Tale of the Three Morticians

Susanna Weber

Chapter 1: Skunk Diggory

“You don’t belong here.”

Skunk awoke with a start. A beaming blonde woman with sweet round features placed a

steaming mug of coffee in front of him. She laughed. The sound would have been pleasant had she not snorted afterwards.

“Looks like you could really use the caffeine this morning!” she smiled, winking. Skunk massaged

his eyes and cupped his hands around the mug. He cursed himself for nodding off. His mind had been

floating in and out of dreamland all morning. He closed his eyes―the warmth of the sun was like a

blanket. Before long he felt himself drifting through a gray neighborhood; concrete loops of identical houses. It was as though he was riding on a black and white version of a merry-go-round. No matter

what he did, he could not escape the gray world that was his life―not even at his favourite café.

“What are you doing by the window?” the woman inquired. “You usually sit at the front by the

espresso bar.”

“I guess I felt like getting some sunshine today,” Skunk answered, peering through the window.

He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the wash of sunlight. Strange paintings hung on the café walls. They depicted gold oceans and sea birds, of which Skunk had never seen the likes. The town of Belleville itself was like an antique painting― old and beautiful. From the window he could see all the way past the

brightly coloured storefronts to the lake.

“The view is better here,” he added, sipping the bitter hot liquid. The woman nodded in

agreement.

“Aye. That lake sure does glimmer at this time of day. Water clear as can be. They don’t call it

the Glass Lake for nothing.” She patted him on the shoulder and circled a cloth over a neighboring table.

Skunk could see his face on the surface of the coffee. The black liquid was like a mirror. He ran

a hand over his dark hair, fingering the white tendrils. He was born with a stripe of colourless hair down the centre of his head. He could still hear the mocking voices. They called him Skunk. He swirled the coffee around in his mug for a while and then took a long drink of his reflection. He smiled. “I taste good,” he thought, whimsically to himself. He then thought: would other people think the same thing upon seeing their reflection in a cup of coffee? Probably not.

“ Those who think differently make the biggest difference.” His mother’s words. Her memory made him smile. The two of them used to go down to the Glass Lake after dawn. The man-made rocky

escarpments and barbed-wired fences were no match for their nimble toes. The town of Belleville was a magical sight to his young eyes. Bright lights bouncing from the fountains in the streets, and best of all, the constant buzz of laughter drifting on the wind…

A heavily ringed hand touched him lightly on the shoulder. His wife’s face greeted him as he

looked up from the depths of his coffee mug. Mink. Skunk was relieved she’d cut into his morning bout

of pondering. He could feel his thoughts slowly wandering toward the painful memory of his mother’s funeral.

“Skunkie, dear, you’ve been sulking by this window for hours! Hasn’t your coffee grown cold by

now?”

“You know I drink it either way,” he replied, allowing the chilled remainder of his coffee to

trickle down his throat. “Why are you wearing so many furs? Surely winter hasn’t arrived yet.” She took him under the arm, laughing. Skunk knew his wife had a thing for animal pelts. She had always been a tad eccentric. Perhaps that is what had attracted Skunk to her in the first place. Physically speaking, she wasn’t a beautiful woman. It was hard to tell what her body looked like beneath the bulk of furs, but her face always wore an expression of childlike bliss, and for Skunk, that was enough.

Mink took him by the hand. Her grip was urgent.

“My darling Diggory,” she began, “though I find you tremendously adorable sitting here all

squinty-faced in thought, I must show you something.”

***

Dashing down the streets of Belleville behind his wife, Skunk was completely unaware as to

where they were headed. He could barely keep up with Mink. She dragged him from the café onto the

side street without so much as an explanation. Her stubby legs moved more swiftly than one would

imagine, spiriting Skunk away more oft than not. Sometimes Skunk would wind up in a restaurant,

where Mink would introduce him to all the Belleville frequenters. Other times, he’d find himself in the house of a stranger, drinking strange tea and using strange washrooms. One thing was for sure: no one was a stranger to his wife.

“Dear, where exactly are we―” Skunk stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the rumpled

sketches floating gracefully above his head. He recognized them immediately. They belonged to one of the town’s most celebrated artists, Les Harper. The artist was known for his surreal portraits. His paintings portrayed people distorted in the reflection of a well polished spoon. The number of papers riding the draft seemed to increase as Mink towed Skunk down Willful Way. Like seagulls, the sketches flocked outside of Les Harper’s art shop. A fretful crowd had also taken shape.

Central in the heap of baffled beings, Mink turned to Skunk and said, not without a gleam of

horrified fascination in her eyes, “Something awful has happened.”

An animalistic whimpering came from inside the art studio. The people closest to the entrance

bounded away in fright.

“Somebody call the police!” A panicked voice shouted, “There is some sort of vicious animal in

there!” The citizens of Belleville began to panic.

“ Let’s not go jumping to conclusions,” Skunk started. “ Why don’t we all file peacefully into the building and see what the damage is.”

Only moments ago he’d been somewhat comfortable with a cup of coffee. Now he was in the

midst of―as his wife had put it― ‘something awful.’ That was Belleville: predictably unpredictable.

The people obediently followed Skunk into the art shop. He gasped when he saw the condition

of the studio. A colourful whirlwind looked as though it had struck the place. Paint had been spattered on the walls and was even dripping from the ceiling. Looking down, Skunk found that he was standing in a great glimmering pool of paint. Thousands of dollars worth of art supplies had been demolished.

Huddled miserably in the corner of the compartment was Les Harper, wasting away in his own puddle

of tears.

“This is a monstrosity!” he howled. “My astounding portraits have been vandalized!” He let

loose a wretched wail― the very same sound that had been mistaken for a ‘vicious animal.’ Les Harper sprinted forward suddenly, his finger pointing accusingly at the gaping citizens before him. “Which one of you is the sinister stinkweed who has ruined my life’s work?!” he demanded. “Whoever you are, I

hope you’re satisfied. You have blasphemed my name, ransacked my studio, and now I am nothing!”

It was true. Each one of Les Harper’s portraits had a freshly drawn mustache. Skunk scoffed and

shook his head. Whoever did this was extremely immature.

“ Tsk, tsk,” Mink clucked beside him. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

“Who would be able to do such a thing?” Skunk asked. The windows in the shop all remained

intact. How could the perpetrator have entered? Skunk placed a hand on Les Harper’s quivering

shoulder. The artist’s face was distorted with grief. He almost resembled one of his paintings.

“ Harper,” he said delicately, “is it possible that you forgot to lock up your shop last night?” Les Harper looked at Skunk as though he was an alien from another planet.

“Lock up?” he replied. “We don’t have locks in Belleville. This is a trusting community. These

sorts of things aren’t supposed to happen!” Skunk looked to his wife in confusion.

“No locks?!” he exclaimed in disbelief. Mink shook her head. “No security systems?!” Again,

Mink shook her head.

“There’s never been need for them,” she stated simply. “Not until now, anyway,” she added.

“ Make way, policeman coming through,” hollered Officer Russ Farland . The policeman

squeezed his massive body through the muddle of people until he finally stood before the demolished pictures. “ It’s quite obvious who done it,”he declared.

“Well get on with it then,” Les Harper sniffed. The constable turned towards the mob.

“I believe whoever did this has a mustache! Therefore, I hereby arrest every citizen of Belleville with a mustache!”

Total uproar followed the cop’s conclusion. Skunk spoke up just as the constable was about to

bind old Mrs. Foppish, the only woman in Belleville with a mustache.

“Stop! Stop! This is ridiculous!” he laughed. “Just because the faces in the paintings have been

given mustaches doesn’t mean the vandal has a mustache.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that because you too have a mustache, would ya’?” Officer Russ

Farland growled.

“Of course not, Officer! I was with my wife in bed during the time when the crime would have

taken place,” Skunk said in his defense.

Mink vouched for him, “he sure was! And let me tell you, he was on fire last night!” Her

statement produced a hardy round of chuckling from the crowd.

“Besides, Constable Russ Farland ,” Skunk continued, “you too have a mustache!” The

townsfolk had to hand it to Skunk, he made a good point.

“ Alright, alright. I stand corrected. You’re all innocent until proven guilty,” admitted Officer Russ Farland . He eyed Skunk curiously, a hand stroking his chins. “You know, ever since Mayor Flumox

passed, I’ve been on the look for an acceptable candidate to replace him,” he said. “Mr. Diggory, I think you would make an excellent Mayor of Belleville.”

There were no objections to follow the officer’s statement. Instead, the townsfolk began to

applaud. Skunk stood dumbfounded. He could feel his face flushing with a sort of happy

embarrassment.

“You want me to be your mayor?!” Skunk had to be sure he wasn’t misunderstanding. The people roared in affirmation. “B-but,that’s pretty unofficial, isn’t it? I mean, shouldn’t you at least hold an election or something?”

“We vote for Skunk! We vote for Skunk!” They cheered.

Officer Russ Farland ’s mustache rose upward like an umbrella made inside out by a gale. “The

people have spoken,” he said, in an ominous sort of way. As the officer lifted his hands skyward, the auspicious shouting reached a climax.

“Okay! Okay! I’ll be your mayor!” Skunk boomed, proudly. “Together, we’ll get to the bottom of

this break-in.”

“That’s my husband!” Mink hooted.

Unfortunately, the celebrating ended just as quickly as it had started, for Les Harper noticed

something that nobody else had.

“You dingbats!” he swore. “In all your bliss and glee you failed to notice the open door. If that paint runs into the Glass Lake, our water will be poisoned!” A wave of nervous murmurs and worried

whispers ran through the crowd. Skunk cleared his throat and immediately all eyes were on him.

“It’s okay,” he reassured them. “The water goes through a filtration process. If there are any

toxins in the lake, they’ll be long gone before the water reaches our mouths.” The villagers seemed satisfied with this explanation and one by one marched out the exit with constable Russ Farland in the lead. Skunk and Les Harper were all who remained.

“We’ll have this place looking good as new in a jiffy,” Skunk promised, helping Les Harper up.

“You’re a brilliant artist, Harper. I’m sure you could fix your vandalized paintings.” At the mentioning of his totaled masterpieces, Les Harper fell to his knees in agony and began to sob and sob. Skunk didn’t know what to do, so he simply stood quietly.

“I have no purpose!” The sorrowful artist finally breathed. His eyes leaking and puffy, he wiped

his nose on his sleeve. “My work had been undermined! My purpose has been undermined!”

“That’s not true!” Skunk declared. “We’ll catch the man responsible, and we’ll punish him.

Everything will be okay.” His encouragement had no effect on the man. No matter what Skunk said, Les Harper’s lamenting only worsened. Torn with woe, the artist plunged his hands into his paint, guzzling mouthfuls of the carcinogenic substance.

“Stop!” Skunk shrieked. “You’re going to poison yourself!” He pulled out his phone and dialed a

medic. By the time an ambulance arrived, Les Harper had fled his shop, slipping and tripping his way down to the Glass Lake. Skunk tried pursuing him. He tried stopping him. But his cries for help went unanswered, and his arthritic knees could not catch up with the young artist’s desperate strides. Poor Les Harper and his creative mind, torn to shreds by depression. The man was seen throwing himself

from an escarpment and into the swirling depths of the Glass Lake.

Skunk had been mayor for barely a day and already had one casualty under his belt. The artist’s

horrible demise consumed his sleep. That drear expression…his eyes were void of everything, save the determination to self destruct. Skunk would cry out for Les Harper to stop―for him to think about what he was doing and the impact his death would have on people. But the artist would shake his head,

claiming people’s lives would be better without him. Skunk would awake to hear a howling discord. He could never tell if the lament belonged to the wind or Les Harper. Some nights he felt like he was going insane.

Skunk needed to keep a clear head if he was going to find the culprit. He had no reason to blame

himself for the artist’s death. Whoever was responsible for destroying Les Harper’s art shop was also responsible for destroying Les Harper. Mayor Skunk couldn’t let a little emotion like guilt eat him alive, nor would he. Nothing would get in his way. He would be the best mayor Belleville had ever seen.

Chapter 2: The Fly and the Skunk

Life was not simple for Skunk. People were devastated at the loss of their prized artist. The paint spilled from Les Harper’s art shop had created a muddy stain down Willful way. Its strong odour

disturbed the inhabitants of the street. Skunk could barely leave his house without someone

approaching him about the smell. As if the intoxicating odour wasn’t bad enough, the stench of rotting fish also became evident. Whatever paint had managed to find its way into the Glass Lake had been

poisoning the fish. The stink was making people ill and driving tourists away. To clear the scent of paint from the air, Skunk sent the street cleaners on a cleaning frenzy down the roads. The fish were an

entirely different problem.

Skunk was inspecting the condition of the Glass Lake from the beach when he bumped into a

scraggly fisherman dressed in a plastic yellow fishing suit.

“If these fish keep coming up dead before I can catch them I won’t be able to earn my keep!” he

complained. That’s when Skunk came up with a brilliant idea.

“I’ll give you just as much as you were earning in your fish sales if you collect the dead fish and have them burned discretely,” he offered. The fishermen were happy to oblige and soon the stink

lessened. But the work of this mysterious vandal only continued.

As mayor, it was Skunk’s responsibility to protect the citizens of Belleville. Of course, with a

serial vandal on the loose and one man dead, this was not easy. The vandal always operated at night.

He would steal store merchandise and then use it to destroy the merchant’s personal belongings. A

woman who sold furniture found one of her patio sets disassembled in a tree. That same day the barber went to drive his car only to discover that it had been doused in shaving cream. Many other citizens fell victim to similar crimes. Skunk could only think of one motive to explain the vandal’s actions: sadistic pleasure. So far, it seemed as though the vandal did not intend to hurt anyone. After all, the vandal had not directly killed Les Harper. He was like a fly: annoying, but harmless. Skunk didn’t think the criminal was particularly smart either. Terrorizing a town with minimal security wasn’t exactly a job for a master mind. Catching this guy would be a slice. All Skunk had to do was set a trap.

One morning Skunk was sorting through the resumés of the Belleville police squad in search

for a team of security guards, when a haggard woman entered the café. She approached Skunk with the determination of an assassin.

“How can you sit there sipping coffee all nice and calm while a criminal is at large?!” she

screamed, swatting Skunk’s morning coffee from his hand. Skunk stared in exasperation as the pile of resumés before him turned into a pile of sopping brown mush.

“Ma’am?!” Skunk jumped from his seat by the window as the coffee began to drip into his lap,

scalding him. The woman’s sudden anger extinguished and she crumpled to the floor in tears.

“My son!” she wailed. “My poor boy!” Her hands shook with emotion as she covered her face,

hiding the intensity of her sadness from the world. Skunk hated to see a mother in pain. “You must

promise me you’ll destroy the monster who drove my son to madness.” She gripped Skunk’s pant leg and looked up at him with woefull eyes. Her sorrow reminded him of another woman. Skunk placed a

hand on her heaving shoulder.

“I promise you I will bring the man responsible to justice,” he said. Satisfied, the distraught

woman then left Skunk to collect whatever was left of the resumés. He brought the remaining pulp to Officer Russ Farland and together they agreed upon a reasonable sized team of well qualified officers to patrol the town come sunset.

***

Skunk stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back. The sound of his shoes clicking

against the white floors of the police station was amplified in the wide open hallway.

“Do you all know what this is?” Skunk questioned them. He held up a skunk shaped cologne

bottle. The glass skunk flask appeared to be standing on its paws with the rest of its body upright as if it were about to spray a potential enemy. Under the tail was a nozzle. A man at the end of the long line of navy uniforms threw up his hand eagerly.

“Sir, it’s a lethal cologne, sir,” the lad shouted. Officer Russ Farland chopped his thick hand over the boy’s skull.

“Keep your know-it-all mouth shut, Temaru!” he growled, his fleshy face flushing red.

“It’s okay,” Skunk said. The man known as Temaru grimaced and touched the back of his head

tenderly. His hair was black and fell to his shoulders and his eyes were almond-shaped. “So you’ve heard about this cologne I worked on?” The man bowed and nodded.

“Oh yes!” he declared. “But I had no idea that you yourself participated in its creation.” Temaru

bowed even deeper. “It is truly an honour to serve you.”

Skunk cleared his throat, “Why don’t you tell everyone else about it,” he suggested. Temaru’s

eyes widened.

“Me?!” he exclaimed. “Sir, I would be honoured.” As Temaru explained the significance of the

cologne, Skunk could see the information pass straight through the other officers’ heads. Their eyes drooped more and more with each word. Even Skunk found his mind wandering…

The labs were filled with four-eyed men gawking at test tubes and sniffing chemicals, all in

desperate search for a scent that would captivate the markets. They were brilliant fools. While their greedy white coats flapped over vials of pheromone-induced smells, Skunk concocted a weapon: a

cologne more potent than the stink of a skunk.

“How painfully ironic,” Skunk thought to himself. “He was the one who wanted me to become a chemical engineer.”

“One spritz of the malodorous solution can render a person unconscious!” Temaru exclaimed.

“Isn’t that right, Mr. Diggory?” Upon hearing his name, Skunk was spirited back into reality.

“That’s right. Good research, Temaru,” he said. The man seemed to melt under Skunk’s praise. “I

have created a large quantity of this perfume. It is not to be worn, but used as a defense mechanism. If anyone of you happens to come across this vandal tonight, you can use this spray to assist in his arrest.

You will each be equipped with a canister containing this smell. Don’t let the smell reach your own noses. As Temaru said, it can knock a man unconscious. If you manage to detain the vandal, contact me immediately on your cell. You all have my number.” The guards saluted one by one at the conclusion of Skunk’s instructions. Before leaving the patrol squad, Skunk gave one more very important order.

