S22 Ep19: NoSleep Podcast S22E19

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They're calling.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

a voice unrecognizable

audio messages from the shadows

But one message is clear

and it says

brace yourself for the no sleep podcast.

Sam revved the chainsaw and buried it into the man's stomach.

Blood and viscera splattered Sam's apron as his victim squealed and writhed.

A vermilion river flowed from the dying man's mouth.

The chainsaw's engine stopped.

The cutting chain was clogged with a

welcome to the show.

I'm your game show host, David Cummings.

And yes, I have a quick game you can play.

If you play the New York Times puzzle game Connections, you'll know how to play.

Basically, I'm going to give you four words, and you have to find the connection between them.

Here are your words.

Switch, time,

joy, bill.

What connects those four words?

Oh, feel free to pause this so you can really think about the connection.

Okay, did you figure it out?

Well, they're all words that can follow the word kill.

Kill switch, kill time, kill joy, kill Bill.

There you go, that's your sleepless purple answer.

And if you play games like that regularly, you'll know how frustrating they can be when you can't solve the puzzles easily.

It can make you mad, frustrated, and drive you to the point where you just might be ready to...

kill?

Well, hopefully not.

But when some people are pushed too far, when they've endured too much, when there's nothing left for them to do, they just might be ready to kill.

And that is an excellent premise for horror.

It's a good thing the stories on this episode fit this theme perfectly.

Because any villain or monster can kill for the fun of it.

Any creature can kill humans to survive.

But when we turn to murder as a last resort, the horror can exist for both the victims and the perpetrators.

So no matter how crazy life gets, no matter how close to the edge you get pushed, please don't start killing people, even people who phone you too much.

Oh, and speaking of, do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet a quiet man trying to lead a quiet life.

All he wants to do is go to the park and feed the ducks.

Who could have a problem with that?

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Trent Snyder, we also meet the man's nemesis, a person you wouldn't think could hold much power over him, but I'll bet you can understand.

Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell and David Alt.

So just relax with the ducks as you hear them quack.

The little boy.

He makes fun of me as I walk to the park, calls me names.

He says I am old and retarded.

He throws sticks and rocks, tells his friends I am a paedophile.

His mother is always looking at me, her head poked out behind curtains.

She sees her son harassing me, looks indifferent.

Her eyes tell me to stop standing in front of her lawn.

But it is all I can do to stand there, to not run away.

To not burn the house down, to not pick up the little boy, throw him into the road.

He is small and skinny, with ugly eyes, a haircut done in the dark.

His voice is a bird's chirp with a twisted larynx.

I see him every day.

It does not matter what street I take to go to the park.

He is there, on his bicycle, playing basketball, just standing, waiting,

waiting to tell me how old and creepy I am, how I look funny,

how disgusting it is, the cyst below my eye, how my wife is dead, died because she hated me.

I can talk back, reprimand him, but he'll only cackle, or yell and say I'm trying to rape him.

He is only nine, maybe ten.

How does he already know these things?

How does he know so well how to hurt people?

To make them scared?

At the park I feed my ducks and fume.

The little boy is my nemesis.

I spend the day thinking of him.

How sour he makes me feel.

I know he thinks of me too.

Which way will I try to come home next?

How best to hurt me?

This is what my life has been reduced to.

A rivalry with a child.

And I am losing.

I have knocked at the boy's door, but no one answers.

I have threatened to call the police, but the boy only laughs.

And I will not call the police, will not let them see me defeated like this.

I have no one,

no one who cares.

My children think I'm stupid.

They give me worse looks than the boy.

They ask why I don't just stop going to the park.

Is that what they would do?

Is this the kind of people I've raised?

People who will just stop, no longer go to the park.

The park is beautiful.

There is a lake and ducks and I feed them and they love me.

They care.

They care for my arrival, my bread.

They listen.

Listen as I tell them of the little boy who accosts me.

They stay as long as I have bread.

And then they move away.

I do not blame them for this.

They are busy ducks with busy duck days to have.

I walk home and hope I will not see the boy or that he will not see me.

It happens sometimes, the grace of God.

One day the boy is sprawled out in the middle of the road.

His bicycle astray.

His arm is a purple zigzag.

He is screaming.

I picture the park, sitting on my bench, knowing the boy is lying there in the road.

More pain than he has ever known.

He deserves it.

It might teach him something.

But there is a voice inside me.

Something below compassion.

Something biological.

I lift him up.

I bring him to the sidewalk and pat his head.

I call an ambulance.

He cries into my shirt.

I tell him it will be okay.

I hope the arm is infected.

They will have to amputate.

The ambulance arrives quickly.

I consider pushing him in front of it.

The paramedics take him.

Ask his name and I say it.

I do not ride along to the hospital.

I do not wonder if he will be okay.

I go to the park.

The ducks are gone.

I came too late.

There is a knock at my door days later.

The boy stands with his father, a cast on his arm.

People have already signed it.

Did you push my son off his bicycle?

Invite him in, offer a drink.

Refused.

I don't want to have to get the police involved.

Neither do I.

The boy sits on my sofa.

His face is empty.

I tell the father the same story again and again.

He is still confused.

Look, I understand if maybe my son was biking too close to you and you pushed him away.

That's not what happened.

