Black Hills

While I was writing this story I was reading Stephen King, thus, I believe his writing influenced this shrot story.

“How did he die?” they were cleaning the dead body on an aluminum slab.

“Nobody heard him, Tom, the dead boy I mean. He was much further out than he thought, the water must have been too cold for him and his heart gave way. That’s what everyone said.” The mortician’s hands were working quickly and without a single tremble as he injected the eyes of the dead boy with tissue builder.

"Now, Tom pay attention, don't flinch away from this, if you want to become a successful funeral director, you have to know how to prepare a body for its last resting place."

"I do not mean to be disrespectful Mr. Collins, but why do you put such care into preparing the dead body? I mean, he is going to go underground anyway, or even worse, his family will cremate him. No one will care how he looked like when he is gone."

Tom saw the mortician's hand stopping mid-way and tightening around the syringe. None of this irritation showed on his face. He remained the same - calm, white-haired old man that ran the small funeral home.

Silence and then a deep sigh.

"Boy, do you know why you want to work in a funeral home?"

"My old man was a funeral director. On his death bed, he made me promise I will follow in his footsteps and take over the business. Besides, they say that this job pays a lot."

Mr. Collins carefully placed the syringe on the small end table and covered the body of the drowned boy with a white sheet. "Walk with me boy."

Tom stepped out of the small morgue and Mr. Collins lumbered forward in the dim light. The ceilings of the old house were low and made the mortician look like a giant trapped in a doll house. The house looked shabby; from the drawing room, where the ceremonies were held, to the top most part of the house, where the mortician had made his office.

The carpets were faded by the years and the constant tread of the mourners. The wallpapers, that lined the walls, were beginning to come off. The ceilings were flaked and had stains as if the house was once flooded.

The rickety stairs creaked under their footsteps, as they ascended. Tom remembered the first day he arrived in Deadwood. It was a bleak and sleepy town in South Dakota. With a duffle bag in one hand and a note from his mother, he went around town looking for the small funeral home. After some wondering around, he came up to an old, Victorian style house. The sign said "Black Hills Funeral House". According to the locals, it was owned by H.J. Collins and his son.

Tom had imagined it differently. When he first entered, the lobby was poorly lit. A tall man well over his eighties welcomed him inside. He was dressed in an old-fashioned tweed jacket, which from up-close looked threadbare. The man introduced himself as Mr. Collins, the owner and embalmer. Sometimes, he also led the ceremonies. There were no permanent gravediggers for the little cemetery in the backyard. He hired random people passing through town, looking for a place to stay. The mortician was tall and thin as death itself. In fact, Tom thought that the whole house smelled like death.

The whole place had nothing to do with his father's funeral home. Back home, the place was always well lit, and his mother made sure they had fresh flowers to ward away the smell. The people working for his father were the best in their professions, so he rarely had to visit the funeral home. He fancied himself more of a businessman and a manager, rather than a funeral director.

"Funeral directors are not loaded with money, boy" Mr. Collins' voice brought Tom back to reality. "Unless you own your own funeral home, the only things you are going to be loaded with are student loans and caffeine."

They reached the small office and Mr. Collins invited Tom inside. The room was no different than the rest of the house. The lonely desk stood next to the wall at the far end. The curtains were drawn, so the only light came from the old fireplace. Although it was already the end of April, there was a permanent chill in the house. Mr. Collins sat behind his desk and with a slow gesture invited Tom to sit.

"Like I already mentioned Mr. Collins, I want to take over my father's funeral home. We have a well-established business. Furthermore, people...." The mortician cut Tom short.

“Nobody who wants to be a funeral director ever makes it. It isn’t something that you want, like a new car or going to college. No. It’s like marriage, a commitment that’s intended to last. It is not a job, nor is it a profession, not even a business. It is a lifestyle. If you are not ready to marry it, then I advise you to move on to something else.” Mr. Collins stared at Tom over his crescent glasses. For a second, Tom thought that there was something hungry in the mortician’s expression.

Before Tom could say anything in his defense, Mr. Collins stood up and walked towards the fireplace. “Have you ever been around grieving people, boy?” Tom opened his mouth to object, but Mr. Collins continued with his monologue. “At times, grieving people act like they are out of their minds. Sometimes they act…well… like crazy. It is their right. This is the reason we exist. Their whole world has been pulled from under their feet and it is our duty to help and create some balance in the crazy.”

“Please, Mr. Collins if you let me speak I can surely…” the mortician took something from the mantelpiece and turned around to face Tom. As if on cue, Tom also stood up from his chair and turned around. The mortician was holding a heavy stone bookend in the shape of a sphinx.

“Do you know what they call a lazy funeral director, Tom? They call them dead.”

It was a peaceful late afternoon outside, and a few startled pigeons flew from the roof of the funeral home. A muted “thud” came from the upper floors as if someone dropped something heavy on the floor. A few days later, some local people found the mangled body of a young man. They assumed he had fallen off the nearby cliffs. People clucked their tongues and shook their heads in disapproval. Later he was identified as Tom Springfield and his body was sent to the Deadwood funeral home until relatives came to retrieve it.

*     *     *

“How did he die?” The young girl asked as they were washing the blood from the body.

“His head was in the clouds and he fell to his death. That’s what everybody said. I did not know him.”

“Such a shame.” said the girl while carefully squeezing the blood from the sponge.

“Now Jennie, tell me why exactly do you want to be a funeral director?” the girl stopped to think for a while as the mortician glued Tom’s mouth and eyes shut. 

Reviews

[zombiebird]

I knew this story was going to be creepy but the ending was truly chilling. Well done building a story in such a short space. I got a full sense of the characters and the place- I especially liked the description of the house, it was the perfect setting for this story. I liked the themes of grief and death and how the boy only really seemed to care about the business side of it. It almost seemed like justice that death should so boldly get his attention... but also it made the old man seem crazy and creepy. Great story!

[Autonomous]

Well it sucks to be Tom. Anyway I think your name should be changed, I came here expecting a nice tender story but found a creepypasta instead. Anyway great story and nice ending, then again it isn't the end until mortician strikes again. I vote for black hills 2