“As you watch over Belleville tonight,” he said, “remember Les Harper.” The officers set out,

one pair per quadrant of Belleville. Skunk could see their statuesque forms from his bedroom window.

The orange sun was level with the Glass Lake, creating a bleeding pathway on its surface. In the comfort of his fine-looking home, Skunk turned to his wife. A breeze swept the sheer curtains aside. Through the pale material, his wife resembled a ghost.

“Just one call,” he uttered, more to the scenery than to his wife. Mink took his hand and pulled

him from the window to bed. Still, Skunk continued to mutter. “A ring in the middle of night to signify the squashing of our fly…” His voice trailed off as Mink put a finger to his lips.

“You’re going to make yourself hoarse with all that nonsensical blubbering,” she stated, and

softly pecked him on the cheek. Skunk smiled.

“Sorry, my dear,” he apologized. “It’s just, I want this vandal to be caught.” He took his phone

and turned up the volume on the ringer. “This is one night I hope my sleep is disturbed.” He closed his eyes and allowed his body to sink into the supple mattress.

When he opened them, he found himself a good deal younger. His hands were softer and he

was definitely shorter. A concrete jungle gym stood before him. The kids who crawled on it were like ants. They were small but strong.

“Hey, Skunk boy!” an obnoxious voice called from behind. Skunk turned to meet a snub-nosed

boy. He looked to be about the age of seven. Like the other boys, he was wearing a gray suit, a button up shirt, and a black tie. Skunk noticed that he too adorned the uniform. “Seeing as your head looks like a skunk’s bum, why don’t I put it in the toilet?!” The boy circled Skunk like a vulture. “After all,” he continued, “stinking pieces of crap like you belong in the toilet.” He threw back his head and cackled. A number of other boys appeared beside them; they also started to laugh. Skunk was angry. His insides blazed with hatred. While the bully cried tears of laughter, Skunk threw back his foot and kicked the boy as hard as he could between the legs. The giggling stopped, and a number of boys gasped as their leader griped in pain.

“Get him!” shrieked the boy. Grubby hands tore at Skunk’s limbs from every direction. Skunk

screamed for help, but there wasn’t a single teacher on the school yard. Like a pack of wild dogs, the

boys dragged Skunk to the washroom. Clutching him painfully by his hair, they forced his head into the swirling depths of the toilet, snickering and spitting their wretched laugh with every dunk.

Skunk awoke with a gasp. He felt as though he had been drowning. He wiped the sheen of sweat

from his forehead and sat up to see the time. It was three in the morning. He looked at his phone. There was still no call. Skunk inhaled deeply. His heart was hammering in his chest. Mink breathed rhythmically beside him. She looked so peaceful. Skunk wondered if he looked that peaceful in his sleep.

“Serves me right,” Skunk said under his breath, “I asked for a disturbed sleep.”

Chapter 3: Harassment

When Skunk next awoke it was to the sound of his wife’s voice.

“Wake up!” Skunk sat up. He blinked groggily, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “You were

sleeping through your ring tone,” Mink announced, the cell in her hand.

“Who is it?” Skunk asked, reaching for the phone.

“Officer Russ Farland ,” she responded. “I think it’s urgent.” The officer’s voice poured into

Skunk’s ear, each word melding into the next. He spoke with such a panicked frenzy Skunk could barely understand him.

“Slow down!” he finally said. The officer ceased his verbal diarrhea and instead huffed furiously.

“What happened?” Skunk asked.

“Just come down to the station as fast as you can,” Officer Russ Farland said.

Skunk barely pulled into the lot of the police station when he saw Officer Russ Farland ’s

elephantine form slouching sadly on the front steps. Beside the officer’s bulk was Temaru. His eyes were wide and red, and he was wrapped in an orange blanket, shivering and breathing spasmodically into a bag.

“They got eaten by bears,” Officer Russ Farland squeaked.

“Sorry?” Skunk wasn’t sure he had heard the officer correctly. He sat still as a statue, his eyes

fixed on the pavement.

“You heard me,” he whispered and clenched his fists. “Every one of the guards you hired was

hunted down by a pack of wild bears on the Elm Valley Trail.” He muttered a swear and shook his head.

Skunk didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure he believed what the officer was telling him.

“How is that possible?” he finally asked. Temaru stood with wobbling legs.

“It’s all my fault,” he whimpered. “I called for back-up. I led them to the forest.” The man’s lip

quivered and tears streamed down his face. “The bears were everywhere! They came out of nowhere

and were so fast… I.. I hid amongst the trees. I was so scared I couldn’t make a sound. I let the vandal get away. The bears were so fast…no one had time to scream..I watched… so.. much…” Temaru wailed

and tore at his hair. He fell to his knees, gasping and sobbing in shock.

“Lad’s lost his nerve,” Officer Russ Farland said. He inched away from Temaru, and dug his

phone out of the holster on his hip. “I’m calling him an ambulance before he completely loses his mind.”

Skunk watched in horror as Temaru twitched and gnawed rabidly on the orange blanket. He felt

sick. The vandal had led all of his best men into a bear trap?! No way. Skunk crossed his arms

incredulously and plucked the phone from Officer Russ Farland ’s sausage fingers.

“Hold up on that call, Officer,” he said. He took a seat beside Temaru. Inching tentatively toward

him, Skunk gently called the man’s name. “You were very brave, Temaru,” Skunk esteemed him.

“Whatever happened in the forest wasn’t your fault. You were only trying to follow my orders and

apprehend the vandal.” Temaru relaxed upon the touch of Skunk’s appreciative hand. “I need you to do something for me, Temaru,” he continued. An eager look overcame the young lad.

“What would you have me do?” Temaru leaned uncomfortably close to Skunk. Skunk cleared his

throat, uneasily.

“I need you to show us where the other patrol guards were attacked.” Temaru stood. The

orange blanket draped from his shoulders. His uniform was dirtied at the knees and his hair was tangled with twig bits and pine needles. His eyes, though red and swollen, gleamed tenaciously. He offered a smudged hand to Skunk who took it uncertainly. Was this the same man who, only moments ago, had

been overwritten with emotion?

“Anything for you, Mr. Mayor,” Temaru declared with a slight bow. Skunk looked to Officer Russ

Farland in confusion. The officer just shrugged and the three of them hopped into a police cruiser en route to the Elm Valley Trail.

Skunk sat squished in the back seat behind Officer Russ Farland . The leather chair squeaked in

protest under the officer’s enormity. Other than the squeal of the leather and the occasional nervous cough from Temaru, the ride to the forest was silent. Skunk could almost hear his head pounding. He had neglected to drink his morning coffee and was now feeling the ill effects of caffeine withdrawal.

Skunk massaged his forehead. The depth of the wrinkles on his forehead had increased since he’d

become mayor. His wife would say they were a result of too much thought. He could hear her voice

now, “An unclear mind leads to an unclear forehead.” Skunk wasn’t concerned with his wrinkles. He was a middle-aged man who liked to think. Wrinkles suited him just fine. What really concerned Skunk was Temaru’s bear story. Skunk knew there were black bears inhabiting the forest, but rarely had anyone ever been attacked by one. Certainly not to the extent that Temaru had described. Skunk didn’t believe for a second his guards were killed by bears.

“Well, here we are.” Officer Russ Farland stopped the cruiser in a patch of parking intended for

hikers. The forest was a spray of rustling colours. Leaves fluttered to the ground like butterflies. Skunk took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of fresh earth. Not a single tinge of blood soiled the air.

“Alright, Temaru,” Skunk said, placing a hand on the lad’s shoulder, “show us where this bear

blood fest occurred.”

Temaru took them on a side trail created by passing deer. The trail was narrow and Skunk often

had to call Temaru to wait for Officer Russ Farland . Even with the pudgy policeman puffing behind him, Skunk still found the sound of the forest relaxing. The chattering of insects. The whoosh of birds

overhead. The trickling of the creek…

“Here!” Temaru was on his knees, hidden behind a thicket. “You can still see their footprints,”

he whimpered, more to himself than anyone. Skunk crossed a footbridge and knelt beside Temaru.

“But where are the bear prints?” he questioned. “Where is the blood? Where are the bodies?”

Skunk looked to Temaru, who was scratching his head in bewilderment.

“I don’t know!” he cried. “I swear I saw them. They were…they were―” Temaru broke down

into tears. He resembled a sad little boy crouched in the dirt sobbing. Skunk sighed. The lad was a basket case. While Temaru rocked in the fetal position, Skunk inspected the footprints. Each one of the guards wore the same design of shoe. This was obvious as the shoes were part of their uniform. Oddly enough, however, the prints all appeared to be of the same size.

“May I borrow one of your shoes for a minute, Temaru?” Skunk inquired. Temaru sniffed and

rubbed his watering eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Of course,” he gasped, desperately trying to compose himself. Skunk took the shoe from

Temaru, who was now balancing like a flamingo on one leg, and positioned it over the prints. The shoe and the prints were a match.

“Temaru,” he said, “these prints belong to you and you only.” Temaru wavered on one leg.

Clawing at the bark of a tree for support, his face bore the expression of genuine mystification. Officer Russ Farland hobbled onto the scene just then. His face was pink and moist with perspiration. He

attempted to speak, but was so out of breath, he could scarcely manage a word. By the looks of the

folded bit of paper in is hand, he had found a clue.

“It’s a death certificate,” he finally breathed. “Found it in the ditch a ways over.” Skunk

meticulously unfolded the damp document and squinted at the runny words. Even without the water

damage, he still wouldn’t have been able to make heads or tails of the doctor’s signature. He felt his forehead crinkle as he shook his head in bemusement. Why would anyone be waltzing around a forest

with a medical certificate of death? Skunk placed the paper in his jacket pocket. He would puzzle over its significance later. At the moment, he had a group of irresponsible guards to track down. Skunk tossed Temaru back his shoe.

“Do you want to know what really happened last night?” he asked the lad. Temaru nodded so

frantically he dispelled the twigs from his hair. “You were drugged.” Officer Russ Farland wheezed a chuckle.

“Drugs?! Mr. Mayor, Temaru’s a patrol officer. What punk would be stupid enough to scramble

the senses of his own town’s protector?” Skunk knew exactly who. He probed his aching temples and

stifled a yawn.

“Speaking of drugs,” he groaned, tiredly, “I could really use a shot of caffeine.” He brushed past

both Temaru and Officer Russ Farland , leaves crinkling underfoot. “Let’s go to a coffee shop. There’s no reception here.” He flipped open his phone to double check and then folded it neatly back into his jacket pocket. “I think it’s about time we give Temaru’s comrades a call.”

Once out of the vicinity of the forest and tucked snugly away in a warm coffee shop, Skunk used

Temaru’s phone to call Giles, a patrol officer who worked closely with him. The steam from Skunk’s

coffee wafted into his sinuses, rejuvenating his senses. Coffee was truly a magical brew.

“Hello?” a young man answered the phone.

“Hello, Giles, this is Mayor Skunk. I’m just calling to ask that you and the rest of your patrol shift meet Officer Russ Farland and I at the station in fourteen hundred hours. We’re going to debrief on last night’s occurrences.”

“Occurrences?” Giles responded, clearing his throat anxiously.

“That’s right. We’ll see you and your shift soon.” Skunk hung up. He could see Giles swallowing

guiltily. Across from him at the table, Temaru was wringing his hands and biting his lip as though there was something he desperately needed to say. “What is it, Temaru?” Skunk urged.

“It’s just…I shouldn’t have gone―” Temaru sighed―it was a frustrated sound, and took sips of

his tea before continuing. “Last night, Giles offered to use his house as a place to crash for our shifts.

He’s got a rich uncle who left him a good chunk of his fortune after he died, so his house is huge.

Everyone loves Giles. He’s a fun guy and he’s got money. So, naturally, everyone agreed to sleep at his place for the night, including myself.” Temaru’s face fell sadly as he stared into his frothy green tea. “No one had ever invited me to anything before,” he added, “I just wanted to stop feeling like the outside man looking in.” Skunk guzzled the remainder of his coffee and nodded understandingly. He knew

exactly how Temaru felt.

“Do you think that someone may have drugged you at Gile’s place?” he asked. Temaru nodded.

“Just before my shift began, Giles offered me a slice of mushroom pizza. People were having a

great time at his house. The guards coming back from their shifts were jumping into his pool, playing video games, and laughing. I was feeling a little nervous… I mean I was potentially going to be going up against a serial vandal. Giles must have noticed. He told me a little food in my stomach would brighten me up. So I took the pizza, thinking he was just trying to be nice. Giles. The cool guy who, before then, had never said a word to me.” Again, Temaru hung his head in shame.

“Let me guess,” Skunk sighed, emptying the change from his pockets onto the table, “the

mushrooms on the pizza tasted funny.”

“Yeah,” Temaru breathed. Skunk stood, his belly an angry ball of snakes. He hauled Officer Russ

Farland from his chair, where he had been quietly consuming boston cream donuts, and made for the

door.

“Let’s go,” Skunk commanded.

Chapter 4: The Flesh Assembly

Skunk burst through the doors of the police station with Officer Russ Farland and Temaru in

tow. The slick white walls, boxlike glass booths, and tall metal beams all seemed to be mocking him. He turned a corner into a room with checkered floor tiles and several wooden desks set up. The patrol shift sat in the office chairs, eyeing their watches. Skunk looked at his own.

“You’re all early,” he declared, scanning the crowd. Giles stood. He was taller than Skunk. His

eyes were a deep brown and his hair was contrastingly fair.

“What is this all about, Mr. Mayor?” he asked. Although his voice spoke innocence, his stance

was that of defense. “Nothing happened last night. There were no occurrences.” He looked behind him at his comrades, and they all simultaneously bobbed their heads in agreement. Skunk could have

laughed. They looked like a collector’s display of bobble heads. Giles certainly had the group under his spell. The combination of fame and fortune had a tendency to ensnare people. Skunk looked the man

directly in the eyes and crossed his arms, mimicking the man’s aggressive stance.

“No occurrences, eh?” he said. Giles looked past the mayor at Temaru, who, under the bully’s

gaze, deflated. Skunk could feel his skin growing hot as his temper began to inflate. People like Giles were disgusting. “Temaru informed me he saw the vandal head into the Elm Valley Trail last night,”

Skunk went on. Now Giles appeared nervous. Skunk took a step closer to the guard. “He pursued the

vandal into the forest and called for back-up. But no back-up came. Explain that to me, Giles.”

The man responded in a fluster, “I―I don’t know. We never received a call from him.” Skunk

reached up and grabbed Giles by the collar of his uniform.

“Maybe that’s because you were all devoured by ravenous bears!” he spat. The patrol officers

sat ogling their mayor in terrified confusion.

“What?!” Giles threw up his hands in defeat. “What are you talking about?! We weren’t

devoured by no bears!”

“Obviously,” Skunk replied, still stoic. His calm demeanor soon crumbled and he lashed out at

Giles, slapping him hard across his well chiseled features. “Then tell me how it is that a sane man comes to me in shambles over your violent deaths?!” he shouted. Giles slunk under one of the wooden desks, cradling his stinging face in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he squealed. “I just don’t know.” Eyes that had once looked at Giles with

admiration now looked at him in repulsion. Money couldn’t purchase loyalty for long.

“Perhaps it was the hallucinogenic properties of the mushrooms you fed him!” Skunk cried. He

heaved the desk aside and snatched Giles up by his pretty hair. “You and your comrades gave Temaru

here a nasty trip. Did you think that that would be funny?!”

“P―please don’t hurt me,” Giles wined. “We weren’t doing shrooms, I swear!” Skunk threw the

man to the floor.

“Listen to me, you piece of trash, there’s no point denying this. Temaru here just drank a good

litre of tea. I can have his urine tested for psilocin, the primary psychoactive substance in the

mushrooms with which you poisoned him.” Giles bawled pathetically. The other officers all kept their gazes glued to the floor.

“I’m sorry!” Giles wailed. “I―I didn’t know!” Officer Russ Farland stepped in front of Skunk just

then, his hands clenched into fists.

“You’re all fired!” he screamed. He then turned apologetically toward Temaru and added,

“except for you, of course.” Skunk motioned for Temaru to follow him out of the building while Officer Russ Farland finished chewing up his guards. Once outside of the station, Temaru flung himself at

Skunk’s feet.

“Thank-you! Thank-you!” he wailed, polishing Skunk’s shoes with his tears. “No one has ever

stood up for me like that!” Skunk was at a loss for words. Temaru straightened himself up and saluted. “I will forever be your servant,” he said, bowing. Skunk chuckled and patted the man on the back.

“At ease, Temaru. You don’t owe me anything. I was just doing my duty,” he responded.

“There must be something I can do for you,” Temaru insisted. He stood thoughtfully for a

moment. “I know!” he cried. “I can help you select a new team of security guards.” Skunk nodded.

Temaru’s insight would be helpful in selecting a new team. Policing seemed to attract a certain male and female personality: the kind of personality that victimized other smarter personalities. Skunk knew this personality well. He was disappointed in himself. He should have had more sense than to hire Giles and his clique in the first place. With the help of Temaru, Skunk would be certain not to make the mistake of hiring these types of personalities again.

The side door of the station burst open. Skunk cringed as it slammed into the brick wall. Officer

Russ Farland wriggled his way out the exit. He reminded Skunk of a cat too fat to fit through a door flap.

His arms were piled high with disheveled uniforms.