Then what happened

so i tell him again

the father does not seem to listen his desires change

maybe we should talk to the chief constable about this he's an old friend of mine

my living room begins to feel distant like it isn't my living room the boy has yet to speak

A call from his mother.

There is a dent in a woman's subaru on the block where the boy fell.

The woman says she saw him from the window.

The phone call ends.

No apology, no look towards the boy, no acknowledgement of his lies, of their accusations, only syllables glued together.

I suppose you could call them words.

Ah, I see we've had a misunderstanding.

Indeed.

Show them out.

Do not cry.

Watch them drive away.

Take a steak knife from the kitchen.

Feel its point against my finger.

Do people know they hurt each other?

They must be ignorant of it.

Must be.

Must be.

Or is it a choice?

Something deliberate?

Something to concentrate on?

Like climbing up a tree in the night, not knowing who is older, the tree or I.

Opening a window from the outside,

silently.

Stepping into a child's bedroom.

Seeing it.

The toys.

Every color in the darkness.

The clothes.

A wardrobe overfilled,

the nightlight, orange, then red, then orange, then red.

The bed, shaped like a race car,

the sleeping boy, on his side,

killing him.

Pressing the knife into his skull like the plunk of a piano note.

Like a string through clay.

Does Does he shiver as it enters?

Or is it only my imagination?

I climb back down the tree.

It is easier than expected.

Walk through night air.

Think about whether or not this means I have won.

See the police station.

Show them the blood on my clothes.

Tell them what I did.

and how.

There are no ducks in prison.

That is all I am sorry about.

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I don't think it's too unnatural to have intrusive thoughts about dealing with some people in your life.

Ever thought about seeing a terrible neighbor or your insufferable boss meet a gruesome end?

Normal and usually harmless.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Travis Lee, we meet a man who is ready to act on his deadly desires, and he's going to outsource the task.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Dan Zapoula, Atticus Jackson, and Danielle McRae.

So if someone else is going to do your dirty work, you'd best listen to them when they tell you, trust me.

Trust me, I'm an expert.

The man with dead eyes relaxed in a lounge chair while Tom paced in front of the window.

Hands behind his back, Tom fidgeted with his fingers, interlocking them, straightening them, and making fists.

Perhaps we should discuss the method?

The man spoke in the soothing voice of a children's TV show host, and he had brown hair neatly trimmed.

He wore a plain suit suit and tie, and he looked like anyone you'd pass in the street.

Even now, Tom couldn't have picked him out of a lineup.

Tom saw him every day, passed him at the mall, at the gas station, on the street.

The man left no impression save his eyes.

Look long enough, and they ate his face.

Tom quit pacing.

He spoke from his diaphragm, what the VP called his big boy voice, and addressed the man like he addressed the board

i want it untraceable

the man with dead eyes made a noise

something like a laugh only no laugh tom had heard before

that goes without saying i'm talking about the method

the how

the how

tom interlocked his fingers behind his back again and turned to the curtain.

I want it painless.

Of course.

A sailboat pattern decorated the curtain.

Staring at it gave Tom a nasty feeling, like slipping on a pair of used, sweaty socks.

I don't want them to suffer.

They won't.

Can you make sure?

The man took a moment to respond.

It wasn't long, but long enough for Tom to consider his actions, and the sailboats began to sink.

My line of work requires delicacy.

What the customer wants, I provide.

Tom blinked, his eyes wet.

The sailboats stopped sinking.

What time?

I normally leave by six.

Tom winced at the voice crack.

He heard his VP admonishing him for addressing the board like a wuss, not a man.

Even Susan, fresh from her little social justice crusades in college, has more balls than you.

She addresses the board like a man.

Why can't you?

Tom faced the man, meeting his eyes, but not for long.

Tuesday morning, I'll leave early.

Is six too early for you?

No time is too early for me.

Six it is, then.

Pins and needles danced in Tom's fingers.

He freed his hands and laid them flat against his legs, his palms soaked in sweat.

I'll be long gone.

Is it unusual for you to leave so early?

I haven't done it in a long time.

Why?

Routine helps camouflage my work.

If they suspect something out of the ordinary, they might be on their guard.

Would that...

Tom swallowed.

Would that stop you in some way?

What passed for humor filled the man's voice?

Nothing would stop me.

I will finish.

One way or another.

Well,

it's okay.

Address the board.

Address the board.

He found his strength again.

They trust me.

The man went on, not missing a beat.

What time do they get up?

6:30.

Front door or back door?

I.

Tom almost said the fatal words.

His VP told him two phrases were forbidden.

I don't know, and I'm sorry.

Never admit ignorance and never show weakness.

Front door.

I recommend the back.

Why?

Because the back door makes things easier.

I'm less likely to be spotted.

And whatever story you'll write to explain things,

it will be much easier if I use the back door.

Back door, then

look me in the eyes.

It's okay.

The man leaned forward, cupping his chin with both hands.

It is normal to feel nervous.

I prefer it, actually.

The people who embrace this, they

disgust me.

My line of work requires delicacy from both parties.

And the people who embrace it are the ones who most often get caught.

How many have been caught?

Three.

All of them excited, and all of them begging to be there when I perform.

Were they?

Of course not.

I don't allow my customers to watch.

