Stanley rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to ease his throbbing head. He’d been working to catch up on paperwork for what seemed like an eternity. He didn’t even know if it was still light out, there were no windows in the basement. Of course this was nothing new to him. Being a mortician ages you. Sometimes he felt like he was 55 going on 80.
He swiveled his chair to look out the door of his small office and toward the prep room. Six bodies today. The room had never been meant for that kind of capacity and they were packed together almost shoulder to shoulder on their shiny metal carts. Stanley thought about how happy his father would have been to see this; when Conor Sheehan had started Sheehan and Son Funeral Home 45 years ago there had been a lot of financial struggles. Back then it was only other Irish Catholic family that sought their services, and sometimes they would go a week or more without a single body. Now Stanley had 6 to take care of, all open casket. Only one woman in the group, he noted, that was good. Between makeup, hair, and accessories, women tended to be more work. Stanley stood up slowly, leaning against the wall with one hand and waiting for the pins and needles in his legs to go away. How long HAD he been doing paperwork? He heaved a sigh a he walked toward the bodies. He’d prepped so many bodies by this point in his life that he could probably do it blindfolded, but he was tired and his head ached. He tried to focus on all the money they’d be bringing in this week. It might even be enough for the desperately needed kitchen remodel in the family apartment upstairs. He mechanically began prepping everything he needed for the job ahead. When all his tools were neatly lined up on the silver counter, he slipped into a smock and washed his hands. As he turned the faucet to warm he heard a creak behind him. He barely even noticed. The building was old and weird noises in the walls were not uncommon. Stanley turned around and grabbed the cart holding the first body; this was one of the men, he had been very fair skinned in life and was now a purplish hue. He had a scraggly white beard and his eyes were cracked open just a touch. Once upon a time that may have creeped Stanley out, but not now. After almost 40 years at this job he didn’t think anything could scare him. He rolled the cart over by the counter above the drain in the floor and leaned down a little to make sure the wheels were locked. That’s when he heard someone clear their throat. He spun toward the door thinking it might be his daughter who had recently moved back in with the kids after a fight with her husband, but really Stanley knew better. The sound was deep and guttural. It could not have come from his daughter with her high feminine voice, and besides, the swinging double doors that led to the hall were closed and motionless. It felt dark. Darker than usual, even for a dusky basement. Stanley squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them. Shouldn’t he be used to the light down here? He didn’t remember ever having a problem before. How long HAD he been down here? He gingerly opened his eyes and turned his aching head to look around the room. In front of him were the swinging doors set into a drab gray wall. To his right the door to his office stood ajar with paperwork strewn across the desk and dozens of multi-colored post it notes covering the wall above his phone. There was an old letter board leaned against the wall by his office that had lost some letters. It now advertised a funeral for “ TA E SH AN 1934-19 6” To his left the 5 bodies lay neatly lined up on their metal carts; the 4 men had varying amounts of silver hair, but the woman had long auburn locks and looked to Stanley to be his age or maybe younger. Behind him Mr Scraggly Beard was next to the counter with the carefully arranged tools. Everything was exactly where it should be, but suddenly Stanley felt very uneasy, almost like someone was watching him. He sighed and turned back to the task at hand. He washed the body and had just begun wiring the jaw shut when he realized what had been bothering him. There was a glimmer… coming from the slitted lids was a glimmer. Dead eyes are supposed to be cloudy. He instinctively checked for a pulse again, but that was silly. He had just been touching the body and it was ice cold. He blinked rapidly and shook his head. He looked back. A glimmer. Stanley hurriedly reached for the eye caps (a tool used by morticians to keep eyes shut and natural looking). He would feel better about the rest of the job when the old man’s eyes had been shut for the last time. As he reached for the the counter, he could feel the eyes following him and he shuttered. He was sweating despite the cold of the prep room. “Everything is fine” he muttered aloud. He tried to focus on the sound of his own voice- “Everything is fine, everything is FINE, everyth_” … Suddenly from behind him came one word- “Remember”. A deep guttural voice. He spun around dropping the small plastic eye caps which clattered to the cement floor. His blood ran cold and his headache was now completely forgotten. His gaze darted around the room then back to Mr Scraggly Beard. The eyes, those goddamn eyes were on him, bright blue and clear as day! Panic gripped Stanley like it never had in his decades doing this job. He glanced from the piercing eyes down to the man’s mouth, his jaw was halfway wired shut, there’s no way it could move. Fighting every instinct he made himself look back to meet the man’s stare, and tried to ask “What do you want?”