“Get your naked patooties out here!” he screamed. The officers obediently exited the door one

by one in the nude. Their eyes were downcast and their arms were shamefully wrapped around them.

“Good lord,” Skunk sighed, averting his eyes from the fleshy line. Officer Russ Farland was truly

extreme when it came to disciplinary actions. Skunk had never heard of an officer demanding the return of a uniform while it was still being worn. Temaru’s face turned a ridiculous shade of red. He turned his back on the squad.

“Embarrassed are we?!” Officer Russ Farland jibed as the shivering pink bodies filed past him.

“Now you know how it feels!”

“Pervert!” one woman shouted in response.

“Don’t flatter yourself!” Officer Russ Farland shouted back. “There are three things to be

learned today,” he said. “Number one: embarrassing another officer will only result in your own

embarrassment. Number two: listen to your mom. Always wear a clean set of underwear― I’m talking

to you Giles! Finally, never go commando!”

When the ex-officers had all gone, Officer Russ Farland dropped the mountain of uniforms in

front of Skunk and hiked his pants up over his slopping belly.

The officer sighed, “We got that many uniforms to fill out.”

“Can I look now?” peeped Temaru, his back still turned on the station.

“It’s okay, boy. The rats have emptied the nest,” Officer Russ Farland replied. “A bunch of ugly

little buggers if you ask me,” he murmured.

Skunk, still slightly traumatized by the sight of so many unclothed bodies, scooped up the

uniforms and told Officer Russ Farland to put out an ad in search for some new security guards.

“There’s not really much we can do about security,” Skunk said, “I’ve already left several

messages with a locksmith. Until he gets back to me, you, Temaru, can let the shop owners know to

barricade their doors.” Temaru bowed and dashed off to complete his given task.

“Well, Mr. Mayor,” said Officer Russ Farland, placing his arm around Skunk, “We may as well get

back to our wives. The missis promised me a good feast tonight. You don’t get to be my size eatin’

scrawny leaf lettuce. Am I right?!” The officer punched Skunk playfully in the shoulder. Skunk laughed. In his opinion, the officer could probably use a little more scrawny leaf lettuce.

“Yes, I suppose it is getting rather dark,” Skunk added, stealing a glance at his watch. “It’s not

even six’o clock.”

“Earlier and earlier each day I’m afraid,” Officer Russ Farland called, halfway into his car. Skunk waved him off and then entered his own vehicle. It wasn’t until he turned on the engine that he realized how truly hungry he was. He hadn’t had a single morsel of food all day. Somehow he doubted Mink had prepared him a feast. Mink wasn’t really the sort to cook lavish dinners. She usually left the cooking up to whoever was hosting that night’s dinner party. Skunk didn’t know how, but Mink always seemed to

get away with attending, but never hosting dinner parties. Skunk hoped she wouldn’t try to whisk him away to another of her famous soirées. He was far too fatigued to deal with a table of boisterously laughing women.

Skunk had nothing to worry about. When he arrived home, he found the house empty. A note

was stuck to the fridge in his wife’s loopy handwriting. It read:

Dear Skunky-Poo,

I have left for the twenty-four hour nail salon on account of a cuticle disaster. I managed to scrounge up some leftovers from a dinner party for you to eat. They are in the fridge beside a rather sad looking sprig of broccoli.

Bon appetite,

Mink

Skunk chuckled upon reading the message. That certainly was his wife―always dashing off to

who-knows-where during who-knows-when. He opened up the container beside the ‘rather sad looking

sprig of broccoli’ to find a chicken breast stuffed with spinach and ricotta. Skunk swallowed back a painful lump. It was the same meal he’d had at his mother’s reception.

A golden brown bird oozing at the centre with rich cheese would normally have him foaming at

the mouth, but that day the sight of it had made him sick. His mother had been done up like a doll on display for all to gawk and grieve, as though they’d actually loved her. One moment people were

weeping and grasping each other for emotional support, the next they were gorging themselves as

though nothing was wrong. The whole display had put Skunk off his appetite. His father’s forced tears most of all. Even now Skunk could still taste the foul bird: salty but otherwise flavorless. He shook his head, shaking the image of teeth-like tombstones from his mind. This chicken would taste better.

His wife walked through the doors just as he was taking the first bite.

“I’m back!” she sang, twittering her freshly manicured nails in front of his face. Skunk looked up

at her, his mind still a fog with funeral visions.

“What was that, Dear?” he asked. Mink crossed her arms, turning her eyes up at the ceiling fan.

“I just can’t leave you alone for one second without you going all eyebrow scrunchy on me, can

I?”

“Not everyone’s eyebrows are meant to look as dainty as yours, you know,” he replied. She took

a seat next to him. Her furs looked so soft, Skunk was almost tempted to pet her. Instead, he stroked her hand.

“My security guards turned out to be lousy,” he said.

“Lucky for them, their mayor isn’t,” Mink responded. Her lips spread to either side of her face.

Skunk loved the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Though he didn’t feel the same, Skunk

mimicked the expression on his own face.

“I just can’t stop thinking about this vandal,” he admitted, frowning again. “One of my guards,

the only one that turned out not to be lousy, claimed he saw the vandal last night in the forest.” Skunk dug the deformed fold of paper from his pocket. “Look what we found when we went there.” A pair of

pointy-framed plum spectacles perched on the bridge of Mink’s nose as she stared at the death certificate inquisitively.

“This looks like something from one of my mystery novels,” she piped.

“Can you make out the doctor’s name?” Skunk asked. It was a long shot. Whoever signed the

medical had atrocious writing and on top of that, the document had suffered severe water damage. It would be a miracle if anyone could decipher…

“Archie Higgins,” his wife declared.

“What?!” Skunk looked to her in wonder. “How can you tell?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson.” Mink dangled the certificate just out of Skunk’s reach. Her

newly done nails, Skunk noticed, matched the colour of her spectacles. “The doctor must have been in a real hurry to sign this because when he did, the document was upside down.” She raked her long nails down Skunk’s cheek, sending tingles down his spine. Sure enough, she was right. When Skunk turned

the paper around, he found the name― though still hideously written― to read Archie Higgins.

“You clever, clever woman!” he exclaimed, kissing his wife on the lips. “What would you say to a

little adventure tomorrow?” he said, kissing her again.

“I love adventures,” she responded, throwing her arms around his neck.

“First, we’ll talk to this Archie character, and then, we’ll go on a little stakeout downtown,” he

proposed. His wife tore off her fur coat.

“I say we go on a little adventure right now,” she declared and ran up the stairs, leaving a trail of furs for Skunk to follow.

Chapter 5: Furiosity Killed the Skunk

“Are you sure you want to go into one of those buildings again, dear?” Mink asked, her fingers

tight around Skunk’s arm. The two of them were in the topsyturvy parking lot of the Belleville hospital.

Skunk stared at the white structure before him. He was standing in front of the emergency wing of the building. Without a word, Skunk advanced past the rows of ambulances and through the automated

sliding doors. How long had it been since his parents rode in one of those boxlike vehicles? Skunk could remember the labyrinth of plastic tubes interlacing its interior. They snaked from gushy bags to bruised arms, delivering liquefied nutrients. Skunk hadn’t thought that anyone could be beautiful in a hospital gown. Even on the brink of death, his mother had looked flawless.

“Can I help you, sir?” A woman with sagging cheeks, crispy gray curls, and Dalmatian patterned

scrubs lowered her glasses expectantly. “Sir?” She repeated. Skunk blinked. An audience of choking bag-eyed patients sat moaning behind him, awaiting their triage. Stretchers clicked by, sick children cried, voices babbled incoherent instructions over the speakers…

“This is my husband, Skunk Diggory,” Mink spoke. “Hospitals scramble his brains a little,” she

added under her breath. She reached into Skunk’s pocket and pulled out the crinkled death certificate.

“Do you know a Dr. Archie Higgins?” she asked. The gray-haired woman looked at Mink as though she

was a patient of the psyche ward.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“It most certainly is not!” Mink answered, smoothing out the paper. “My husband found this

death certificate in the forest the other day. One of his guards told him he saw the vandal mooching around there. He thinks this certificate and the vandal might be connected somehow.” The secretary

squinted at the document for a moment and then shook her head apologetically.

“This patient was in hospice care,” she explained. “I’ve never heard of any doctor by the name

of Archie Higgins. The mortician might know something, though. He would need the medical to register the patient’s death. I recommend you contact a funeral home. The nearest one is in St. Louis du Ha!

Ha!,” she suggested. Mink elbowed her gawking husband.

“Did you hear that, Honey?” she probed.

“Yes,” he sighed. “A mortician is the last person I want to speak to.” Skunk took his wife by the

hand and riled her out the sliding doors.

“You can breathe now, dear,” Mink said. Skunk exhaled a stale puff of air. He immediately

refilled his lungs with fresh new air. Hospital air was so rancid. The very thought of its subtle urine scent had Skunk wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You look as though you’ve just been smacked in the face with a raw fish,” Mink stated,

gathering her furs into the car. Skunk cringed. During his last stay at a hospital, he had made the mistake

of ordering meatloaf from the cafeteria. As if the smell of his father’s death hadn’t been enough to turn his stomach!

Skunk drove in silent horror. He could feel his wife studying him from the passenger’s seat.

“You’re thinking about that meatloaf again, aren’t you?” she clucked.

“I swear it was―”

“Yes, I know, dear. You swear it was tinned dog food. I’ve nursed you back from this nightmare

several times.” Skunk took his eyes off the road for a minute. He reached out and took his wife by the hand.

“We’re going to catch this vandal. Tonight,” he stated confidently. “I’ll let Officer Russ Farland

know of our stakeout plans so I can call him if we need to make an arrest.” Mink pressed her husband’s hand to the side of her cheek. It was soft.

“You know, Skunkie, dear,” she said, flashing him a smirk grin, “It’s not necessary for you to call that officer as I have plenty of handcuffs at home!” Skunk laughed until his gut ached.

Wheeling into his narrow countryside driveway, Skunk told his wife he would get some rest for

the remainder of the afternoon and meet her in the town square for their stakeout at 8 pm. She agreed and waltzed off to her friend, Belinda’s place down the road for some tea.

Skunk closed the blinds to the large window adjacent to his bed, snuffing out any light that

would prevent him from sleeping. He left the window open, as he found the cool autumn breeze

relaxing. Wrapped in layers of cream-coloured blankets, Skunk closed his eyes and drifted off

immediately. At first, the sleep seemed to swirl deep beneath his eyelids, but then the dull, sleepy buzz in the base of his skull turned into a malevolent voice.

“You’re a curse!” it spat. Skunk awoke. He was standing in the middle of a cemetery. It was cold.

Fog snaked between his feet, looping its way around the multiple gray heads that protruded from the earth. A sour-faced man leaned against his own grave, sucking on a wooden pipe.

“A silly woman dies and you go gallivanting off with another. The disappointment never ends.”

The man shook his head. The smoke swirling from his pipe integrated itself with the ever thickening fog.

Although the cemetery was cold as death, Skunk could feel anger rising hot in his cheeks.

“You murdered that woman!” Skunk cried, his fists balled at his sides, “And then you

brainwashed the entire town!” The man stepped from the shadows. His eyes were blue and cruel. They

squinted at Skunk as though he was an insect meant to be squashed.

“She died peacefully,” he stated, as though what he’d done was noble. Skunk felt tears welling in the pits of his eyes. He choked back a sob.

“You plugged the exhaust pipe of her car. You poisoned her!” Skunk screamed.

The man calmly responded, “You have no proof of that.” Skunk took a seat on a gravestone. He uttered a shuddering breath. His chest was heavy with grief.

“It doesn’t matter,” he managed to say. “I got my revenge. You’re dead. Leave me alone!”

Before Skunk could move to get away, the man’s arms encapsulated him. He smelt like dirt and smoke.

“You did what needed to be done,” he whispered in Skunk’s ear. “And for that, my son, I am proud of you.”

Skunk awoke. This time for real. He peered at the clock on his nightstand. 7:30 pm. Skunk swore

to himself. He barely had time to get ready before meeting his wife. Though he knew he would be late, Skunk showered. He needed to wash away the sweat that clung to his forehead, along with the images

from his dream. If he was going to catch the vandal, he would need to stay focused on his present. He couldn’t let the events of his past get in his way.

Before leaving, Skunk drank a vast quantity of coffee. The caffeine―combined with the energy

he’d saved during his nap―gave him the spunk of a three year old. He parked his car in the parking lot of a hardware store and took off like the speed of light, straight for the town square. Skunk caught his breath and turned to look for Mink. As he scanned the area he realized that Mink was no where in sight.

His eyes pulled tight, two lines of worry. Perhaps she had become impatient and had decided to go

shopping for more mink furs. Figuring this must be the reason she was absent, he set off to begin his hunt for Mink, starting with her favorite store, Pretty Pelts Pizzaz. Surely he would bump into his wife there.

Bells chimed as Skunk entered the fur coat boutique. The place was a maze of fur coats so

bundled together, you had to swim through them to get to the other end of the store. There were racks of fur coats as real as they were pricey lining one half of the shop, and racks of reasonably priced faux furs on the other half. There appeared to be a woman crouched in the corner of the expensive section.

However, she couldn’t have been Mink for she was not stout enough.

“Good evening,” said the woman. Her voice was high-pitched and cheerful. Skunk fell

speechless as he realized who the woman was.

“Mrs. Foppish?” Skunk asked. Officer Russ Farland had almost arrested her at Les Harper’s shop

for having a mustache. The thought of a woman with facial hair running a fashion boutique was a bit of a marvel to Skunk.

“Mr. Mayor?” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here? Is something the matter?” Skunk

blinked. The woman’s mustache had disappeared.

“No, nothing wrong. I’m just looking for my wife.” Skunk paused awkwardly before adding,

“Didn’t you used to have a―” he drew an imaginary circle around his own mustache.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Mrs. Foppish laughed, stroking her upper lip. “I had it done the other day.”

Mrs. Foppish frowned. “ Speaking of Mink, last I saw you two were supping in that lavish Steakout Diner across the street a ways.”

“Steakout Diner?” Skunk looked at the woman in bewilderment. He placed a hand on her

shoulder and said seriously, “Are you quite sure you saw us? ” Mrs. Foppish had to be in her early seventies and wore glasses so thick her eyes resembled those of an owl.

“Yes, I’m certain,” she responded, taking Skunk’s hand in her own. “You greeted me on your way

in. Don’t you remember?” Her already wide eyes grew wider with concern. Skunk could feel his own

eyes widening. At which point, Mrs. Foppish playfully jabbed him in the sternum.

“Let me guess,” she giggled, “you can be in two places at once, is that it?!” Skunk swallowed

hard and did his best to fake a smile before rushing out the door.

Somebody was impersonating him, and Skunk bet it had to be the vandal. Perhaps this vandal

was more than just a vandal. After all, what would a mere delinquent want with a mayor’s wife?

“Oh, Mink,” Skunk sighed to himself, “when I said stakeout I did not mean gorging ourselves at

an over-priced meat shack!”

It was evening and all the street lamps and signs were aglow. Thankfully, the Steakout Diner

sign was illuminated in a most audacious shade of red. Skunk trotted down the sidewalk in its direction, increasing his speed with each step. The thought of his wife interacting with a potentially dangerous stranger made Skunk’s breathing ragged. He had already allowed one snarling man to take away

everything that he once held dear. The lashings had been an emotional travesty― the sort Skunk would not stand to watch helpless on the sidelines again.

At the restaurant’s doors, Skunk’s throat was raw and his chest was heavy. Even so, adrenaline

pumped through his veins as he stormed up the concrete steps of The Steakout Diner. A sort of

animosity thrashed inside him, consuming his every move. He smashed through the doors with the

intensity of an angry bull. The windows shattered on impact. His knuckles were slick with blood, but the intensity of Skunk’s anger numbed the pain.

“Where is my wife?!” he thundered.

Chapter 6: The Tale

Everything fell eerily quiet. The customers hid behind their menus when they saw the crazed

look on their mayor’s face. The doorman, who had just received a door in the face, pointed a trembling finger at the table by the window. Skunk’s gaze followed the finger and fell upon the man sitting next to his wife. With one vicious movement, Skunk grabbed his look-a-like by the hair. Mink screamed and

immediately hid under the table.

“Who the devil are you and what do you think you’re doing with my wife?!” he hissed, spittle

flying into the opposition’s face. The man was a good deal younger than him. His forehead was smooth and his eyes were bright. Still, the disguise wasn’t half bad. Cast in the low light of the restaurant, Skunk could see why his wife had mistaken this man for him. The man put his hands up in surrender.

“I know what this looks like,” he said―his voice was irritatingly mellow for a guy who was about

to get punched in the face, “but I swear, all I was doing was asking your wife a few questions.” The innocence portrayed in the man’s features was forced. Skunk knew, below that sorry smile was pure

smugness.

“Go to hell!” he said before throwing the man violently to the ground.

“Believe me, I am,” the man groaned in response. Skunk pinned the man to the ground.

“You’re not going anywhere!” he stated. He then looked at the sea of occupied chairs and

tables, half expecting someone to pull out their phone and call the police. Faces gaping and filled with half digested steak, the customers of the Steakout Diner just sat there, staring at Skunk in complete bewilderment.

“Well..” Skunk said, his eyes darting from one stunned expression to another, “somebody call

the police!” While everyone fumbled for their phones, Skunk reached into his coat and whipped out a skunk shaped cologne bottle. Skunk would use his homemade scent to incapacitate this man―whoever

he was―just in time for Officer Russ Farland to take him in for questioning. Skunk triggered the nozzle.