Ask yourself, what kind of person would want to watch that?

It makes me sick to my stomach.

Tom nodded.

He had spent half a year searching for the right man for the job.

As the middleman put it, most only paint your bedroom.

It takes a rare breed to paint the whole house.

A rare breed.

Tom squinted.

He fought it for a little while longer.

Then, he looked the man in the eyes.

He looked for a long time.

The man's face decayed, and so did the room.

And staring into those eyes, Tom felt himself consumed.

His delusions of addressing the board like a man.

Some people would agonize over this decision.

But the time for that was long gone.

Staring into those eyes, Tom heard his mouth speak from somewhere far away.

Just don't let them suffer.

Trust me.

I'm an expert.

The morning of, Tom woke up minutes before his alarm and shut it off before it started blaring.

He took his shower in the downstairs bathroom.

dressed and ate a piece of toast in the kitchen.

He only made it a few bites before he dumped the toast in the trash.

He grabbed his briefcase and headed to the front door.

He told himself the time to reconsider was months ago, and he was doing the right thing.

He didn't need anyone's approval.

He had his convictions.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs and Tom looked back.

Daniel stopped at the foot of the stairs, his Star Wars onesie nearly too small for him.

Good morning, Daddy.

Tom couldn't move.

What are you doing up so early?

Couldn't sleep.

You need to go back to bed.

Where are you going?

Work.

What time are you coming back?

This afternoon.

The boy rubbed his eyes.

Tom set his briefcase down and hoisted the boy by the shoulders onto the first step.

You need to get back to bed.

Mommy's sleeping.

You should be too.

I'm not tired.

How about you go lay down?

I'm not tired.

Go to your room.

The boy rubbed his eyes again.

Go on.

Tom watched him climb the stairs.

When the door shut, Tom grabbed his briefcase and hurried to his car.

He backed out of the driveway and idled at the first stop sign.

He looked in the rear view and adjusted it until he could no longer see his house.

In the mirror, he passed before those eyes once more.

Everything decaying.

And with his breath heavy, Tom glanced back at the house one last time.

He told himself he could trust the man.

He told himself they wouldn't suffer.

After all, the man was an expert.

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Some jobs will work you to death.

Others make death your job.

Like the woman we'll meet in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Damanda.

You see, the woman works as an embalmer in a funeral home, and her workday is going to be one one full of surprises.

I join Aaron Lillis, Dan Zapula, Jesse Cornette, and Sarah Thomas in performing this tale.

So, if your job leaves you dead tired, remember it's better than being buried dead.

It started out as a normal day, more or less.

I did have an early morning drop-off to deal with.

Nothing unusual there.

And my stylist was down with COVID, so I'd be going it alone until I could borrow someone for hair and makeup from one of our competitors.

Nothing I couldn't deal with.

I just had to go in a couple hours early, then keep half an eye on the phone lines until Connie, our administrative secretary, rolled in to take over the reception desk.

At the Crescent Peaks funeral home, my job is preservation.

I'm the resident in Balmer.

We have a saying in my line of work, there's no such thing as a fresh corpse.

It's not really true, strictly speaking.

If the body in question is in pristine condition upon arrival, other than, you know, being dead, it takes 24 hours for the breakdown of internal organs to really get going.

You're good for a few days before the various orifices start to leak with the onset of bloating.

It'll be weeks before the nails begin to flake off and the teeth get loose.

And it'll be a good long time before the liquefaction of the body gives way to dry rot.

But it's still a good phrase to live by, if you're an embalmer like me.

People in my profession take a certain pride in presentation.

And we can be downright competitive when it comes to who lays out the best-looking stiffs.

To that end, we like a quick turnaround on services whenever possible.

You never know when a 10-car pileup's going to drop five or six bodies on you by surprise either.

So it's best to get on the job early, no matter how small or mundane the job in question is.

On the Thursday in question, my phone had gotten me out of bed at three in the morning.

Whenever that call came from Fairview Hospice Care, I took it regardless of the time.

An elderly gentleman in the government-subsidized low-rent apartment complex off of Riverdale had, after 80 odd years, punched his time card and joined the choir invisible.

The family had done business with us already a few years back on the dead man's wife, and they'd been happy with our services.

The man had passed with his whole family on hand, breathing his last at exactly 2.30.

Could I receive him at 6 o'clock?

The answer to that question, where I work, always has to be yes.

If you can't jump right on it, as the saying goes, you could lose the funeral home the whole job, which counts not only the service, but also the packaging.

By which I mean urn or hopefully the coffin.

Families, if the deceased is fortunate enough to have one, don't have much time to figure out arrangements, particularly costs.

Heartless as this may sound, that pressure is good for business.

Given time to think, people will save a buck where they can.

I'd be paid for my work regardless, but one does want to do well by the people who sign the paycheck, am I right?

Locally, there are four fully qualified embalmers jockeying for work all the time, so to have the favor and even the keys of a local funeral home is nothing to sneeze at.

Also, the call had come from Henry, my favorite nephew, who was fresh out of college and new to hospice care.

I'd do anything for him and he knows it.

You okay?

I'd asked him once I'd rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, but before getting out of bed.

I reached for the clock on the nightstand and confirmed the ungodly hour.

Henry had three or four patients under his care.

