway mirror, noting how yellow my skin is in the old lighting of the mortuary. It feels clammier every day.

It's now or never.

I retrieve the embalming fluid from the shelf and place it on the rack. It smells like... chemicals. Who the hell concocted this shit anyways? Trocar in. Feed the tube. I look at the pump on the top of the rack, and can't help but see the glass next to it. I could do this tomorrow, couldn't I? It might give me a couple more days...
No. I couldn't. She'll have passed on by then. I should be thankful the family wants ashes, I've already stalled for long enough. I pour the fluid into the machine, leaving some for the glass. It smells foul, the slight odor of decomposition completely overtaken by the pungent vapors burning my nostrils. It feels like someone's stabbing me in the eye, but...
I bolt the door shut. It should keep them out for a couple of minutes longer. Hopefully, all I need. I've only got one shot at this, stopped too soon and I won't get what I need, left too long and I won't be able to bring it back. I fill the glass and start the machine.

"Steven Robinson. Age... fifty-six. Cause of death: poisoning. Subject mistook spilled embalming fluid for alcohol."

Dammit, overshot again. Well, it was a good run, twelve visits total, including Trish.

"Subject was likely an alcoholic, showing signs of chronic liver disease at the time of death."

To be fair, Steve did like his scotch, but his liver was fine a few months ago. The dictation recorder clicks off.

"...how the hell does a mortician mistake embalming fluid for booze...?"

I'm glad they always turn the recorder off before they add that note. I mean, six morticians in the same town, in the same year? Anyone would find that suspect. They say this place is cursed, but someone always fills the position. I make sure of it, and this one seems like he'll last me even longer. I hope he savors his dinner tonight, because tomorrow morning, I've got a cremation to finish.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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