The mysterious man dressed as his twin became enveloped in a putrid smelling gas.

Mink peeked out from under a table. Skunk took her into his arms and planted a kiss on her

lips―which rather tasted of barbeque sauce.

“Hubba! Hubba!” she exclaimed, licking the kiss from her lips. “I didn’t know you still had that

perfume.” Skunk winked at her and tucked the vial into the interior of his jacket.

“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” he said. Mink took a deep breath of the revolting

smell and let out a sigh of satisfaction.

“Positively divine,” she smiled. For a split second, Skunk felt nothing but pure joy. Then,

mayhem started.

Unlike Skunk and Mink, the citizens of Belleville were not accustomed to such a powerful smell.

As the odor diffused throughout the restaurant, people toppled one by one to the floor, unconscious.

Others experienced extreme nose bleeds and yelped as their eyes burned and began to tear up from the substance. People bustled about the place in a hysterical hubbub of commotion, tripping over

benumbed bodies. Everyone, that is, except for the stranger. Much to the exasperated mayor’s

frustration, the imposter seemed unaffected by the cologne and was using it as a distraction for a getaway. Skunk swore and gave his wife one last kiss before shooing her out the door.

“Go get em’, Tiger!” she yelled before dashing off into the darkness.

Skunk started after his clone, pushing past a discombobulated waiter. A flaming margarita fell

from the waiter’s tray and immediately the carpet was alight with fire.

“Oh, God…” Skunk prayed. Flames shot from the alcoholic beverage like a volcanic geyser,

practically blowing the roof off the establishment.

“ Evacuate the area!” he yelled and was instantaneously bulldozed by a herd of traumatized

town’s folk. His plan had backfired, literally.

As he threw his beaten body out the door, Skunk couldn’t help but curse his own carelessness.

After all the time and research he’d put into creating a toxic cologne, he hadn’t even bothered to test it for explosibility. He wriggled past scorched legs. The stranger disguised as Skunk was making a mad dash for the town’s border. The white stripe in his hair―likely done with hair paint―served as a beacon in the dark.

“Stop!”Skunk shouted. He maneuvered his way past the flummoxed people of Belleville in

pursuit of the criminal. A pair of taxi headlights blinded Skunk as he rounded a street corner. Skunk waved the vehicle down and climbed in.

“Follow the man with the funny white stripe in his hair,” Skunk instructed the cabbie. A clueless

look spread across the cabbie’s face.

“Pardon? Man with the―”

“Right there!” Skunk jabbed his finger impatiently at the white speck escaping into the black of

the night.

“On the double, sir!” responded the cabbie. The taxi jolted forward, strangling Skunk beneath

his seat belt. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he turned to Skunk.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “is this guy like your brother who owes you money or

something?”

Skunk snickered, “I wish!”

“Who is he then?”

“A criminal, I think. The one who’s been gutting stores and defacing properties.”

The cabbie took his eyes off the road, “You mean that vandal who killed Les Harper?!” he cried.

Skunk didn’t respond. He was too busy squinting out his window, desperately trying to force his eyes to sort through the shadows and pick out the stranger.

“We’ve lost him,” Skunk huffed. The cabbie pulled over to the side of the road, next to an

apartment building. Skunk could hear the crunching of leaves beneath the tires. He slumped back in his seat, quietly basking in his own failure, when a tonne of weight came crashing onto the hood of the taxi.

Skunk tore off his seat belt and plastered himself to the windshield to get a look at whatever had hit them. Staring back was a sly version of his own features.

“It’s him!” Skunk hissed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Where the heck did he come from?!” The cabbie held onto his beret and strained his neck,

looking past the moon for a place where the stranger could have dropped from. Both Skunk and the

chauffeur watched in awe as the man performed a back flip from the windshield. He landed lightly on his toes, and, illuminated by the headlights, caressed a bow.

“Drive,” Skunk commanded. His mouth a cavern, the cabbie clutched his hat as though it was

about to fly off his head.

“Did you just see―”

“I said drive!” Skunk yelled, but as he looked out into the black sky and shuffling trees, he found the stranger to be no where in sight.

“Looks to me like he left for St. Louis du HA! HA!” remarked the cabbie. “The town lies just

beyond that hill there.”

“We were so close!” Skunk growled in frustration and clawed his fingers through his hair. “My

address is 44 Wickard Way,” he uttered. The cabbie did a U-turn and headed back into town.

“I can’t say I’ve seen anything quite like that,” he whistled, “if that man is really a criminal like you think, he’s gonna’ be hard to catch.” The taxi driver’s words caused a horrible sinking feeling to form in the pit of Skunk’s stomach.

“I’m still processing it myself,” he replied.

“You know, you could try talking to that fellow who lives on the hill where we just came from,”

the cabbie suggested. “Last we saw, that crazy acrobat vandal guy was headed for his place. Now what was that fellow’s name…” At this point Skunk was barely listening to the cabbie. He was too busy

swimming in guilt. Had he really abandoned a burning building surrounded with families, all of who were

choking on his cologne? Skunk massaged his sagging eyelids. If he was going to take this mysterious vandal down, he would need to intensify the smell of his cologne…

“Terence!” the cabbie blurted out.

“What?”

“The name of the fellow who lives on the hill. It’s Terence.” The cabbie nodded, now sure of

himself. “Yes, he’s a mortician if I’m not mistaken.” Skunk perked up upon hearing the word, ‘mortician.’

The secretary at the Belleville hospital had told him to contact the morticians from St. Louis du HA! HA!

Skunk told the cabbie about the death certificate he found in the forest.

“Well, if anyone would know about that, it’d be Terence,” the cabbie said. “His funeral home is

the only one in the area.” As the taxi veered into Skunk’s gravel lot, he was relieved to see his car parked safely by the house. His wife must have seen it and used her key to drive home after leaving the

restaurant.

“That’s my girl!” Skunk thought. He fished a few bills out of his wallet and thanked the cabbie before climbing out.

“Oh, Mr. Mayor,”the cabbie rolled down his window and called after Skunk.

“Yes?”

“I would be careful if you do decide to talk to Terence. I’ve heard he’s a bit―how shall I put

this―different. Some say he’s even a descendent of The Three.”

“What do you mean The Three?”

“The Three. You know. The Tale of the Three Morticians.”

Skunk shook his head, “I’ve never heard that tale.”

“Ooh,” the taxi driver shuddered, “you’ll have to get your wife to tell you that one!”

Skunk bid the driver good night and then returned to his room, where he found Mink asleep still

wrapped in her furs. Not even bothering to change out of his clothes, he snuggled up beside her.

“Tale of the Three Morticians,eh,” he thought before falling asleep, “sounds like a load of tripe.”

Chapter 7: Terence

Skunk chewed his tongue in order to stifle his laughter. That morning he’d asked his wife about

the Tale of the Three Morticians, only to have her cart him off to her looney Aunt Rachelle’s. He hadn’t even had a chance to finish his coffee! Now he was sitting―more like sinking―in the plump couch of his wife’s psychic aunt, squinting at a newspaper from 1948.

“I sense cynicism in you,” Rachelle droned. Sitting across from Skunk was the most ridiculous

looking woman he’d ever seen. She was wrapped head to toe in colourful scarves. The only part of her that wasn’t covered was her dark eyes―further darkened by the layers of eyeliner she wore. Every time she moved, the rows of beads and bangles around her wrist jingled.

Skunk tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table in front of him, next to a pot of funky

smelling oil.

“This article is about an elderly gentleman who supposedly vanished from the face of the earth,”

Skunk stated. “And you want me to believe that a bunch of undertakers were responsible?! That’s

ridiculous.” Rachelle called for Mink to bring her a dusty box from a display case. The oddly shaped glass jars that stood on the shelves contained miscellaneous trinkets of which Skunk could not identify.

“This box has at least another twenty articles from after the second world war. All of them tell a

similar story.” Rachelle took the box from Mink and turned it upside down. Faded articles flooded the floor, along with charcoal drawings of three heavily-browed men in long black coats. Rachelle plucked the drawing from the mess of browning newsprint.

“This is a drawing I did when I was a young woman. I saw these men―these morticians―in a

vision. They were brothers. All with a terrible gift, passed from generation to generation in their family.”

Rachelle leaned so close to Skunk, he could see the makeup caked in the wrinkles around her mouth.

“Legend has it, these men could see human lifelines. They could predict when a loved one would pass.”

Skunk took the drawing from Rachelle’s hideously long fingernails. It depicted three gaunt faces, long and pale. The men almost looked inhuman with their colourless eyes.

“So, you’re trying to tell me that these morticians could predict when a person was going to die,

and they were responsible for all the disappearances back then?” Skunk shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m still not buying it.”

Rachelle smiled, “You will.” She produced a lighter from beneath her scarves and lit the pot of

fragrant oil. She then took the charcoal sketch and allowed it to curl over the heat.

“Imagine,” she said, “shaking the hands of friends only to see their bodies aged and broken on

their death beds. The brothers’ gift was a curse, and it drove them to madness. Everyone who went

missing eventually turned up as a name on a tombstone. Their bodies were exhumed and their identities confirmed.” Rachelle crunched the drawing in her palm. It fell away to ashes and floated into Skunk’s face. For a split second, Skunk saw the smoky entrails of his father, spasming and screaming in agony.

“You did this to me!” his voice shrieked. The haunting whisper was sharp in Skunk’s ear.

“Alright!” Skunk shouted, waving away the tendrils of sickeningly sweet smoke. “So what

became of these so-called cursed morticians?” Rachelle shrugged.

“Nobody knows for sure. Some say their curse caused them to commit suicide. Others say they

fled into isolation, away from people. Dying is something people do, you know.”

Skunk looked to his wife. She appeared to be distracted by her aunt’s fluffy one-eyed cat curled

on the cushion next to her. Skunk wondered if she’d only brought him there as an excuse to maul the creature. Surely someone as clever as Mink didn’t believe the ramblings of her crazy aunt.

“What can you tell me about Terence?” Skunk asked, averting his eyes from his wife―who was

now teasing the cat with a thread from her blouse.

“Ah, yes,” Rachelle purred, “Terence is a descendent of the three. I would not be surprised if he,

too, possesses the curse.”

Though he doubted the man was cursed, Skunk wanted less and less to visit Terence. He’d had

enough dealings with funeral directors throughout his lifetime. They were sad, scary, and morbid

individuals. Skunk was still having difficulty forgetting the funeral director who arranged his mother’s funeral. He had been overweight, sweating, and in an awful rush to complete the arrangements. The

conniving glint in his father’s eye as the funeral director more than eagerly scribbled down every

overpriced selection…

Skunk could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. He stepped out onto the porch to answer the

call. Skunk was thankful for the excuse to leave the stuffy house. His head was beginning to swim with all of Aunt Rachelle’s spicy fragments.

“Mayor Skunk,” Officer Russ Farland ’s voice wheezed. The man sounded as though he was

having an asthma attack.

“What is it?”

“Les Harper,” the officer managed to breath. “His body’s been found. If word gets out, people

will be wild.” Skunk couldn’t help but recollect Les Harper’s distraught mother, clawing at him in her grief.

“Has his family been notified?” Skunk asked. Officer Russ Farland confirmed they had.

“They’re making funeral arrangements as we speak,” he said. “They don’t want the entire town

to see Les Harper. As I understand it, he’s in a bit of a mess. The fish had their way with his body and―”

“I understand. We’ll keep things on the down low. If anyone asks just tell them the truth: the

family appreciates the concern, but would like to have some private time with Les Harper during the

funeral.” Another question came to Skunk just then. “Which funeral home are they at?” The officer’s answer was instantaneous.

“The place in St. Louis du HA! HA!”

Skunk groaned, “Is that the place with the cursed guy?”

“Terence? Yeah, that’s the guy.” Skunk didn’t respond right away. He heard a pair of birds

squabbling in a knobby spray of branches somewhere over his head, and looked to see them. He

suddenly wanted nothing more than to just sit and watch the birds tangle their feathers in the trees. The fate of an entire town was resting on his shoulders, and Skunk wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Oh, and Mr. Diggory,” the officer said.

“Yes?”

“The family wants you to say a few words at the funeral.”

“Fine,” Skunk agreed, and then said good-bye.

It was settled. He owed it to Les Harper’s woebegone mother and family to pay his respects, and

find the man responsible for the decimation of their lives. Cursed or not, Skunk had to meet Terence.

Chapter 8: The Curse

“Idiot.”

In the biting cold cemetery air, the word seemed to float out of Terence’s mouth. Even with the

lampposts lighting pockets of tombstones, Terence had difficulty making out the epitaphs. He took a chilled hand out of his pocket and traced the name engraved on the granite face. Bob Amigone. His

stone was so plain. So simple. Bob hadn’t been a plain or simple man. He certainly possessed more

charisma than the stone denoted. Terence tore his hand from the stone.

“Idiot,” he repeated.

Smiling eyes. An encouraging tongue. Patience. Insight. Trust. Dead―and without warning.

Terence shouldn’t have come to Bob’s grave.

Before leaving, he took one last glance over the row of markers. At the very least, Bob was in

good company. Now, Terence wasn’t so sure he could say the same for himself. As he walked up the hill where he lived, he could feel the prying eyes of curious children, studying him from their bedroom

windows. People often stared at Terence when they thought he wasn’t watching. He could always feel

their eyes, raking his towering gaunt form. He felt like a science experiment gone wrong: the monster in a childhood ghost story.

“Why would anyone give everything to me?” Terence wondered. He pushed aside the creaking

iron gates that marked the front of his house. It was a hair past midnight and he had to be up early the next morning to prepare a body for a funeral. His hands were numb with cold and he struggled to turn the key in the lock. His faithful bald companion trotted to greet him as soon as he managed to pry the old wooden door open.

“Hello, Anubis,” he said to his cat. The creature rumbled and practically leapt into his arms.

Together, the two of them marched up the stairs and slipped into bed.

The following morning, Terence awoke. His body ached inexplicably. He’d had a horrific dream,

though he couldn’t remember what had made it so horrific. He’d been in the embalming room,

preparing a body, that much he could recall. The rest was a painful blur. He reached over to the lamp beside his bed and switched it on. The sudden presence of light made his head pound like a drum.

Wincing, he turned to his cat― a peachy lump at the foot of his bed and grumbled, “God, I hate

mornings.” At the very least, he could look forward to an embalming. Just him, several metal tables, and a corpse. Three hours of alone time. Terence couldn’t wait.

He walked through the doors of Amigone Funeral Home. The irritating hum of a vacuum

resonated from the chapel. Terence glanced at his watch. It was 7:30. Swearing to himself, Terence

stepped into the room and yanked the vacuum hose from the outlet. The chapel wasn’t an extravagant

room. Simple wooden pews balanced either side, leaving a runway for caskets in between. Cream-

coloured drapes covered the back wall. A cross sat at its centre.

“Since when do you come in an hour early to vacuum?” Terence questioned. The assistant, Mr.

Rubin, chuckled and started gathering up loops of cord. He was a retired man with a cloudy fuzz of white hair covering the top of his head. Many of the staff referred to him as ‘Q-Tip.’

“Well, Big Fella, I thought I’d just give you a break. Now that poor ol’ Bob’s gone and you’re the

big bad boss, I figured you could use a hand.” Mr. Rubin gave a mocking bow and grinned, cheekily.

Terence rolled his eyes. In doing so, he discovered several burnt out light bulbs in the chandeliers.

Because of his abnormal height, Terence usually replaced blackened bulbs, but, seeing as Mr. Rubin was so eager to be of assistance…

“When you're done vacuuming you can replace those dead bulbs in the chandeliers,” he

ordered. Mr. Rubin squinted up at the high ceiling.

“Way up there?!” he said in alarm. “But I’ll―”

“Yes, you’ll have to balance on a rickety ladder from a disorienting height while combatting the

blinding nature of the fluorescents.” Mr. Rubin ran a hand over the white fuzz atop his head and stared aghast at the lights above. His fear of heights was a well known fact to the staff of Amigone Funeral Home. Terence gave Mr. Rubin a chummy pat on the back. “Bet you wish you hadn’t come in early

now,” he said sadistically.

His morning much improved, Terence trumped down the stairs to the selection room. He often

brought families down to choose a casket or urn―something to encase their loved one for eternity.

Some of the caskets, or ‘dead beds’ as his assistants liked to call them, came with magnetic panels to display bronze hearts and messages such as: beloved mother. Other caskets came with a choice of decorative corners for further personalization. It was beyond Terence why people chose to spend

thousands of dollars on a fancy wooden box, which would simply be crushed under the weight of the

earth.

Bob had gone in a solid oak rental casket. It had been a sensible choice. Rental caskets came

with multiple inserts and were reasonably priced compared to other caskets. The ugly insert would be cremated and the beautiful exterior could be used over and over again. It had taken every ounce of salesman in Terence to convince Bob’s estranged brother, the executor, not to throw Bob in a cardboard container.

As Terence pulled back the velvet red curtains, which concealed the doors to the preparation

room, Bob’s done up corpse flashed in his mind’s eye. Suited as he always was for work, and

bespectacled, one would think he was simply sleeping. Terence had done a remarkable job embalming

him. His body had been autopsied, much like the body that now covered the preparation table.

Terence rolled away the blood-soaked plastic. It was cold beneath his latex touch. The mangled

lump of flesh below barely looked human. According to the autopsy findings, this man, Les Harper, died from a blow to the back of his head. It was suicide. The entire county knew that. Judging by the slimy

condition of the skin, the body had been macerated for nearly three days. The man’s eyes were torn and vacant. Clearly he’d made an excellent snack for the fish.