I couldn't remember which this was.

To my knowledge, this was the first one he had lost.

According to Henry, there was no discernible heartbeat or pulse.

The deceased's mouth was open, but he drew no breath.

He'd lived longer than anyone had expected after his wife had passed.

I'm all right.

His voice was steady, if rather on the quiet side.

Understandable.

He might still be in the dead man's apartment.

For all I knew, family might yet be in the room with him.

I just don't want to mess anything up.

Where are you now?

Medical examiner's office.

Ted took one look and went straight to the paperwork.

Sounds like our Ted.

Look, Henry, it's not like there was foul play involved.

I...

I heard him take his last breath.

I saw it.

I'm sorry, hun.

But that's part of your job, right?

And death's a part of life.

I know.

Is there anyone there with you?

It's fine.

No worries, hun.

I'll be ready for him at six.

By 3.15, I'd called Mike for the pickup.

By 4.45, I'd showered, dressed, taken the dogs out, and had my morning tea.

My morning tea time is non-negotiable, regardless of circumstances.

Self-care is important.

At five in the morning, I parked my old Lincoln by the side entrance, killed the engine, and made a last last cursory glance around the property to make sure I was alone.

It was still dark, and I didn't work in the very best of neighborhoods, but the lot was empty, and the side entrance didn't face the main road.

I was alone.

No one would have seen me as I let myself in.

It's an odd thing, but we don't even have security cameras on the inside of the building.

Crescent Peaks is more than 100 years old.

It was originally a church, and it could stand for a little modernization, you ask me.

I kept the front entrance locked.

We don't open to the public until 8, when the scent of 7-Eleven coffee heralds the arrival of Connie.

But I did pull open the door to our delivery garage, currently empty, at 5.15.

We had enough space in there for five large vehicles, hearses, ambulances, whatever.

But we rarely had more than one at a time.

I keyed open the door to my workspace.

Hi, Glenn, I said, stepping inside, nodding to the first of the bodies on stainless steel slabs.

Morning, Trish.

Benny, how are you?

No complaints from the customers.

They were already finished and laid out.

Three room temperature formaldehyde popsicles with a dash of methanol and glutaraldehyde.

Although I had yet to get Glenn dressed and arranged for his makeup.

His service would be this Saturday, so there wasn't much time to lose there.

He and Trish had been easy jobs, as these things go, having passed from a heart attack and a stroke, stroke, respectively.

Benny, however, had kicked the bucket under his car when the jack gave out while changing a tire.

On arrival, his forehead resembled a deflated balloon, and he'd lost all of his teeth up front.

I'd done my best, but there comes a time when you realize there's only so much effort one should spend on a closed casket job.

I cleared, cleaned, and prepped a fourth table, our hydraulic embalming table, to be precise, in preparation for the new arrival.

I then made my way back to the garage.

By now it was 5:58, and I was just in time to greet Mike, who was backing the company van inside.

I left the garage door open.

He never stayed long when the call came this early, and waved him gradually inside, holding my palm up when it was time for him to stop.

We had our newest customer respectfully covered under blankets on a stretcher by 6:05.

Huh?

You have a busy day ahead of you.

Can't even remember when we had four in the cooler at one time.

We'll spent a few months.

Still have to call around for hair and makeup.

I flipped through the folder he'd given me.

Conrad Ailes, age 85.

Death by natural causes, survived by.

Dolly's still sick?

Yeah.

I closed the folder, setting it on the undercarriage tray of the stretcher, then holding the door open for Mike.

Try Evergreen.

That was our nearest competitor, just off the boulevard in Dale City.

I don't think they got anyone in the storage right now.

That was where Deborah applied her trade.

Deborah was annoying, but she'd take the work.

Thanks, Mike.

We'll do.

How was Henry?

Mike shrugged.

Seems stressed.

Can't see why.

People die all the time.

I smiled wanly at him.

He's new, Mike.

Have a heart.

He's a warrior.

That he is.

Mike stopped outside the lab, or cooler, as only he called it.

Don't you go worrying all day, though.

You'll be fine.

Together, we made the transfer from stretcher to table.

I left the body covered for now, preferring to give the first once-over in private.

Are we good?

I knew well enough that he preferred I gave the once-over in private as well.

Still, it was difficult not to tease him.

There wasn't anyone else around.

No one who could appreciate it, anyway.

You got something else to do?

He twirled his keys, unflappable as ever.

No,

but you do.

That was true enough.

The first thing I had to do was put the call in to Evergreen since I didn't have a direct contact number for Deborah.

At this hour, I didn't expect a pickup, so I wasn't disappointed.

They'd open at 8 in the morning, same as us, and hopefully Mick or Layla would call Deborah at home to deliver my message.

Not being able to count on that, though, I left messages at the other two local funeral homes as well.

There, time to check on good old Conrad.

I didn't know all that much about him.

Henry did talk, but he was a rambler.

It was hard for me to pin down exactly which stories he had told me were about this charge of his or that one.

Not that it mattered.

The job was the same no matter what.

Preservation and presentation.

I returned to the lab, laid out my things, and stood over Conrad's table.

I sighed, peeling back the blankets.

He remained attired in the unofficial uniform of the homebound hospice patient, sweats and a t-shirt, thick woolen socks.