. In his fear it came out more like “Whhhaa…t?”, nonetheless he received an answer. The same gravelly voice responded, “I want you to remember, Stanley.” Remember what? For the love of God what was he supposed to remember?? Even the implausibility of the situation left Stanley’s mind as he desperately searched his brain for an answer. Maybe if he remembered this would all just go away, please just go away he prayed silently, PLEASE… “You can’t stay here forever, you need to remember what happened”, the deep voice was calm and the blue eyes never left Stanley’s green ones. “Just try”. Stanley’s thoughts raced, “Or what?” he wondered silently, “What if I can never remember what he wants me to remember?” For the second time Mr Scraggly Beard answered a question that Stanley hadn’t asked aloud. Calmly, the raspy voice replied, “I’m not threatening you, and this isn’t about what I want, I’m trying to help you”. “I’m going insane” Stanley thought. Somehow this calmed him. Finally after years and years at a stressful job, he’d finally snapped. Suddenly he felt a laugh rising in his throat. He let out a ragged guffaw, and, turning toward the 5 bodies along the wall, he informed them “I’m insane! That’s it, I’ve gone batshit crazy!”. He didn’t expect an answer, but at this point he didn’t NOT expect an answer either. This time the voice that spoke to him was high and musical. “You’re not insane, Honeybear.” That voice, he knew that voice… it was his dear wife Meredith who’d left the earth 4 years ago and far too early thanks to cancer. He looked over at the woman with the auburn hair. How had he not noticed before? It was his wife, his beautiful wife. Except… last time he saw Meredith she had wasted away to a scant 90 pounds after countless chemotherapy treatments robbed her of her appetite. And of course she was bald. Now he could see ample curves swelling under the thin white sheet that covered her, and her hair hung thick around her shoulders and spilled off the edge of the cart. It was his wife though, his darling wife before she got sick. The voice came again. “It’s ok.” Stanley blinked back tears and moved toward the woman. “Baby? Is it really you?” he asked. He was in disbelief, but he knew the answer; even in the dim light he knew his wife’s face, and that voice… “It’s ok” the musical voice announced again. The face never moved but as Stanley grew closer he could see the same glimmer in the woman’s eyes which were only halfway closed. “It’s me, Honeybear, and I promise it’s ok.” A voice from beside her echoed the sentiment in a deeper voice. “It’s ok.” Another joined in, then a third… “It’s ok.” The raspy voice came again from behind him. “Just remember.” “What?!” he cried. “I don’t understand!” Stanley scanned the room for something, anything, to bring him back to sanity. Of course there was nothing; he didn’t even know what he as looking for. His focus came back to Meredith and he stared into her soft grey eyes as he had so many times before. “Baby…” he croaked. “I love you. I don’t want to die.” “Well it’s too late for that” Meredith replied. Her voice was kind, but amused, and she began to giggle. The giggle that was once Stanley’s favorite sound in the world now terrified him. The giggle grew to a laugh and the men joined in, now 6 voices laughed at him in unison. Stanley clutched the small cross the hung around his neck backed through the swinging doors into the hall. “Just come with us” his wife called after him. “I want to live!” he screamed back. He’d never been so confused and scared in his life. Suddenly he heard footsteps coming down the basement stairs. He desperately hoped it was his daughter. She was always so level headed, she would pull him out of this nightmare... but he feared if he turned around he wouldn’t see his beautiful daughter but instead another dead body… Still holding his cross and muttering prayers under his breath, Stanley finally summoned the courage to turn around. It was neither his daughter or a corpse, it was something somehow worse than that. It was him... a teenage version of him, and he (the younger he) was scared as hell. Stanley saw his own 18 year old eyes widen to the size of saucers before the boy darted toward the stairwell. He watched as his young self disappeared around the corner. This couldn't be real. He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands, trying to remember the perfectly normal day he had woken up to this morning. He couldn’t even remember getting dressed or coming down here. How long HAD he been down here?? ************************************************************************** Jared darted up the stairs to his apartment and didn’t stop running until he reached the kitchen. He could feel his heart beating in his throat and he felt like he was about to pass out. Hearing him come in, his mother grunted an acknowledgment… that wasn’t unusual. She had been ornery ever since she inherited the family business 8 years ago. She didn’t turn around but just spoke to him while staring into the pot of sauce she was stirring. “Did you find my keys downstairs?” “I… I… “ Jared stuttered, gasping for breath. “Well?” she demanded, finally turning around. She stopped short and her manner softened as soon as she saw her son’s face, devoid of color and quivering. “What is it, Hon?” “I saw Grampa again…”
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