Terence clicked a blade onto his scalpel. Just as he was slicing through the man’s navel suturing,

he heard the approach of his intern, Miss Fairweather. So much for three hours alone in the embalming room.

“Eww!” she exclaimed, upon witnessing the revolting pile of open flesh. Terence ignored her

presence and reached into the man’s squelching cavity. Packed neatly into the body was a bag of

carnage: entrails, lungs, stomach, brain, heart, kidneys… all slopping together to create a vile stew.

“Ugh! That is so gross!” the intern cried.

“It’s not gross,” Terence snapped. “It’s fascinating. Don’t ever say gross again.” Terence

beckoned for her to bring him a plastic pail lined with a garbage bag. He spilled the mess of gore into the pail. He turned to his bright-eyed intern.

“Do you understand?” he asked. She nodded. “Good. Now go get suited up. You’re going to help

me embalm an autopsy case.” Miss Fairweather straightened her glasses and hesitantly began sliding

into a smock. She clipped a stray blonde curl back from her face. Her eyes flitted nervously between her gloved hands and the steel table.

“Is there something wrong?” Terence said, noticing her unease. She licked her lips.

“No. It’s just…isn’t that the body of Les Harper?”

“Yes.” Terence poured two bottles of cavity fluid into the pail of viscera. He fastened a lid over

top of the pail to contain the acrid scent of formaldehyde. The odour made his eyes burn and well with tears.

“He was an artist like you. Weren’t you two pretty close?”

“Not particularly,” Terence grunted, and began sloshing chemicals into the embalming machine.

Terence remembered Les Harper well. He’d been a stringy fellow, always dressed in stripes. His

hair was disheveled, his fingers were always stained with paint residue, and he looked like he’d never learned how to shave properly. The two of them had never been friends, per se. Les Harper respected Terence’s sculptures and Terence respected Les Harper’s paintings. All that transpired between them was a handshake. The chalk-like numbers. The whooshing of wind and water. The shattering of bone

against rock… Now, Les Harper almost looked like one of his portraits: droopy and distorted.

“What’s the date?” Terence asked.

“October the thirtieth,” Miss Fairweather answered. She was bent over the body, clamping a

leaky vessel with a pair of locking hemostats. She straightened up. “Why?”

“Five days,” Terence breathed. “He’s been dead for five days.”

The phone rang and a sporadic pain flared in Terence’s head. At that instant, he remembered the contents of his dream.

He was in the prep room, embalming a body late at night. He remembered thinking how warm

the blood felt, and how readily it belched from the incision. He remembered chuckling to himself

because he imagined dead fingers twitching. He remembered swearing because the blood was

obstructing his view of the cervical vessels. He turned to retrieve a wad of prep towel, and when he turned back, the man― lying dead and defenseless on the table― was sitting up, alive.

“Terence!” a voice snapped. It was Miss Fairweather. She had the phone in her hand. “Wilson

wants to talk to you.” Terence stripped the gloves from his long fingers and took the phone.

Ash Wilson was a new employee Bob hired before he died. Terence despised Ash. The man

made his way in life with his flashy smile, smooth tongue, handsome face, and curly hair. He was hired as a sort of snake charmer. When people were around Ash, their sorrows melted away. He convinced

people to buy the most expensive funeral packages. Ash could make a dog’s breakfast seem appealing

to clients, but when it came to caring for their deceased loved one, he was useless.

“What do you want, Wilson?” Terence demanded.

“There’s a man named Mr. Bartholomew here, who claims he’s a relative of Les Harper. He says

he’s come to offer his musical talents for the service.”

“Again?!” Terence moaned. Mr. Bartholomew claimed to be a relative of at least three different

families served by Amigone Funeral Home.

“Yes,” Ash sighed. “I told him we weren’t interested, but he wishes to speak with the manager.”

“Did you explain to him it’s me and not Bob anymore?”

“No.”

“For God’s sake, Wilson!” Terence tossed the phone to Miss Fairweather, who fumbled to place

it back on the receiver. “The man can’t even play the piano!” Terence exclaimed. “He’s a lonely old nutcracker who comes here just to talk to Bob.” He tore off his smock, draped it on a hook by the door, and marched out of the prep room, leaving Miss Fairweather completely stunned.

Much to Terence’s chagrin, as he came up the stairs to the main level of the funeral home, he

was met with Ash Wilson, leaning casually on the wooden banister.

“Terence! Up from the dungeon I see!” he declared.

“Don’t call the preparation room a dungeon, Wilson. It’s a place where bodies are prepared

respectfully, not where people are tortured,” Terence replied.

“Of course. You’re right,” Ash agreed.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a well-developed beer gut wavered slightly as he approached Ash and Terence.

“Is this the famous undertaker that I’ve heard so much about?” Mr. Bartholomew’s nose and

cheeks were flushed. Obviously, he’d been drinking. “I heard about Bob’s death,” he slurred, “I guess you’re the boss now, eh?!” He grabbed Terence’s hand and pumped it like a stress ball.

Ghostly numbers danced above the man’s balding head. A day, a month, and a year. Terence

gasped as the visions streamed into his mind. Flashes of tile. A dirty sink. He was in a bathroom. A panicked whimpering seemed to float in the back of his head. Then there were fingers gripping fabric. A nest of hair sat around a sweating bald head. Mr. Bartholomew’s body hit the floor. His head smashed against the edge of the toilet seat on the way down, filling the grooves of his incomplete tile floor with blood…

Terence forcibly pulled his hand from Mr. Bartholomew’s clutch.

“Not even a week,” he uttered. Terence immediately felt Ash’s sideways glance. Mr.

Bartholomew ignored him and instead shielded his eyes and gazed up at Terence as though he was a

mountain.

“Wowza, you’re tall!” he whistled. “You should consider trying out for professional basketball.

Hey, maybe you could start a new team and call it the Undertakers! Wouldn’t that be something, eh!?”

Irritated by this comment, Terence looked the man in the eyes and said,“I suggest you lose

weight and abstain from drinking alcohol. If you don’t, I predict I will see you again shortly on the stainless steel table in the preparation room.” Ash winced as soon as the words were out of Terence’s mouth. He apologized for Terence’s alleged sense of humour and managed to fix the scenario by

offering the man a cup of coffee.

“In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself comfortable in our reception area,” Ash

suggested. “Terence will be right down with your coffee.” Terence rolled his eyes and marched up the stairs. Mr. Bartholomew was going to die very soon, and there was nothing Terence could do to save

him.

Once in the lounge, Terence sat down. The fleeting bright images of his visions were

excruciating. Even though Terence knew the man was going to die very soon, he still substituted cream and sugar for milk and sweetener in his coffee. The last thing the overweight alcoholic needed was

calories. With the cup of coffee in one hand, Terence turned on the tap to refill the coffee pot. While doing so, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging above the sink. There were numbers

engraved on the gleaming surface.

“What the―” The pain behind his eyes spiked and he doubled over, wrapping his long fingers

over them. An inexplicable freezing sensation shot through his veins. A voice shouted behind him.

Terence jumped and knocked the mug of coffee to the floor. The cup shattered and the spray of coffee spotted the white cupboard doors.

“Are you alright, Terence? ”

Terence removed a tea-towel from the towel rack to clean up the mess. Ash took it from his

shaking hands.

“You look like you just saw a ghost. Don’t worry about the spill. It was my fault, I caught you by

surprise.” Ash went to dampen the towel under the tap when Terence suddenly found his voice.

“Somebody’s defaced that mirror!” he declared. Ash turned to him in surprise.

“It looks fine to me.” Ash was right. The numbers had vanished. Terence felt a panicked flutter in

his chest. Had he just witnessed his own…no, that would be impossible.

Ash licked his lips. He seemed to be concerned about something.

“Maybe you should take a vacation, or a few days off,” Ash suggested. He smiled, and hung the

damp towel neatly over the towel rack. “After what happened to Bob you must be―”

“I’m fine,” Terence declared. Lately it seemed like everyone was using Bob’s demise as an

excuse to get rid of him. “Do me a favour and give Mr. Bartholomew his coffee to go. I want that man out of my funeral home,” Terence commanded. “If you need me, I’ll be in my so-called dungeon.”

As he ducked under the overpass to leave the kitchen, Terence felt a sickening weight settle on

his shoulders. There was uncertainty in the cream walls and dark carpets of the funeral home. His skin prickled and a shiver rippled down his spine. He paused by the staircase to see if someone was spying on him. Terence often felt like thousands of hungry eyes were watching him. Behind those hungry eyes

were hungry people, waiting for their opportunity to strike out at him. The sensation frightened him more than anything. He increased his stride toward the prep room―toward his sanctuary. When he

entered, he found his employee, Jaune, had taken charge during his interruption. Miss Fairweather was busily suturing the naval of Les Harper, while Jaune folded her arms in observation. The two of them turned to acknowledge Terence’s presence.

“Hey, Terry!” Jaune took Terence by the crook of the arm. She was a very touchy woman. Both

Ash and Jaune were. They were the kind of people who greeted one another with a hug, and held hands through times of travesty. The two of them together made Terence more than a little uncomfortable.

“Doesn’t her stitching look good?” Jaune said, smiling. Her teeth were startlingly white in

contrast with her dark skin and black suit. Terence peered over the table, placing his hands in his pockets.

“No, it does not,” he declared, honestly. “ The sutures are crooked and gaping. If we leave him

like this, he’ll be sure to leak. You’ll have to reopen him and start suturing again.” Terence could hear Jaune scowling in the corner. He knew she didn’t approve of his overly frank nature―and since when

did she start calling him Terry? Bob was the only one who had ever gotten away with calling him Terry.

Terence could sense the whites of Jaune’s eyes, scrutinizing his every action. She had seniority over him.

Bob should have handed the establishment over to her.

“Why are your hands shaking?”

Terence looked down at his quivering fingers. He put down the needle and thread. At what point

had he even picked them up? Miss Fairweather raised her eyebrows, expectant of an answer. A pain

lingered behind Terence’s eyes and― for the second time that day―his body went cold.

“I―uh,” he groaned.

“For heaven’s sake, Terry, go home! You’re the colour of my husband’s milk potatoes!” Jaune

pressed a hand to his back, steering him out of the prep room. Terence didn’t have the energy to argue with her. “Get some rest before you end up on a table! Miss Fairweather and I will do just fine covering for you.”

Terence just sighed and took his coat from the rack by the door, swooping it on like a cape.

He glared at her curiously before leaving and said, “Millk potatoes?”

Chapter 9: An Unexpected Visitor

Terence spent the remainder of his day, lolling in an armchair by a crackling fireplace. Anubis

was a warm pillow on his lap. The vibration of her purr soothed him. For the first time that day, Terence felt relaxed. Surely what he saw in the mirror was nothing more than a stress induced hallucination. Still, the fear was there. It ate at him, even while he slept. What was he afraid of anyway? His own demise?

Drowning? Freezing to death? He looked in mirrors everyday, but never once did he foresee his own

death. Besides, that wasn’t how the curse worked. He had to make contact with another person’s hand in order to see―to experience―their death. The numbers haunted him most of all. Death dates,

scrawled crudely. Each stroke reminded Terence of a dead ant leg.

Anubis slipped from Terence’s palm and padded lightly to the floor. Her disappearance jolted

Terence from his state of semi-consciousness. He groaned when he discovered the source of her exit. It was his phone, buzzing vexatiously in his pocket.

“Hello,” he answered, groggily.

“Hi, Terence, it’s Ash. Jaune told me you weren’t feeling well and went home early. I thought I’d

just call to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” Terence said, curtly.

“Great. Maybe you’d like to join me and the guys for a couple rounds tonight.”

“No.”

“Well…why not?”

Terence didn’t respond right away. He was more than a little annoyed with Ash for interrupting

his moment of peace. “I’m busy bathing my cat,” he lied. “She’s naked.”

“I’m sorry, my phone seems to be losing its signal. Did you say she’s naked?!”

“Yes.”

“Wow! Sorry I interrupted you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Ash hung up. Surprised, Terence

stretched his lank arms over his head and stood. Ash was painfully insistent when it came to his social invitations. Perhaps he too understood sphinx cat maintenance―though Terence doubted this very

much.

At 7pm Terence was exhausted. He had no idea why as he’d spent most of the day half asleep.

Come this time tomorrow, he’d be suffocating amidst the sea of mourners, flowing through the doors to shake his hand. A woebegone whimper escaped his mouth. How many more tragedies could he view

before going insane?

With his cat in the crook of one arm and his hand trailing along the wooden banister, Terence

climbed the stairs to his room, which was really more of an art studio. The lower portion of the room

contained half finished paintings and sculptures, all staring Terence in the face. It was as though they were begging to be completed.

Anubis catapulted herself from his arms onto the bed. She kneaded and pawed at the covers,

purring and meowing for attention. Terence sat heavily beside her. He began unbuttoning his shirt, all the while avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

“God, I’m scrawny,” he mumbled after catching a flash of his protruding rib cage.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself!” A scruffy man rolled from under Terence’s bed. Anubis

growled and spat, while Terence stumbled backwards in alarm, grabbing hold of the letter opener on his bedside table. He swung it defensively in front of the man’s face.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?!” Terence roared. The man calmly

raised his hands in surrender. Terence figured he had to be fifty years or older. His age was hard to determine under the layers of untamed facial hair. It was possible the man was homeless. Every so

often, a grubby man wandered from the streets into Amigone Funeral Home. Terence was gloomy and

unsociable at the best of times, but when it came to strange smelly intruders, his countenance was

abhorrent.

“Are you the same dumpster diving tramp who enters my funeral home?” he demanded,

jabbing the letter opener closer to the man’s forehead.

“What? No!” The man lowered his hands. His shaggy eyebrows were raised in genuine

mystification.

“Tell your flea bitten friend I don’t want to see him again until he’s dead!” Terence spat. The

man fingered the folds of his forehead, easing his way around the glimmering letter opener and

mumbling incoherently to himself. His accent was distinctly English.

“My name is Archie Higgins. I’m a doctor. Best there is.” He opened up his overcoat to point out

the stethoscope around his neck. His even gaze possessed more than a little spark of intelligence.

Upon hearing the intruder’s name, a sudden nausea weakened Terence. His head pounded

excruciatingly and he dropped the letter opener. Before he knew it, Archie―if that really was his

name―had him by the shoulders, forcing his body into the sitting position.

“Listen to me, Terence,” he whispered frantically. His eyes were big and worried.

“How do you know―”

“Yes, I know your name. I signed a medical certificate of death for a man you transferred nearly

a week ago. His name was Alabaster Bloom. Do you remember?” The name did sound familiar to

Terence. He set his brows between his thumb and forefinger, but no matter how hard he concentrated, he could not put a face to the name. The bodies and deaths all ran together after a while. Deflated eyes.

Gaping mouths. Stiff, curled fingers. They were all the same―a big messy fog inside his head.

“I don’t remember,” Terence said.

“Well of course you don’t!” Archie tugged his salt and pepper beard in exasperation. “You had a

concussion and you’re suffering amnesia.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Terence cried. He felt a draft emanating from the window and realized his

rawboned chest was still exposed. Embarrassed, he began fastening the buttons to his shirt. Archie noticed his discomfort and snickered. His eyes turned to the ceiling fan.

“You don’t have to feel self conscious around me, lad. I’m a doc―”

“No, you’re not!” Terence leapt from the pale sheets, pinning the man to a wall. He jabbed a

fierce finger into the man’s sternum, knocking the air from his lungs. “You’re a trickster. Here to discredit me. I don’t know who sent you, or how you got in, but right now I’m going to give you two options.” Terence could see the man melt under his shadow. He leaned closer and hissed, “Either you walk yourself out the door, or I’ll toss you out the window like yesterday’s trash!” Clearly intimidated, the man nodded and swallowed hard.

“Fine,” he said in a small voice. “Kindly let me go, and I’ll be on my way.” Breathing hard,

Terence backed slowly away from the man. Archie shivered and ruffled his oversized jacket. Before

turning to leave, he gave Terence a sideways glance and sighed sadly.

“I’m sorry,” he said and slipped into the dark hallway. There were no footsteps and there was

no door slam, but when Terence went out to inspect the hallway, the man was nowhere in sight.

“He vanished like a ghost,” Terence whispered to his cat. He took her up into his arms and―for

the second time that night―carried her to bed.

Chapter 10: The Visitation

A peculiar thing happened the next morning when Terence entered the doors of Amigone

Funeral Home. Ash Wilson, followed by every other male who worked for Terence, began to clap. Their applause made him wonder if he’d forgotten his own birthday again.

“There’s the lucky man!” Mr. Verdin slapped Terence on the back. Terence glared at him. He

despised his assistant Billy Verdin even more than he despised Billy Rubin. Mr. Verdin always

accompanied his greetings with a painful slap to the kidneys. These slaps wouldn’t be so bad, if his hands weren’t the size of frying pans.

“Why am I lucky?” Terence sighed. The men all raised their eyebrows at him incredulously.

“You know,” Ash said in a hushed voice, “the bath with your little lady last night.”

“You mean, Anubis?” Uncomfortable with the attention he was getting, Terence started for the

stairs. The quicker he could escape to his office, the better. He was disgruntled to see his employees’

mischievous faces reflecting in the glass picture frames.

“Ooh,” their voices droned. “Sounds exotic.” Terence ignored their whisperings.

The funeral home owners grew more recent as Terence neared the top of the stairs. Bob’s

serene photo hung at the top. The wrinkles around his eyes, mouth, and forehead spoke his age.