I uncovered his face last.

Odd.

His eyes were closed.

Not half closed, not resting.

They were completely shut.

Eye caps, I thought reflexively, but that was nonsensical.

Eye caps were tools of the trade for my job, not Mike's.

As for Henry, I doubted he knew what they were.

Don't get me wrong, lots of people knew about eye caps.

Quite a few people in the industry even knew how to slip them in, depending on where you worked.

Just not at my facility.

Yet the eyes being closed was just that, an oddity, not an impossibility.

What bothered me more was that the skin at the corners of his eyes was wrinkled, as though he kept them closed with effort.

And that was considerably more than odd.

It was downright strange.

The guy was better than Disco.

Still not impossible.

I patted his cheek.

Hey, you, take it easy, don't you?

Post-mortem muscle spasm, I said to myself.

Only that and nothing more.

Conrad's features didn't twitch the slightest bit at my touch.

Might as well get started.

I had nothing better to do until I heard back from Evergreen or directly from Deborah.

I sterilized my hands and forearms first, right to the elbows.

Then I unrolled the old man's socks from his feet.

I couldn't help but glance at his face while doing this.

Nothing.

I sniffed back a chuckle, shook my head in self-reproach, and kept going.

After that, everything went swimmingly until I rolled the embalming machine close and began unspooling an injection tube.

On a nearby tray, also on rollers, the embalming fluids were kept in translucent plastic bottles of various colors.

Conrad was going to take his from one of the bright Pepto-Bismal pink containers.

He had pale skin and one doesn't want the patient going green.

I placed my free hand on the inside of his leg and leaned in for the first incision.

It would be the ephemeral to begin, eventually working up to the carotid when it came time to do his face and head.

A sudden, shallow hiss, almost but not quite inaudible, stopped me cold.

The sound had been so close I might have made it myself, only I hadn't.

Conrad had.

I hadn't actually seen him do it, but if it hadn't been me, then...

Frantically, I checked all about the table, scanning the floor for rats, for anything that might have been responsible.

But we do keep a clean shop here at Crescent Peaks, particularly when it comes to the presentation rooms and my little lab, which I mostly maintain myself.

We didn't have rats here.

Then I returned my attention to Conrad's face.

At first, I saw no change in it, but maybe just maybe there'd been the faintest hint of a flutter in his chest.

Oh no, God, no, please, please, no.

Just as it was unthinkable that people could be buried alive in the modern age, we preferred people to be buried dead here in the good old US of A in 2025.

It was also unthinkable that a living body could be mistaken for a corpse all the way from proper hospice care to the funeral home.

The only problem was Conrad hadn't really had proper hospice care.

No.

Instead,

he'd had Henry.

I leaned in close, bent my ear to his chest, and took his wrist in hand.

I waited.

Again, I couldn't sense anything at first, but when my eyes again flitted to his, I saw that his lids had peeled back just the slightest bit.

From the pale, wrinkled corner of his right eye, a tear pooled up and silently rolled down his ashy, unshaven cheek.

And from his wrist, where my thumb pressed against his radial vein, the tremor of a pulse.

Look, Mary, mother of Jesus, are you fucking shitting me, son of a fucking bitch?

Professionally, phoning in an ambulance would have been the better call, you know, as opposed to throwing an in-lab blasphemous tantrum, all with the misidentified dead in attendance, but cut me a break here.

I was pissed.

Also, to be fair, I'm Catholic and I'd kept it Catholic.

Conrad responded to it no more than did the other stiffs, unless you counted the pooling up of a second tier as a response.

Christ, maybe it even was.

I turned my back on him, took a moment to gather myself, then reeled on him again.

I summoned a smile.

Why aren't you dead yet?

I wheeled over a chair and sat right next to his face, which remained pointed straight at the ceiling.

Well, Conrad, what can I say?

This is awkward.

His eyes stayed open a sliver.

They turned to me.

one more open than the other.

Still, he didn't say anything.

I didn't cover him.

I left him naked on the table.

This almost never happens, I promised him.

Holy cow, this will be the worst customer view of hospice service in history, right?

I laughed, hoping the humor in this situation would not be lost on him.

Apparently, it was.

He said, not a word.

For all I knew, he wasn't capable of speech.

It's not like I was a doctor.

But then it occurred to me.

Oh,

you don't get it.

Um,

how to put this?

This is a funeral home.

You're supposed to be dead.

I'm supposed to embalm you.

Was just getting ready to start, in fact, so you can see why this is awkward for me.

If so, he gave no sign.

Your family will be so glad to see you again.

I straightened in my seat, now trying for a more professional tone.

It wasn't easy.

I wasn't accustomed to living customers.

I mean, being alive and everything.

They've been mourning you for more than three hours.

Think of how surprised they'll be.

Now his lips opened a crack.

Still, he didn't say anything, but a thin hiss of wind escaped them.

Then he'll put them through this all over again.

Shame, really.

But, well, there's no denying it.

You're alive.

How the fuck that's even possible, I have no earthly clue, but here we are.

Weakly, the tip of his tongue stabbed at his lips, trying to separate them, trying to get words out.

I patted his shoulder.

My nephew, that's Henry, the guy that takes care of you.

He'll be so embarrassed.

