Page 18 of Melancholia

The reception area really is pretty, and Cecil told me with pride that his mother designed it to be as welcoming and calming as possible. The large desk closest to the door to the embalming room is made of mahogany, with a pretty, comfortable rolling chair squeezed up under it. I pass the client chairs and the one sofa that could probably do with being replaced in the next few years, then hesitate in front of the big double doors with glass panes facing the public parking lot of Kindred Pines.

This is a bad idea, I think suddenly to myself. If there is someone out there, I’m just strolling outside and meeting a bad end.

But then I snort and roll my eyes, tearing off another chunk of donut. That’s ridiculous. This is Still Pines, not Philly or Chicago or someone else. Even if Andrew was killed by someone a few nights ago, I refuse to believe there’s any actual danger here. And I’ve dealt with a lot worse in my life than a fucking faulty motion detection system.

With that thought, I unlock and push open one of the double doors, not bothering to be quiet. The light comes on, flooding the parking lot bereft of anything except faded yellow lines on asphalt. My car is parked in the back, near the loading bay, so seeing nothing is exactly what I expected.

Letting the door swing closed heavily behind me, I take another bite of my donut and head out to the end of the sidewalk, my eyes surveying the property. There really is nothing out here. Just like I found out back when I checked.

Once the motion-activated light turns off, I stand there, listening to the frogs and crickets. Humidity settles uncomfortably against my skin, making me feel every bead of sweat that slides down my neck. I don’t bother swiping at it. There’s no point when the humidity is this high. I just stand there in the dark, like I’m expecting something to pop out and tell me why the alarms keep going off.

Or maybe some part of me is convinced that whatever’s happening out here only occurs in the dark. That the reason I’ve missed these occurrences is because I didn’t stand in the darkness for long enough.

I finish my donut in three more bites, then scrub my hands on my denim shorts. I’ll miss wearing whatever I pull on from my clean clothes pile once Cecil is back. While his dress code is ‘casual,’ it isn’t shorts-casual. The t-shirt and sneakers I can always get away with, but I’ll have to go back to being a pants-wearing adult come tomorrow night.

The horror.

Nothing happens as the seconds stretch into minutes. No cars pass by the mortuary on the edge of town. No sirens or sounds reach my ears, nothing except the normal sounds of wild nightlife, and the occasional hoot of an owl or the bark of a dog. Maybe even the sound of small animals skirting the edge of the parking lot.

And yet…

Something burns at the edge of my vision, swimming at the sides of my eyes just out of reach. Whispers in my head tell me that if I spin around fast enough, I’ll see what’s behind me; all I have to do is try.

The only problem is I’m not sure I want to know what my brain has conjured up tonight. My heart beats a little faster, a little harder, in my chest, as a shiver goes up my spine.

I don’t like the way I feel tonight. Night never usually bothers me, and neither do the sounds that come along with it. I’ve sat outside on my little balcony since moving here more times than I can count, so I know it isn’t my surroundings doing it.

“Not tonight,” I whisper, refusing to look away from the parking lot or the darkness beyond. “Please. We’re on such a good streak of you not showing up.” I’m scared that if I turn, she’ll be real. That she’ll be right there behind me.

“Not tonight, Elaina.”

The fuzziness at the edges of my vision doesn’t dissipate. If anything, it gets stronger, and the whispers of self-sabotaging curiosity drone in my ears like a thousand bees.

Don’t you want to see me?

Don’t you miss me?

Don’t you⁠—

“No,” I snap, a little louder than I intend. “I don’t want to see you tonight.” I want to say I never want to see her again, but I know better. Eventually, even though I know she isn’t real, I’ll beg my mind to conjure her up so I can talk to her. Just one more time, I’ll bargain. This is the last time.

But it’s never the last time.

Guilt curls in my stomach, manufactured from years of therapy and being told to not let these kinds of thoughts fester. Stubbornly I turn around, eyes on the ground, and the motion light flicks on as I approach the double doors. I was rougher than I meant to be, and I wince when the door slams back into place behind me before I lock it..

The dim illumination of the nightlight plugged into the wall is more than enough to get me back to the door to the hallway behind the desk. Hell, at this point I could do it with no light at all. My steps are sure and confident as I push through that door too, and light floods my vision from the embalming room beyond.

“This place is clearly falling apart.” I sigh, shaking my head. It’s not. But I need some reason in my head to explain why things are going off like the mortuary is haunted.

Well, haunted by something other than me and my baggage.

I sort out my music, a little surprised that my playlist ended, and restart it so “Just Pretend” by Bad Omens fills my ears over the sounds of my continued work. A glance at the clock reminds me I have a good three hours left, and I groan as I finally decide it’s time to take down my perfect trocar altar, though I will be presenting an argument as to why my placement for it is better than stuffing it in a drawer.

Without looking, I reach toward the shelf as my other hand strains toward the cleaning wipes I’ve already used on everything once. But I want everything extra shiny for Cecil’s return.

When my fingers close around nothing, my eyebrows knit together in confusion as I grope onto the shelf behind me. “Hello?” I grumble, finally turning to give the altar my full attention.

Only to find it empty. The small shelf that was once the home of tiny bottles of old, expired supplies that served as a weird kind of aesthetic sits empty of the long trocar I’ve been setting on it. My hand presses against the faux wood, as if I just can’t see it.