However, his eyes contained a youthful spark―one Terence thought would never be extinguished.

“Come on, Terence, fill us in on the details!” Mr. Verdin whined.

“Yeah,” Ash piped in. “Was she a dirty girl or what?” Terence turned to his employees in

surprise. Why were they so interested in his sphinx cat?

He looked down his nose at them suspiciously before replying, “I wouldn’t bathe her if she

wasn’t dirty, Wilson.” His response triggered a bout of ooing and awing from his coworkers. Terence scoffed. Did they not know sphinx cats needed to be bathed? Bunched together on the stairway, his

white-collared employees stared at him like a pack of hungry dogs.

“Don’t you all have work to do?” Terence shouted. “Quit pestering me and do whatever the hell

it is you do!”

“You got it, boss!” shouted his assistant, Paul Jones. Terence rolled his eyes at Paul. He couldn’t tell whether the platinum spikes atop the man’s head was hair, or if an albino porcupine crawled up there one day and decided to die. Either way, Paul’s appearance was not professional. Terence made a mental note to mention this to him later. The rest of the group dispersed, leaving Terence with a far more adequate breathing space. He smoothed his hair back and padded through the staff lounge to his office.

“Hi, Terence!” The plucky Miss Fairweather stood up from his chair holding a cup of coffee. “I made this for you,” she said, forcing the hot ceramic mug into his hands.

The office used to belong to Bob. By the looks of it, it still did. His memorabilia were spread

throughout the room. Thank-you notes addressed to Bob were pinned to the cork boards. His ties hung on the back of the door. His name tag was still fastened to the desk. Even the World’s Best Funeral Director mug scorching Terence’s hand, belonged to Bob.

“Jaune told me you were going to do some restorative work on Les Harper this morning,” Miss

Fairweather said. Terence disliked her stance. She had her hands behind her back as though she was

hiding something. Terence felt dizzy watching her rock back and forth on the balls of her feet.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, unable to look at her any longer. “Meet me downstairs and I’ll show

you.” Miss Fairweather laughed jubilantly and clapped her hands together in excitement. She trotted quickly out the door, nearly running into Jaune on her way out. Jaune chuckled and shook her head of springy hair.

“She sure is an eager one, isn’t she?” Jaune said. For a middle aged woman, Terence thought

Jaune to be a tad over glamorous. Her lips were always high glossed and her nails done just so. She also seemed to have a thing for leopard prints. “I really think she admires you, Terry,” Jaune added. “In fact, I think she’s got a little crush on you.” Terence raised an eyebrow at her and sniffed his coffee tentatively.

The aroma was off somehow.

Slipping by her curvaceous form in the doorway, Terence exchanged the mug to her hands and

hissed, “Nice try,” into her ear. He turned a corner and was out of sight before she could open her plump-lipped mouth in defense.

Terence would never forget the time Jaune poured cough medicine into his coffee. He lied

about having bronchitis to get out of supervising two simultaneous visitations. The gagging tongues, protruding eyes, and pulsating hearts haunted him. To sit back and watch hundreds of people die― to experience every last shattering detail―was agony in the purest form. Fear made Terence an excellent actor. He feigned a violent fit of coughing so well, Jaune stepped in to take his place on the floor during the visitation. She’d also taken it upon herself to make him her special home remedy. The combination of coffee and cough medicine made Terence’s gut turn like a top. When he discovered what Jaune had

done, he yelled at her until his throat was raw. That’s when Bob entered the picture. He was calm and carefree even in the midst of a heated argument.

He took Terence aside and said, “I know about your secret.” Terence remembered the silence following his statement. The pounding of his heart. The ticking of the clock. “I know why you avoid visitations and why you wince every time you greet someone with a handshake.” Bob’s smile was infectious. He took Terence warmly by the arm. His sincere gaze stilled Terence’s quaking limbs. “There are germs everywhere, Terry. You’re not the first to fear them.” He winked at Terence. “You don’t have to feel ashamed, Terry. You can tell me anything. I promise, I won’t tell anyone.” Terence wanted to tell Bob the real truth. He wanted to say he was plagued with something far more complicated than

germaphobia. Unfortunately, the truth was insane. Terence feared if word got out he could read death dates, he’d play palm reader to the terminally ill.

“How do you do that so fast?” Miss Fairweather asked in awe. Terence didn’t answer. He was

too deeply embedded in concentration. So far, he’d managed to greatly reduce Les Harper’s

disfigurement in only twenty minutes. His left eye, which had been a vacant slimy hole, now resembled a gently closed eyelid. Terence removed the strings of flesh that were once Les Harper’s ears and began creating his own replacements.

“Turn your head for me, Miss Fairweather,” Terence requested. Miss Fairweather’s face became

a palette of rouge. She bashfully obeyed. “I need to use your ear for reference,” he explained. When she didn’t move to tuck the curtain of blonde curls behind her ear, Terence sighed and reached down to do it himself.

“Every ear has a ‘Y’ shape in the cartlidge,” he told her, scraping away at the lump of wax. Miss

Fairweather said nothing. She seemed to be at a loss for words. For her sake, Terence hoped she didn’t admire him as much as Jaune let on.

“Our boss here is an expert restorative artist,” Paul said. Terence couldn’t remember Paul

entering the prep room, and wondered how long he’d been observing. The man looked a little too

relaxed with his legs folded atop the dryer. He was more like a lazy pet than an employee.

“Did you register Les Harper’s death, Paul?” Terence questioned him.

“Sure did, Boss,” Paul responded.

“Then why are you here?” Terence huffed. He felt mocked by Paul’s presence. The way Paul

referred to him as ‘Boss’ verged on insubordination. Paul yawned and bounded from his place on the

dryer.

“Remind me, Boss, cause my mind’s a little fuzzy. Did I or did I not register that Bloom guy’s

death?” Terence fumbled with a piece of wax. Bloom was the name the fraudulent doctor used. Terence left the ear-shaped blob to Miss Fairweather―who was more than a little ecstatic―to complete, while he took Paul into the casket selection room to speak in private.

“Is this some sort of a prank?” Terence accused him. Paul lifted his hands innocently and backed

slowly into a display of personalized casket paraphernalia. His eyes wavered uncertainly under his

arched brows. If Paul was acting surprised by the accusation, he was certainly doing a formidable job.

“Boss―”

“Don’t call me Boss!”

“Bloom was that night removal. Don’t you remember? The two of us were on call,” Paul

explained, his voice panicked. He looked like a man afraid for his life. Terence stepped away from his

coworker. His skull felt like it was being compressed between two transport trucks. He gritted his teeth against the sudden flare-up.

“I can’t remember!” he growled. Perhaps Doctor Archie Higgins was really a doctor. Perhaps

Terence really did have amnesia. Or, Paul was in cahoots with this mysterious scraggy man in attempts to get him out of Amigone Funeral Home. Only―Paul had no motive. Why would he want Terence

terminated from management? What would he serve to gain? Terence thought of something else―

something far more prudent.

“Paul,” he said, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, “if we removed a dead man named

Bloom, where’s his corpse?” Terence spun around when there was no response. Still standing, Paul’s

head was slack against his chest. He was asleep! Uncertain of what to do, Terence stood agape. The

wooden steps leading down to the selection room creaked as someone made their way down. It was

Ash. His hands were draped casually in the pockets of his pants. He chuckled when he saw Terence’s

dumfounded expression.

“Don’t be alarmed, Terence. Paul does that all the time,” Ash explained. He snapped his fingers

in front of Paul’s lolling head. “He’s somewhat of a narcolept.” Terence ran both hands through his hair and exhaled noisily. Meanwhile, Ash’s smile flourished more and more across his handsome face.

“Get out of my sight, Wilson,” Terence snapped moodily before returning to the prep room.

He felt like he was going mad. Maybe he was mad. Maybe he’d always been mad. Terence often wondered if the deaths he foresaw were hallucinations, which coincidentally came true. He considered seeing a psychiatrist, but was afraid of being turned into an experiment. Some would say his curse was a gift and could be used to save people. Terence knew this was not possible. Every death he witnessed, occurred, whether he intervened or not. Now, someone was trying to disorient him. To have him

wrapped conveniently in a straight jacket and shipped away, leaving his job title wide open…

“Terence, dear, the family has started to arrive.” Jaune popped her head through the doors of

the prep room. Her eyes widened when she saw Les Harper still lying on the table. Terence swore. The family was early.

“Terry! You don’t even have him in his casket yet!” Jaune shrieked.

“Your observational skills are uncanny,” Terence retorted. He then commanded Miss

Faireweather to distract the family while he finished readying Les Harper for viewing. “Take them to the staff lounge and feed them those stale powdered donuts which I suspect are laced with anthrax,”

Terence suggested. Miss Fairweather nodded uncertainly and bounded up the stairs to greet the family.

“Anthrax?” Jaune rested her long glimmering nails on either side of her hips.

“Yes. It’s a bacterial endospore. Once ingested, it will most often result in respiratory―”

Jaune interrupted, “Bob was right!”

“What?”

“You really are a friggin’ germaphobe!” Jaune shook her head and left to retrieve Les Harper’s

casket.

Once Les Harper was resting peacefully in his casket, Jaune and Terence wheeled him into the

lift and snuck into the visitation room to set him up. The endeavor proved successful. Donut powder on their lips, and tears in their eyes, the family filed into the room and gathered around their beloved Les Harper to grieve his loss. Terence scuttled out just in time, stationing Miss Fairweather by the soon-to-be crowded doorway.

“Look cute, shake hands, and take donations,” Terence whispered to her. As people buzzed and

sipped their coffee, Terence turned toward the stairway to make his escape. On his way up, he bumped into the last person he wanted to see: Billy Verdin.

“Hey!” Mr. Verdin pounded Terence on the back. “Just thought I’d bring down some water for

our thirsty guests,” he said, water pitcher in hand. Terence walked past his assistant and said nothing in hopes of discouraging further speech from Mr. Verdin. Much to his chagrin, the man followed Terence all the while flapping his lips.

“Listen Terence,” he said, as the two of them entered the office, “I gotta know, how do you

bathe Anubis?” Terence made a guttural sound in the back of his throat, not dissimilar to the sound an annoyed dog would make. Why was he still going on about the cat’s bathing routine?

Terence didn’t even glance at Verdin when he replied, “I rub her down with a dish brush, and

apply soap to her body.” Verdin’s jaw went slack.

“A dish brush?!” he cried in astonishment.

“Yes,” Terence answered. He shuffled some files around on his desk and opened up a filing

cabinet to file folders from the week’s previous funerals. “A dish brush gets into all of those hard to reach places,” he explained. Verdin smiled oddly and waggled his finger at Terence.

“You are a true genius,” he said in wonder. Terence raised an eyebrow at his assistant, who

paused before leaving. “By the way,” Verdin added, “the Mayor of Belleville is here and wants to have a word.”

“Tell him to come up,” Terence said. He took a seat, interlacing his fingers, and glanced

nervously at the ticking face on his wall. Why would the mayor of Belleville want to speak with him?

Chapter 11: The Meeting

The well-furnished rooms swarmed with the chattering friends and family of Les Harper. Tears

stained their faces and damp tissues hung from their pockets. Skunk’s wife placed her arm around his and together they weaved their way through groups of hugs and tear-soaked kisses. A pleasant-looking man with thick curly hair directed them to the visitation room. Skunk was disappointed to discover the man’s name was not Terence.

“Well, doesn’t he look peaceful,” Mink remarked after setting eyes on Les Harper’s body. Not

only did Les Harper look peaceful, he looked alive. His cheeks were rosy and full and his fingertips were pink as though the blood was still circulating through them.

“He almost looks like he’s breathing!” Mink gasped.

“He’s dead, Dear. I saw it with my own eyes,” Skunk sighed. Mink rubbed his shoulders

reassuringly and then wandered off to fetch coffee for the two of them. She talked familiarly with every stranger she passed, giving Skunk the funny feeling his coffee would be cold by the time she got it to him.

“Can I help you with something, sir?” A red-faced man with a jolly belly approached Skunk. His

name was Billy Verdin. Again, not Terence. Skunk must have looked lost staring off while everyone else mingled. He introduced himself as the Mayor of Belleville and asked if he could speak to Terence. Mr.

Verdin assured Skunk Terence would be happy to talk. Skunk thanked him and was given a whopping

smack on the back in return. His back now aching, he took a seat.

“I should arrest that man for his abusive friendliness.” Officer Russ Farland sat in the adjacent

matching chair. He was sucking on a coffee and munching on the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie.

“You saw that, did you?” Skunk said, arching his back.

The officer nodded, “I’ve got eyes like a bat.”

“Bats are blind, Officer.” Officer Russ Farland opened his mouth to say something, but instead

placed the remainder of the cookie on his chocolate-smeared tongue. It was then that Billy Verdin

returned.

“Come on up, gentlemen. The Undertaker will see you now!” he chuckled. Skunk didn’t find the

statement so funny. He followed the man up the wooden stairs, which creaked with every step, to an

office door with the name Bob Amigone written on it.

“Bob was the previous owner,” Mr. Verdin explained. “He passed quite suddenly.”

Skunk nodded, “I see,” he said. Officer Russ Farland plowed his way through and banged loudly

on the door.

“Open up, Undertaker! We have questions for you!” he cried. The door swung open.

“Please,” a tired voice responded, “call me Terence.” Skunk was surprised to see how accurately

Terence’s appearance matched Rachelle’s sketches. He was impossibly tall and thin. His face was buried in shadow and his hair was as black as tar. His eyes were like those of a fish: dead and pale. Though terrifying, they held a certain sadness Skunk couldn’t place. In a way, his appearance was both

intimidating and pitiable.

“What do you both want?” Terence sighed, he wore the expression of someone in constant

agony. Skunk cleared his throat and extracted the medical certificate of death from inside his jacket.

“Can you explain why this document was found in the Elm Valley Trail of Belleville?” Terence

took the sheet of paper from Skunk. His fingers were alien-like. As his eyes scanned the document,

Skunk and Officer Russ Farland relayed to him the string of vandalisms surrounding Les Harper’s death.

Terence stood speechless throughout the explanation. He appeared to be in a trance. One long

hand covered his mouth and the other held the document as though it was an infectious piece of

material.

“The doctor…” he muttered vacantly.

“Yes. His name is Archie―”

“I know what his name is.” Terence cut Skunk off, his voice a clap of thunder. His stone-eyed

stare was so cold it made Skunk shiver.

Trying not to show weakness, the mayor cleared his throat and said, “We believe whoever was

carrying that document may be the vandal.” His words seemed to dwindle in the rotund office as

Terence looked down his angular face at them. The paper lowered in his hands and a look of confused distress overcame his features. When he spoke, it was as if he’d forgotten how to form sentences.

“I don’t…how did…this isn’t possible…” Terence clutched his head and inhaled sharply. He sank

into his chair, eyes still glued to the medical certificate.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Coon?” Officer Russ Farland crossed his arms over his chest: his tone

and stance indicated he suspected Terence. A sudden anger befell the undertaker and he shot out from behind his desk like a rocket.

“Yes!” he growled. “This document is fake!” He shoved the stained certificate into the officer’s

hands before walking past him. “Along with the doctor who signed it,” he added. He grabbed his blazer from a hook beside the door, swung it on gracefully, and then exited without an explanation. Stung, both Skunk and Officer Russ Farland stood blinking as their only lead escaped them.

Skunk was the first to start after Terence. Being alone in the undertaker’s office with Officer

Russ Farland was, in a way, creepier than being in the presence of the undertaker himself.

“Wait, Terence!” he called. He caught the man just as he was about to glide down the staircase.

“What do you want now?” Terence sneered. His back was turned and his hands were both

balanced on the banister.

“Please,” Skunk said, “how do you know that document is fake?” The man’s shoulders deflated

as he sighed morosely.

“The doctor signed his name upside down,” he answered. Before Skunk could ask any more

questions, Terence swooped down the stairs and out of sight.

“I’d say we’ve got our first suspect,” Officer Russ Farland said, approaching Skunk from behind.

Deep in thought, Skunk said nothing in reply. Terence didn’t seem like the sort of person who would commit petty crimes for fun. One thing was for certain, though: the undertaker had a dark secret.

Suddenly Rachelle’s psychic mumbo jumbo didn’t seem so far fetched.

“Let’s find my wife and get out of here,” Skunk suggested.

“Don’t you think we should talk to some of the other undertakers here? Something tells me this

Terence guy can’t be trusted.” Skunk agreed with the officer’s proposition.

“We’ll call them into the station for interviews, starting with that curly-haired gentleman,” he

said.

On their way down to the main level of the funeral home, Skunk and Officer Russ Farland met

with Billy Verdin a second time. The rolly-polly jovial man ceased his jubilant skipping and slapped them wholeheartedly across their backs.

“Did Terry tell you about that exotic woman of his?” boomed Mr. Verdin. Both Skunk and Officer

Russ Farland eyed each other incredulously. Hand on his taser, Officer Russ Farland prompted the giddy assistant to continue. “The man’s got that woman eating out of the palm of his hand! You should hear the naughty things he does to her!” Mr. Verdin threw back his head and laughed robustly. Skunk almost wished Officer Russ Farland would taser the man just to stop his obnoxious howling. Instead, the officer stroked his walrus mustache and thanked Mr. Verdin for his useful information.

“So we’re dealing with a possible sex offender,” the officer stated after Mr. Verdin was out of

earshot.