He's a warrior, but I guess you know that.

I checked my watch.

I had an hour and 15 minutes before this joint was supposed to open.

It might, in theory, be less than that before Connie arrived to assume her post at the reception desk.

Whatever I did, I had to do it right away.

No time to...

The phone rang.

I stared at the ceiling, blinking.

Wow, God, not done fucking with me yet.

Naturally, it was the office phone, the only landline I ever used these days.

It would mean another delivery, probably.

But there was also the chance it could be Deborah.

If so, it would be the first good thing that happened to me today.

I did still have to sort out hair and makeup for Glenn.

I've got to get that, I told Conrad.

Don't go anywhere.

I won't be long.

I stood, reached over, brushed a thin, rogue wisp of hair back over his ear where it belonged, and winked at him.

Then I hurried back over to the office before the call could go to voicemail.

Glad you picked up.

I was beginning to think you weren't there.

It was the voice of one decidedly inconvenienced, but that was par for the course with Deborah.

Millennials, I thought.

Bitch ought to be grateful.

If Mike was right, it wasn't like she had anything else going on the day.

Thanks to me, and Glenn, I supposed, she'd make a buck today.

As for me not even being here, well, I just left her a message.

Granted, that message would have been relayed by whomever had opened at Evergreen.

Even so, she'd have been told I'd been the one who placed the call.

Dumbass.

I'm here, I said, rather unnecessarily, annoyed to find myself half out of breath.

There's just kind of a lot going on over here today.

Distantly, but not so distant I didn't know where it was coming from.

Conrad was officially off the table, so to speak.

Really, God?

Dolly's still sick.

You need me to finish prep for a Saturday service

again?

I needed to be out of here.

i needed to be back in that lab but i couldn't help myself

i can call around if it's a bad time for you i said thinking it a shame that this saturday was glenn and not benny in his closed casket neither dolly nor deborah would be required for benny's prep and damn it all calling around wasn't even part of my job nah i don't mind bailing you out

Her sanctimony and sacrifice were on full audio display.

I can be there at 7.30.

Naturally, Deborah liked to get things off her plate in a hurry, as if life was some kind of race.

It was almost 7 already.

From the lab, there emerged a slow, rattling groan.

Quickly, I put my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, then remembered it was my turn to talk.

Let's say 8:30.

Connie will be here to let you in.

I didn't mention that she'd be here half an hour before then.

That's also when Rayon gets in.

Rayon was the funeral home director.

He'd be able to to cut Deborah her check.

He was also, it bears mentioning, the person who ought to be handling shit like this.

An indistinct noise from the lab.

Might have been Conrad scrabbling around on the floor, or more likely writhing.

Falling off the prep table, that had to hurt.

You owe me big time.

If she was expecting me to acknowledge that, she was going to be disappointed.

None of this was my responsibility.

I was doing the funeral home a favor, too.

In this particular case, a much bigger favor.

More noise from the lab.

Crying noises.

I uncovered the mouthpiece just long enough to say, see you at 8:30, Debbie.

She hated it when I called her Debbie.

I hung up before she could reply.

If, as a result of my little dig, she opted not to show up, so much the better.

Suddenly, I had much bigger fish to fry than hair and makeup.

All right, Conrad, I thought.

Time to get your gun sorted.

I returned to the lab.

Oh, now just look at you.

I was fairly exasperated by this point.

There he was, curled up on his side on the floor, twitching like a mouse caught in a mousetrap.

What were you trying to accomplish, Conrad?

Were you trying to make a break for it or something?

His eyes still weren't all the way open.

He didn't look at me.

He wheezed loudly enough that the sound carried.

If I weren't alone with him in here, it would have drawn attention.

Bet you're cold.

Put my jacket back on, then gloved up.

Are you cold, Conrad?

I wasn't expecting a spoken response, and I didn't get one.

I knelt next to him, tugging on the ends of my gloves one at a time to make sure they were a good and snug fit.

I ran my hands down one arm, then the other.

His eyes opened wide.

He glared at me, lips trembling, still wheezing.

Checking for broken bones, Conrad.

Falls aren't good at any age, but for you.

Up and down his legs next.

I hadn't any idea what I might do if I found any breaks.

As said, I'm no doctor.

But I knew well enough that I didn't want to find any.

This was going to be tricky enough as it was without any added complications.

I then slid my left arm under his knees and gathered him up by the shoulders with my right, heaving him up from the floor, cradling him.

I'm no spring chicken myself, but I fancy myself pretty sturdy at 52.

Conrad wouldn't have been more than 110 pounds soaking wet.

He came up easily and didn't fight.

Gently, I laid him back down on the table and leaned over him.

Stay still, I said, adopting the tone I'd always used when it had been necessary to be stern with Henry in the days when I babysat him.

We have a problem, Conrad, and we're going to talk solutions.

I waited.

Got nothing, only more tears, groaning, inarticulate misery.

For all I knew, this man had suffered a stroke.

I was sure he'd say something if he could.

All right, well, I'm gonna talk then, and you need to listen.

He drew in his deepest breath yet, but it all came to another wheeze, albeit a louder one.

I drew over my rolling chair and sat next to him.

I placed my hand on his forehead.

It beaded with cold sweat.