“Right now, I have no idea who we’re dealing with,” Skunk sighed, placing his hands in his

trouser pockets. “I can’t think in this environment. There’s too much sadness suppressed between these walls. Let’s grab Mink and regroup at the station.” The policeman rounded up the new members of his police squad faster than a collie rounding up a herd of sheep. He saluted before leaving and marched his band of blue uniforms out the door.

Skunk joined his wife by an industrial coffee machine. She was chattering with a man he’d never

seen before. She’d likely never seen him before either. This was not unusual behavior for her. She

socialized with strangers on a regular basis. She smiled and waved at Skunk as he approached.

“Skunkie!” she exclaimed, taking his arm. “Meet my new friend―”

“Murry.” In a blink of an eye, the man’s hand was in Skunk’s. His grip was like that of a boa

constrictor. Clearly his short, lean stature took no ill effects to his strength. His skin was a deep shade of chestnut and his features were sharp, as though they’d been carved out of stone. He wore a black

turtleneck, which Skunk thought suited him well.

“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Diggory,” he said to Mink before stealthily slipping through the

scattering of people. The man’s voice was both quiet and loud at the same time.

“Yes. We must do the cheese and wine thing!” Mink shouted, her laugh chiming through the

crowd.

Skunk shook his head and escorted her across the parking lot of the funeral home, the cold

coffee in hand.

“You really do make the most curious of friends,” he said to her. A murder of crows sat on a tree

branch, weighing it down so that it almost made contact with the windshield of his car. Skunk attempted to shoo them away, but the birds seemed more amused than frightened of his swooping hand. Mink

laughed and pulled a bundle of saltines from her purse.

“I’m a curious woman,” she replied, tossing bits of crackers at the crows. They scattered,

hungrily, pecking the pavement and croaking at one another.

“Not too curious, I hope,” Skunk said. He opened the door chivalrously for his wife.

“You have nothing to worry about, my love,” she grinned her red-lipped grin before bunching

herself into the car. Skunk scoffed slightly before crawling in himself.

“Nothing to worry about, eh? Bit of an exaggeration given everything that’s going on in

Belleville, don’t you think?”

“Touché.”

Chapter 12: Bloody Misunderstandings

Terence felt like his brain was turning into Swiss cheese. There were so many gaps―so many

holes in his memory. The body of Alabaster Bloom. The removal of Alabaster Bloom. Who was Alabaster Bloom? Terence couldn’t fit a face to the name. Was he old? Was his family present for the removal?

Was he at his house, open-mouthed and bundled in diseased sheets? Or crammed into a stuffy hospital room? He could ask Paul. Somehow his platinum-haired associate seemed to know of the man, along

with the mayor and the disheveled physician. Terence could still see the browning certificate of death flaking in his fingertips. What sort of lengths would someone go through to fake another man’s death?

The pills clacked pleasantly in the plastic bottle. Terence spilled two capsules into his palm and

cascaded them down his throat. He felt crazy. Unstable. The confusion, conspiracy theories, and never ending questions made his Swiss cheese brain bubble and pop behind his ears. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw death. It swarmed and plagued his mind like flies on a corpse.

Terence rested his head against the back of his armchair. He could feel the purr of his cat

vibrating against his legs. Just as he was beginning to succumb to the heat of his fireplace, the screen on his phone lit up and buzzed dully on the side table next to him. When Terence saw it was Ash Wilson, he wanted to hurdle his phone into the crackling fire.

“What do you want, Wilson?” he snarled.

“I need your help,” Ash whispered. It was as if he didn’t want someone to overhear him.

“Let me guess, a body has been found a soupy decomposed mess and you need me to complete

the removal because your little stomach can’t handle it.”

“What? No.” Ash’s voice grew more hushed. “It’s my lady, Carina. I think there’s something

wrong with her. Lately she’s been ignoring me. I need to know how you care for Anubis.” Terence

groaned in response. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” Ash asked after hearing Terence’s

disgruntlement. “Is Anubis there with you?”

Terence placed his hand on the cat’s warm belly. “Yes, she’s on my lap.”

Ash gasped, “Is she naked?” He asked the question delicately, as though it was a sin for

Terence’s sphinx cat to be hairless.

“Of course she is, you idiot!” Terence shouted in frustration. “Why the hell would she be

wearing clothes?!”

“Carina wears clothes,” Ash mumbled.

“Well, take the damn things off!” Terence shrieked. “What kind of lousy pet owner are you?!”

“Pet?! Wow, she really lets you dominate her like that?!”

“I’m her owner, Wilson! I feed her, I bathe―”

“How do you bathe her?” Terence took a deep breath to calm himself down. Wilson’s line of

questions regarding his sphinx cat, Carina were moronic. So much so, Terence felt like calling the animal abuse number on him.

Through gritted teeth, he responded, “You take off those ridiculous clothes, you bring her to the

kitchen sink and you rub her down with a dish brush, soap and water. It’s not frickin’ rocket science!”

Terence hung up the phone before Ash could get out another ignorant word.

Anubis stirred on Terence’s lap. Evidently, she was disturbed by his haughty conversation.

“It’s alright, Anubis,” Terence reassured her, “Daddy was just talking to a very stupid man.”

Anubis yawned and flexed her claws. A little cat sigh escaped her muzzle before she rested her head on Terence’s knee and fell asleep. The warmth of his cat and the fire made Terence’s head swirl with

exhaustion. Soon enough, he too fell asleep.

Terence was awakened hours later by a clamoring at his door. It was 10’o clock. Who would

want to see him at 10’o clock? The knocking grew more and more urgent. Terence yawned and pried his cat from his lap. Fearing the cops may be pursuing him, he stood shakily and took a peak behind the curtains of his living room windows. The silhouette of what looked to be a witch lady stood at his door.

Terence cursed. He’d forgotten it was Halloween. Those little pukes always terrorized him. Last year one freckle-faced youth had the audacity to ask Terence if he was the spawn of Dracula.

“Bugger off, I don’t have any candy!” Terence declared loudly as he opened the door. He was

surprised to see not a pouting little girl dressed as a witch, but a full grown woman. Her wild black hair was plastered to her cheeks and her mascara was running down her face, leaving behind a trail of grimy streaks. Terence crossed his arms, scrutinizing her under his dull porch lights. He could hear hurried footsteps and ragged breathing in the distance. Glimpses of a man blinked in and out of existence under the flickering street lamps.

“I was unaware adults participated in this juvenile holiday,” Terence said to the rumpled

woman. The comment seemed to enrage her. Her fists were balled and her long slender neck

shimmered with a sheen of perspiration. She had on a black silk evening gown and a pair of heels so high she practically stood nose to nose with Terence.

“What are you supposed to be anyway?” Terence clucked. “An undead hooker, or a celebrity

cave woman?”

“You bastard…” the woman breathed. The words were choked. She was so angry she could

barely speak. The background pattering of desperate feet came to a closing standstill at Terence’s

doorstep. It was Ash. His expression showed warning and by the time Terence looked back at the

woman standing on his welcome mat, it was too late to stop her attack. Shrieking herself hoarse, she violently thrust her head into Terence’s gut. Terence crumpled like a dried flower, clutching his stomach and gasping for air. Once he was down, her fists and nails bombarded him from either side. She split his

lip, broke his nose, bruised his cheekbones, and tore at his hair. Terence was sprawled on his floorboards like a wounded animal, the blood from his nose and lip pooling beneath his fingertips.

“You’re a monster!” the woman wailed, finally backing away from Terence. “Tell me what

you’ve done with that woman or I’ll call the cops!” Terence sat up gingerly. He gagged on a mouthful of blood.

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” he told her. “Right now, you’re the only woman in this

house.” The woman shook her head.

“Don’t give me any of that innocence crap!” she hissed and kicked Terence in the ribs with her

pointy-toed shoes. Terence cried out in pain. Ash stumbled into the house just as the woman was about to give Terence another bout of pummeling.

“Oh, God,” Ash exclaimed when he saw his employer beaten and bloody. “Carina, what have

you―” His eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

“Serves you right for taking advice from a sick rapist!” Carina shouted in Ash’s direction. Terence couldn’t help but chuckle. He stood and winced, leaning against the wall for support.

“You’re clearly not a sphinx cat,” Terence said.

“What?” Carina flared her nostrils at him.

Just then Anubis pounced from the shelf from which she was hiding and hit Carina square in the

chest. The woman flailed and screamed wildly as the bald creature spat and tore at her face.

“Anubis! Heel!” Terence commanded.

Anubis hissed and reluctantly backed away from the crumpled woman. Carina stood slowly. Her

frizzy hair stood up on end and her tanned skin was laced with angry weeping scratches. Terence felt bad. How could he have been so blind? His coworkers weren’t interested in sphinx cats, they were

interested in women.

“That was my naked cat. I bathe her in the kitchen sink,” Terence explained. Carina nodded in

disbelief. Her eyes were like grapefruits―big, wet grapefruits. There was a silence.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” Carina finally asked. Terence shook his head slowly. “Your cat

just turned me into a human scratching post! She ruined my dress, ” Carina wept, tenderly touching the frayed lines in the satin.

“You ruined my nose,” Terence responded.

“Stay away from me!” Carina yelled. As she spun to leave, her dress billowed around her like a

mushroom cloud. Before slamming the door, she growled and spat in the direction of her boyfriend. The wad of phlegm spattered sickeningly against Ash’s closed eyelid.

“She’s a real keeper,” Terence mumbled to himself and then limped toward the bathroom to clean himself up.

He returned with a cloth under his nose and a bag of ice propped against his cheekbone. Ash

stirred on the floorboards.

“What happened?” he groaned. His face warped in disgust as he wiped the back of his hand over

his eye. “What’s on my face?!” he cried. Terence needed to sit down. Without an explanation, he trailed off into the fireplace room around the corner. He could hear the frustration in Ash’s footsteps as his employee pursued him.

The fire made the room stiflingly hot. Terence extinguished the heat and collapsed into his

massive squishy-looking armchair. Wooden shelving units stood on either side of the stone fireplace.

Their shelves held faded books, candles, clay pots, wooden chests, and other antiques Terence

collected. He liked old things, they made him feel a sort of pleasurable sadness. Ash took a seat in a matching chair across from Terence. All that separated the two was a cluttered coffee table.

Ash cleared his throat, uneasily. Terence noticed him eyeing the china faced doll that sat

watchfully amongst the other oddities on his shelves.

“Her name’s Amelia,” Terence said, nodding his head toward the doll’s cracked face.

“Pardon?” Ash nervously wiped his palms on his jeans.

“Amelia. She was my mother’s doll,” Terence repeated.

“Okay.” Ash licked his lips. Another nervous action. Terence wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the

pain induced serotonin flooding his brain, but he started to laugh uncontrollably.

When the fit passed, Ash was holding onto his chair. He looked both confused, happy, and

frightened all at the same time.

“My Anubis,” Terence began, catching his breath, “is a bald cat.”

“You’re kidding?” Ash leaned forward in his chair, his fingers clutching his curls. Terence shook

his head. His ribs ached, both from being kicked and from laughing. “This whole time you thought I had a bald cat named Carina?!”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” Ash chuckled. Terence removed the blood soaked cloth from his nose. Ash stopped

chuckling as soon as he caught sight of the red blotches. “My girlfriend really did a number on your face.”

“She broke my nose, was attacked by my cat, and then left traumatized,” Terence recalled to

him. He crossed his legs casually. “Oh, and she also spat a big one in your eye,” he added.

“I noticed that.” Ash dabbed the corner of his eye, his lip curled in disdain.

“You have a blood phobia,” Terence stated.

“You have a germ phobia,” Ash replied. Silence followed the declarations. Ash leaned back,

studying Terence’s face as though it was a portrait hanging in an art museum.

“I like it,” he finally said.

“What?”

“The dent in your nose. I like it. It makes you look more distinguished.” Ash grinned and started

toward the door. Terence followed him out into the clear night. The stars were like bright eyes in the sky and the moon was whole. Ash bid Terence good night and then walked off down the road, disappearing

on the other side of the hill. Everything was still.

“How does he know where I live?” Terence said quietly to himself. He closed the door, locked it

firmly and shuffled soberly off to bed.

Chapter 13: Haunted Dispositions

The black smears on the white board walls were remnants of slaughtered ideas. They cried

failure to Skunk. In the dead of night the vandal struck again. Every time Skunk closed his eyes, he could see the vandal’s tongue waggling arrogantly at him.

“A near blind woman named Mrs. Herald claims she saw strange birds hanging over the

branches of the trees by the library two hours past midnight,” reported Ninny. She was a member of

Officer Russ Farland ’s new police squad. “It was later discovered by Temaru that these ‘birds’ were in fact books,” she continued. There was a screeching of chairs as Ninny returned to her seat and Temaru stood.

“A window was found open on the top floor of the library. We believe the vandal hurdled the

books out the window into the tree adjacent to the building,” he relayed.

Skunk pinched his eyes and downed his second shot of espresso. He’d recently ensured that all

the public buildings of Belleville were alarmed and under guard.

“Books were dumped from the shelves and strewn all over the interior of the library as well,”

Temaru continued. “The library is currently closed to allow the librarians time to fix the disorder.”

The white board walls now squeaked as Officer Russ Farland adamantly scribbled words on

their gray-washed faces. There were only three ways the vandal could have gained access to a locked and alarmed building: either he knew the code to the alarm, had the keys to the library and managed slipped past the guards, or…

“He was hiding in the library the entire time,” Skunk said. The squeaky scribbling ceased and was

replaced by a contemplative silence. Skunk could almost hear the police squad’s thoughts. Could the vandal be living amongst the town people? What if he was hiding in plain sight?

Temaru voiced his thoughts aloud, “Why would anyone go to all that trouble just to make a

mess? I mean, camping out in a library just to overturn a few book shelves? Who does that?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Skunk asked. He exhaled bitterly and stood from his place at

the long narrow table. Glancing at his watch, he found that it was only an hour until Les Harper’s funeral service. Officer Russ Farland caught him staring at his watch and knew immediately it was time to wrap up the meeting.

“Alright, ladies,” he said, white board marker still in hand, “I want four of you questioning the

librarians at the library and four of you checking the security tapes from last night. If any of you happen to stumble upon a loafer snoring amongst the piles of books, don’t hesitate to cuff him! For all we know, the vandal is still in the building.” Papers ruffled and shoes clacked as the squad scrambled to follow orders. “Oh, and just in case any of you have forgotten why we’re going to all this trouble, I want to see every one of you present for Les Harper’s funeral. Keep your distance, as the family has requested for privacy. If you see anyone or anything suspicious, report it immediately.”

“Of course, Officer.” Temaru bowed before leading the squad out. Skunk and Officer Russ

Farland followed suit. Skunk made sure to keep behind the group. He wasn’t in the mood for

conversation. Funerals did that to him―they made him distant. Skunk often wondered how it was he

never became a recluse. After the heinous circumstances surrounding his parents’ deaths it was a

wonder he remained sane. Unless he hadn’t…

“We’ll wait until after the funeral ceremony to question the undertakers,” Officer Russ Farland

said. The Officer must have waited for him to catch up. Skunk said nothing. He just nodded and placed his hands in his pockets. When he felt the weight of the canister in his fingertips, a sinking sensation flooded his gut.

He should have been proud of his accomplishment. He successfully altered the chemical

composition of his spray, rendering it nonexplosive while increasing the potency of its smell. Instead, all he felt was guilt. His motivation behind the cocktail’s origination was pure criminal. So many years had passed since his father’s death, and so many more since his mother’s murder. But the pain never left Skunk. Not even revenge could satisfy the sorrowful anger he felt. The bitter emotions would swamp through his veins like oil, consuming his heart so it beat five times as fast. His brain would become a thundercloud soaked in inky gloom. Suddenly nothing would matter except the beast-like animosity

crawling beneath his skin, threatening to break free.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Mayor?” Officer Russ Farland asked. Skunk gave the officer a

haphazard smile. He stared at the frosted pavement for a moment before making eye contact.

“Have you ever felt as though you're bursting at the seams?” Skunk wanted to take back the

words as soon as they left his mouth. Officer Russ Farland snorted with laughter.

“All the time!” he exclaimed, patting his ample gut. Embarrassed, Skunk slid into his car. He had

never been very good at explaining his emotions. “Feeling a little gassy are we Mr. Mayor?” Officer Russ Farland chuckled. “A little bloated, perhaps?”

“No. No. I assure you, I am not. Bad choice of words, Officer. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to

prepare for a funeral.” Skunk drove off, leaving Officer Russ Farland laughing and choking in the stream of exhaust fumes.

***

“What the hell happened to you!” Jaune’s concern did not flatter Terence. She gasped upon

seeing his broken nose and split cheekbone. As Terence preferred not to revisit the painful encounter with Carina, he told Jaune to talk to Ash for an explanation.

“Wait! Terry!” Jaune clasped Terence’s hand as he pressed by her. Terence tore himself from

her grasp just as the grim visions were beginning to take shape. He heard the sound of an ECG beep

along with the zip of a plastic bag before he broke contact with her. Thankfully, he never got a chance to decipher the glowing numbers.

“What?!” he demanded, a little more forcefully than intended. He could feel the perspiration

gnawing at his palm. Jaune apologized before responding. She often forgot about his ‘germaphobia.’

“You really shouldn’t see Les Harper’s family looking like that. You look like a mob victim!”

Terence unraveled the scarf from his neck. He hadn’t even got a chance to take his coat off and already he was being bombarded by the woman. A cool waft of air nipped Terence from behind as both Ash and

Miss Fairweather made their way through the door.