Kind of disgusting, if I'm being honest, but I kept my composure.

You're in pain.

Can't imagine why else you'd be sweating in this room.

Hold on a sec.

I got up, drew a few fresh blankets from one of the wall cabinets, and laid them over him one at a time.

They were plain white, not particularly thick and probably not especially comfortable as blankets go.

Practically speaking, we had these blankets strictly for the purpose of keeping the already dead covered.

I tucked them in at the top, right at the base of his neck, then sat down again.

Better?

I waited.

He only blinked.

I really should call an ambulance.

I mused, speaking mostly to myself.

It wasn't like Conrad was being much help.

Ethically speaking, it's not even a choice.

You're alive, right?

I mean, I mean, that's all there is to it.

He didn't argue.

The problem is, the ethical thing isn't always the moral thing.

Imagine it, Conrad.

I call an ambulance and you're whisked off to Centara Hospital.

If you live that long, of course.

Under the circumstances, they rush in a whole team of doctors to figure out what happened.

Maybe they even do figure it out.

They save you for a day or maybe a month.

Hell, maybe even longer.

They'd keep you at the hospital for a week at least, I bet.

And all the time you're occupying a bed somebody else can't get.

And here we are right in the middle of cold and flu season.

New COVID cases coming in every day, too, if I heard the news right this morning.

I started opening drawers, checking my tools, laying out the smaller stuff on top of Conrad's blanket.

All of it was close at hand.

I was ready to go, you know.

I was right about to get started.

Five more minutes and I'd never have known you were even alive.

But it didn't do to dwell on that.

I returned to the earlier hypothetical.

Anyway, there you are, snug in your hospital bed, and miracle of miracles, one day you even get to go home again.

I don't know how good your insurance is, but there's no way it would cover everything.

I have no idea if you have any real money.

But that hospital stay is expensive, Conrad.

Exactly, who the fuck is going to pay for that?

Your family?

You want them stuck with the bill?

Or maybe the hospital and the doctors who gave you a temporary jumpstart are supposed to eat that expense?

You see where I'm going with this?

Still nothing.

Part of me is waiting for you to die right now.

I'm sorry that was insensitive, but let's face it, you're not a very good conversationalist.

Not that I blame you.

You do understand, though, don't you?

This is a difficult situation for me.

Again, he blinked.

I might have thought him brain dead if he hadn't somehow managed to roll himself off the table a few minutes ago.

Full disclosure.

This isn't about me, Conrad.

It's not even about you.

It's about my nephew, Henry.

You know, Henry.

He was your hospice caregiver.

Nice young man, my Henry.

Kind of clueless, but a good guy.

How about you blink again if any of this has come through?

He blinked again.

Excellent.

Now, I'm going to tell you something, and I want you to pay attention.

Henry and I are going to have a long talk about this, Conrad.

I promise you, he's going to get an earful from me.

I mean, my God, how the fuck did that little idiot let this fucking happen?

What kind of fucking moron puts me in this position?

Like, what the fuck?

I swear to God, that goddamn simpleton.

If I know my Henry, and trust me, Conrad, I do, I do.

It was probably afraid to so much as touch you.

He's so terrified of being rude, of awkward situations.

Too self-conscious to apply pressure when checking for a pulse, to let the side of his fucking empty head rest right up against your heart so he could hear it fucking beat.

Most pathetic thing I ever heard of in my life.

So fucking sad.

I took a moment, steadied my breathing, made myself smile, lifted a corner of the blanket to mop sweat from Conrad's forehead.

Yeah, Henry and I are going to have us a good long conversation, Conrad.

I don't expect he'll be much better at it than you, though.

Conrad put forth no arguments.

But then why would he?

He knew Henry.

Therefore, he knew I was right.

Tell me, Conrad, are you unable to speak or are you being insolent?

He didn't say.

Wiggle your toes if you can't talk.

No wiggling.

Not that the lack of movement proved anything.

I suppose it was possible his range of movement hadn't yet made it to his extremities, and I doubted very much his brain was operating at full capacity.

But if he had wiggled them, I'd at least have known he wasn't being an asshole, so worth a try.

In the meantime, I expect you're waiting for me to call the medical Calvary, aren't you?

Maybe your family?

He turned his head, fixing his eyes on me.

There you are.

Oh, Conrad, good.

You.

Was that last twitch a shake of the head?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

If so, his response was more than a little surprising.

You don't?

But then, perhaps he grasped the situation better than I'd anticipated.

Hmm.

Well, that's all to the good then, because I am going to kill you, Conrad.

I have to.

His lips struggled to make words now, but still he didn't say anything.

At least he was trying.

This is one of those family-first situations.

I'm sure you understand.

My nephew is kind of clueless, like I said.

This is the first time in I don't know how long he's held the same job for more than three weeks in a row.

He couldn't even handle the register at the Wendy's drive-through.

But he went to college for this hospice gig.

I helped him through it.

Seems I'll have to help him learn the ropes and handle them on the job as well.

But that's tomorrow's problem.

So yeah, he's a bit of an idiot, but he's my sister's kid, and he's a good boy.

I will not see that certificate on his bedroom wall go to waste.

You'd do the same for one of your own, Conrad, wouldn't you?

His mouth widened by a degree.

Was he still trying to speak?

Was it simply an expression of surprise?

Could it be that he was appalled somehow by my reasoning?

Could he see no farther than his own rather limited prospects?

Some people just can't understand the needs and feelings of others.

They have no empathy.

It's frustrating, especially in people old enough to know better.

Maybe if I explain myself.

The thing is, it's like I already told you, you're as good as dead.

I keep thinking you might pass on for real and for good any time.

I mean, that would be ideal.

That would fix everything.

The problem is, I can't count on that.

I'm on a schedule, Conrad.

Best that could be said of the situation at this point.

I was sure I had his full attention.

I laid my hand over his.

Been struggling to think of the best way to kill you.

Again, tears welled up in his eyes.

If I could think of a way to do it that would be both humane and also not implicate me, that's what I would go with.

My first thought was a good old-fashioned face smothering with a pillow, but even that might cause swelling.

On an elderly gentleman like you, there'd definitely be bruising, so I can't have that.

Also, I imagine it wouldn't be very comfortable for you.

I gave his hand a firm, comforting squeeze.

Track with me for a minute.

We'll be done soon.

So, yeah, anyway, I can't break the skin anywhere my needles and pumps and tubes and all that fine embalming paraphernalia isn't supposed to go.

I mean, I guess that is to say, if I'm being real here,

I could probably get away with something if I turned you over and went through your back.

I can't imagine Debbie or Dolly checking back there.

Dolly's are regular, but she's out sick, poor lamb.

Anyway, they probably wouldn't check back there, but you never know.

Then brightly, trying for levity, can't be too careful.

His fingers curled a bit about mine in return.

He was trying.

But I am a problem solver, Conrad.

I reassured him.

Yep, I solve problems, and there's only one thing to do.

With my other hand, I patted the embalming machine, which remained right next to the table.

And that thing is my job, Conrad.

Do you understand?

Had to admit, it was kind of horrifying listening to myself say those words.

But sometimes people who know right from wrong have to do difficult things.

Strong people make tough decisions and act on them with courage.

Really, Conrad, better to be embalmed alive than buried alive, am I right?

You prefer to be buried dead, don't you?

A groan, inarticulate as far as words go, yet I understood.

Some things are difficult to hear.

His fingers trembled about mine, but he didn't let go.

And no worries.

There's no way you'll survive the embalming process.

No one would, not even the strongest person on earth.

Even if these chemicals weren't lethal, which they are, by the time I'm done, there'll be barely a drop of blood left in you.

I usually start with the femoral vein, working from the feet up.

I save the head for last because there's more likely to be adjustments made on the fly up here.

I tapped his forehead using my left hand.

I kept letting him hold on to my right.

We want to minimize discoloration, swelling, even deflation in certain areas time to time.

Then all of a sudden his hand gripped mine with a strength scarcely to be believed.

It would not have been enough to hold me in place should I decide to wrench back from him, yet...

Coming from him, seeing him struggle so much,

it was disconcerting, almost otherworldly.

His eyes were wide open, too, but his tears had subsided.

It was like I was being studied or evaluated.

I'd almost say it was like he wanted to see through me to discern if he could trust me.

But given the revelations about what I was about to do to him, I thought that more than unlikely.

He was desperate.

That was all.

In those eyes, for three seconds, all I saw was the need to escape, the growing realization dawning on him that escape was impossible.

The beginnings of grim acceptance.

But for you, Conrad, I do think it's best I start with the head, with the carotid.

Going in through there, man, in your condition, it'll be like having the lights turned off.

I don't think there'll be any pain.

I really don't want you to suffer.

And that was true.

This man had suffered enough.

I mean, come on, it's not like I'm a bad person.

There's no way I'd do this without going to the method I thought would be easiest for him, all outcomes being equal.

Not that I could be sure, you understand.

As I said, I'm no doctor.

Your family will never know.

Their last memory of you will be whatever they said to you at your bedside.

They might not know you heard any of it, but I bet you did, like you've heard everything here.

You did hear them, didn't you, Conrad?

I was hardly surprised at all when he responded with a slow, determined nod.

You don't want this to be the way they remember you, Conrad, do you?

I'd have readied the machine at this point had everything gone the way I'd expected, but he still held my hand.

I didn't withdraw from him.

Just as slowly as before, this time he shook his head.

You have others waiting for you, don't you?

You know they're there, right?

He nodded.

Can you see them?

He shook his head.

You should close your eyes.

There's no need to see this coming.

Look for them.

You'll see them soon.

That's what you want to see.

Why I went so soft at the end, I'm not sure.

There was a charge, both in the air about us and in my very blood and soul.

Nothing I said to him was bullshit for the record.

I wanted to make this easy easy for him.

Honestly, I did.

Funny how things go sometimes.

His fingers about mine gripped even harder.

Not quite hurting, but almost.

And, and it must have been taking every ounce of strength he had left, he began to draw me in.

I didn't know if I wanted this.

That was a big question mark in my head at the moment.

And I could have prevented him doing it.

But now looking back, I'm definitely glad I didn't.

I leaned in, turning my head to the side in case he was trying to say something.

Turned out he was.

His eyes were wide, but oddly calm.

They were waiting eyes, expectant eyes.

Then he finally closed them, and I got to work.

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

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