“It’s chilly out there!” Ash declared, his face pink and cheery. “Nice nose, Terence.” Ash winked

cryptically at him before climbing up the stairs. Jaune lifted an eyebrow after him and pursued closely behind. Evidently she was more interested in poking her nose where it didn’t belong than doing her job.

Terence would keep this in mind when it came time to write her performance review sheet.

“Come with me, Miss Fairweather. I think I hear Les Harper calling for us,” Terence said. He

swooped his long black coat over a nearby chair, making it appear as though it was gobbled by an

oversized bat.

Terence wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale coffee. He winced. It hurt to wrinkle his nose.

Fingerprints laced the glass covers on the wooden table tops along with coffee crop circles.

“Where are those damn assistants when I need them,” he grumbled to himself. He approached

Les Harper’s casket and was pleased to see him looking just as he had the day before. A number of his paintings were set up on a small table beside him: one of his ancient mother and another of his even more ancient grandmother. Les Harper’s mother requested her son be dressed in the suit he wore to

her third wedding. In lieu of a collared shirt, Les Harper adorned his iconic stripes beneath the blazer.

Terence was mentally congratulating himself on a job well done, when a maggot exited Les

Harper’s nostril and squirmed beneath his lapel. Terence gasped and took Miss Fairweather by the

shoulder.

“Did you see that?” he asked. Miss Fairweather’s fair skin flushed crimson.

“See what? I didn’t see anything,” she answered. Terence fixed his eyes on the dead man.

Perhaps he only imagined the worm. Or perhaps Miss Fairweather was lying.

“Did you choose the chemicals for this case, Miss Fairweather?” The blonde girl shook her head

defensively.

“No. You did. You never let me select the chemicals,” she moped.

“What percentage of formaldehyde was in the solution?” Terence pressed further.

“Five percent,” she responded. Terence uttered a sigh of relief. He could feel his heart fluttering like an anxious butterfly. Les Harper had been dead for seven days. Judging by the fragility of his skin, Terence guessed he was submerged under water for at least a day. If anything could accelerate the rate of decomposition, it was moisture. Along with the thirty-two ounces of cavity fluid and precautionary bottles of Dispray, Les Harper should have been well preserved.

“Did you see any flies in the prep room during the time we spent embalming this man?” Terence

knelt so that he could look his intern square in the face. Her eyes went immediately to his bruised and crooked nose.

“Uh,no.” The girl must have thought he was tripping.

“Good. I’m just hallucinating.” Terence returned to his full height. “Do me a favor and clean this

place up. Or am I hallucinating this mess?” Miss Fairweather shook her head. “Excellent. In the event that you do see a maggot, squish the damn thing before it inevitably has little wormy babies.

Understood?” Miss Fairweather nodded. “If you need me, don’t.” Terence turned on his heels, his thin legs carrying him out in long stork-like strides. Poor Miss Fairweather was left confounded and in the company of death.

Terence snatched his coat before exiting the funeral home and flung it over his shoulders. The

black vehicles were like stallions lined up and glinting in the sunlight. A pair of purple lights topped the lead car, which Terence would be driving in procession to the Belleville Cemetery. Paul stepped out of the hearse and saluted when he saw Terence.

“Morning, Boss!” he called. Terence swallowed hard. There was a ball welling in his throat. The

name Alabaster Bloom echoed in his skull. The last time Terence questioned Paul about the missing

body of Alabaster Bloom, Paul fell asleep. Terence couldn’t believe he’d never noticed the man’s

narcoleptic behavior. A man with a tendency to fall asleep spontaneously shouldn’t be driving.

“I need to talk to you, Paul,” Terence said. Paul nodded and followed Terence through the door

to the garage. The floors were wet―a product of freshly washed funeral vehicles. A musty odor floated up from the drain. Terence cleared his throat, uncertain of how to phrase his concerns to Paul.

“What’s up?” Paul asked, his hands slung in his suit pockets. “Am I in trouble or something?”

“No.” Terence rubbed his forehead. “It’s about Alabaster Bloom.”

“The dead guy? What about him?”

Terence lowered his voice and peered behind him to ensure no one was listening in, “I don’t

remember his body.” Paul fingered the wrinkles on his forehead and gazed at a boot print on the dusty floor.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Boss. He was a wrinkly old brute with no hair―”

“The mayor of Belleville has his medical certificate of death,” Terence declared. He sucked in his cheeks and crossed his mantis-like arms. “Explain that to me.”

Paul looked up from the boot print. “I can’t,” he said. Terence felt his chest tighten. Paul was

messing with him. Somebody was trying to make Terence look bad, and Paul was in on it. A flood of

paranoid energy consumed Terence and before he knew it, he had Paul squirming in his grasp.

“I know what you’re doing, Paul. Somebody in this funeral home wants me out and you struck a

deal with them.” Terence’s accusation cut through the dank air like a knife.

“Boss, please! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Paul squealed.

“There never was a man named Alabaster Bloom!” Terence shouted. “You created him, made up

a fraudulent document and paid a homeless man to play doctor!” Paul looked genuinely shaken. Pinned against a wall and breathing haggardly under Terence’s choking grasp, he shook his head.

“You’re hurting me, Boss!”Paul exclaimed. Terence dropped the man. He felt like he was being

torn apart from the inside out. His head swarmed with images. A shriveled face. A glinting scalpel. Eyes wide open. Horror. Shock. Blood.

“Terry!” Terence felt a hand yank him from his recurring nightmare: the man he embalmed

alive. Jaune looked from Paul to Terence, her dark eyes welling with concern. Paul dusted himself off and darted into the funeral home like a startled cat. Terence wheezed. A layer of clammy sweat coated his forehead. He was unspeakably dizzy.

“I need to sit down,” he said, wavering slightly. Jaune took him forcibly by the arm and dragged

him upstairs to the lounge where she plunked him into a chair. Terence had to hand it to the woman, she was surprisingly strong.

Terence heaved a dilapidated sigh and buried his face in his hands. Jaune lingered next to him.

She wouldn’t leave until he provided her with an explanation.

“I suspect Paul and someone else are working to push me out of Bob’s chair,” Terence told her.

She licked her plump lips, hiked up her skirt and took a seat at the table.

“Terry,” she said, raking her long nails affectionately down his arm, “no one is trying to get rid of you. You’re overworked. You’ve taken one day off since Bob’s passing―and only because I made you.

Do yourself a favor and take a few days off before you make yourself sick.” Before leaving, she added,

“You look like hell.”

Terence felt like hell. He had no idea who he could trust anymore. What if Jaune was the one

scheming and ordering Paul around behind his back? What if it was Wilson?

“Terence, your family is here,” Ash announced. He stood at the entrance of the lounge. Terence

flushed his thoughts aside and went with Ash to greet Les Harper’s family.

Les Harper’s mother was a bent-over haggard woman with drooping sad features. Her hair seemed to be a cross between white and a brownish-yellow. Her husband was a toothless fellow with a lazy eye. When they stuck their tobacco stained hands out for Terence to shake, he winced and rubbed his knuckles.

“You’ll have to pardon me. I’d shake your hands, but the arthritis in my fingers causes me a

great amount of pain this time of year,” he lied. The couple nodded in understanding and bundled their other children under their arms. They then trudged grimly into the visitation room to see their beloved Les Harper for the last time.

Chapter 14: The Funeral

The cue cards were stained with the dew of Skunk’s nervous hands. His wife immediately

offered to drive when she saw the quivering state of his fingers.

“You’re going to do just fine, Skunkie,” she reassured him. Her words didn’t comfort Skunk any,

but her presence did hamper the perspiration to his palms. Thus was the reason he’d stopped on his

way to the funeral to pick her up: moral support.

“I thought this was suppose to be a private funeral,” Skunk said when he saw the network of

cars surrounding the funeral home.

“Belleville is a small town, Dear. People don’t know the meaning of private.” Mink’s statement

made Skunk chuckle.

“Whatever would I do without you,” he responded.

The benevolent curly-haired man from the visitation politely greeted the two of them and

ushered them to the chapel, where they sat in a wooden pew reserved for speakers. The sound of a

recorded harp strummed beneath the chatter and shuffling. Skunk focused on the music and tried to

relax. He had to diffuse the flashing memories of death and concentrate on the words he would speak to comfort Les Harper’s family.

Just as he was beginning to feel the melody of the harp penetrate his mind, the music cut out,

the crowd hushed, and silence consumed the chapel. The wooden pews creaked as peopled turned to

watch the procession of Les Harper’ss family following his ornate casket. Like a mast at the front of a pirate ship, Terence stood at the front of the casket. His eery figure seemed to float over it like a dark spirit. His electric blue eyes shocking everyone stiff in their seats. The man was so like Skunk’s

father―eyes devoid of emotion and absent of any human presence. He was like a shark swimming

through blood and enjoying every minute of it. Skunk felt ill in his presence.

***

Terence felt ill. As he dropped his head to bow before Les Harper’s casket, his stomach dropped

too. Miss Fairweather, who had been pushing the casket from behind, exited in step with him down the middle of the pews to the door. Terence felt every stray eye comb him over from head to toe. The stares were insufferable. They were like the prick of a dozen mosquitoes swarming his body. Resisting the urge to claw at his skin, he hid himself away in a corner at the back of the chapel while Miss Fairweather closed the chapel doors. He would stay to watch over the mourners and ensure the service went as

planned.

Voices broke with emotion as countless eulogies were delivered. One man, Les Harper’s brother, spoke with the constant interruption of his own sobs. After the deflated man was dragged from the

podium, the mayor stood to speak.

“The artist was lost the moment his paintings were,” the mayor began. Small and rather shaky,

he appeared uncomfortable behind the microphone. His nerves, however, seemed to have no effect on

the quality of his speech. “His talent brought our community together, and for that, we will truly miss him.” The velvety words smoothed the hearts of the audience. They sat with their hands to their chests dabbing their eyes and sighing contently. Terence was untouched. From what he’d gathered, Les Harper cared more for his reputation as an artist than his community. Terence knew the man would take his

own life. He saw it when he shook Les Harper’s hand. The artist cared desperately about what others thought of his work. Terence had told him not to care so much―not to put so much pressure on himself.

But in the end, none of it mattered. Death was unavoidable.

A draft emanated from the seam of the chapel doors. Terence shivered and rubbed his hands

together. The mayor made eye contact with him briefly before taking his seat. It was almost as if he blamed Terence for Les Harper’s suicide. Grieving people were always looking for someone to blame.

More often than not, that person was Terence.

The congregation stood then for a singing of ‘Going Home.’ Terence sounded the music and

watched as its soothing melody entranced the crowd. No one noticed the bloated speck tumble from

under the lid of Les Harper’s casket.

“Going home, going home,

I’m just going home..”

They sang in blissful ignorance as the maggots spilled to the carpet. Terence choked on his own

breath. The worms writhed over each other like a slimy tumbleweed.

“Quiet- like, slip away-

I’m just going home…”

Why did no one notice? The disgusting creatures piled closer and closer to Terence. He was cold

and sweating. Tremors wracked his body like an earthquake.

“Work all done, laid aside,

Fear and grief no more…”

The song faded in Terence’s ears. People moved their lips, but no sound could be heard. Then

the people were gone altogether―replaced by wisps of colour. The larvae mounted his body, entering his nose and mouth. Terence was so cold he was paralyzed. Visions congested his head. Submerged in

an icy torrent, he felt his lungs ache with the insects as he fought for air. He saw himself float atop an inky blanket, his skin like a fish belly, cold and blue. An indescribably horrid stench felt as though it was

liquefying his brains. The smell made him vomit. Bits of maggots bubbled in his bile. He was dead. The numbers blinded him with their horrifying brilliance. He had two weeks left…

“Terence? Can you hear me?” Faces floated over him. “I think he’s just had a seizure. Someone

call for an ambulance!” The voice was distinctly Jaune’s. Terence propped himself upwards.

“Forget the ambulance, call a fumigator!” he gasped. He gagged slightly upon tasting the

remnants of vomit in his mouth. With Jaune’s support, he stood unsteadily. “Didn’t you see them?!” he asked.

“See what?” Jaune eyed Terence curiously.

“The maggots!” he exclaimed. Jaune appeared startled.

“Maggots?” She shook her head, her hair following the movement. “You collapsed through

those chapel doors, barfed your guts out and then started seizing like an epileptic! You’re lucky I was here to stand in front of you so no one saw.” She took Terence by the arm, steering him to the first chair in sight. His feet felt like they were made of lead and his head felt even heavier.

“Sit here. I’ll get you some water,” she said. As soon as she disappeared up the stairs, Terence

slouched in the chair and cascaded his head into his palms. Twice he’d foreseen his own death. Maybe he was just insane. Maybe his visions were just hallucinations. Jaune returned with a tall glass of water in hand. The bags under her eyes seemed to bulge with concern.

“Terry,” she said, tenderly, “you need to see a doctor.” Terence sipped the water slowly. Part

of him wanted the visions to be nothing more than his own imagination―but in order for him to know

for sure, he would have to consult a psychiatrist.

“Bob never took a break,” Jaune went on. “ I told him to slow down and he died! I can’t lose you

too, Terry. Take the rest of the day off and next week while you’re at it!”

Terence agreed. There was no point in arguing with the woman. Terence had a desperate need

to tell someone―anyone―the truth about his condition. Perhaps there was a logical medical

explanation for his visions. If it was as he feared and the vision was like all the others he’d experienced, no amount of medical expertise could save him. He’d be dead on a slab in a matter of weeks.

Chapter 15: More Than a Ghost Story

Skunk couldn’t find his wife anywhere. She was with him, her palm warm on his thigh

throughout the duration of the service. Then, when everyone came streaming out after the casket, she was gobbled up by the crowd, lost in the sea of tears and anguish. Skunk called her name. He tapped the shoulders of strangers, inquiring if they’d seen his wife. It was as though she’d vanished―disintigrated before his eyes. Skunk rode alone to the cemetery, praying Mink was with a friend. She was no where to be seen at the graveside. Without her hand in his, Skunk could barely stand watching Les Harper’s casket disappear into its grave. What was worse, she wasn’t answering her cell phone. After the ceremony,

Skunk called her more times than he could count on his fingers. Mink was gone.

Skunk felt like there was a scream trapped in his chest. His bed seemed far too large without her

lying next to him, and the sheets were cold. He had nightmares every night, and when he looked in the mirror, he could see the result of his restlessness shadowed beneath his eyes. No matter how much

coffee he drank during the day, he never felt truly awake.

“I hear Terence is a fairly well known artist in St. Louis du HA! HA!,” Officer Russ Farland said.

Sitting across from him in the white paneled interrogation room, was the curly-haired man, Ash Wilson, from Amigone Funeral Home.

“Yes, he’s quite talented,” Ash confirmed. Evidently the man had come straight from the funeral

home as he was dressed immaculately in a black suit and tie.

Officer Russ Farland twitched his mustache, “But not as talented as Les Harper?”

Ash laughed nervously in response to the question and licked his lips before answering, “Are you

suggesting that Terence is behind the vandalism of Les Harper’s art?” Officer Russ Farland nodded, his multiple chins folding like wet taffy.

Ash vouched incessantly for Terence’s innocence. He was a well-trained dog obeying his master.

Skunk watched the interrogation from the corner of the room, his arms crossed. He felt like a

ghost―like an unacknowledged presence haunting the atmosphere. After the disappearance of his wife, he certainly felt transparent. Nothing seemed to matter except finding Mink and persecuting whoever was responsible for the vandalisms as well as her kidnapping. Skunk knew the vandal and the kidnapper were the some how linked. Every ounce of his gut told him so.

“Is Terence a womanizer?” Skunk jumped into the line of questioning. He suddenly remembered

what Mr. Verdin had said about Terence’s exotic woman. A jolt of fear made Skunk’s insides squirm.

What if Terence was with Mink right now? Skunk could see the man’s eyes hounding her, sizing her up the way a hunter stalks its prey.

Ash looked like he’d been slapped.

“Does he abuse women?!” Skunk shouted, pounding his fists on the table.

“No!” Ash shook his head adamantly, his curls bouncing in all directions. “He never talks about

women or relationships.”

“I don’t believe you!” Skunk screamed. “Your coworker, Mr. Verdin, told us all about Terence’s

exotic woman and the naughty things he does to her. What did he mean by that, Mr. Wilson?”

The man erupted into laughter.

“You find this funny, son?!” Officer Russ Farland hollered. Ash sniffed and wiped a tear from the

corner of his eye.

“That ‘exotic woman’ was Terence’s sphinx cat,” he explained.

“Are you telling me Terence is having intimate relations with his cat?!” Skunk had never seen

Officer Russ Farland so revolted before. His mustache was scowled into the shape of a sagging umbrella beneath his lip.

“I don’t think that’s what Mr. Wilson is suggesting at all, Officer.” Skunk placed a hand on the

officer’s mammoth shoulder to calm him down. He whispered, “Get a warrant to search Terence’s

house.” The officer nodded.

Turning his piggy eyes toward Ash he said, “Ok, we’re done here. You can scram now.”

Ash sighed and stroked his forehead. He suddenly looked exhausted under the interrogation

room lights. Skunk remembered how exhausted Terence had looked―eyes brimmed like those of a

raccoon.

“You work long hours, don’t you?” Skunk asked.

“Yes.” Ash smiled weakly.

“Late visitations?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Skunk couldn’t believe what he was about to ask. The Tale of the Three Morticians was

obviously a silly ghost story. Skunk was desperate for even considering Rachelle’s mad theory. If a handshake could bring about visions of death to Skunk, it would certainly be enough to make him

crazy―crazy enough to vandalize a town and certainly crazy enough to kidnap a woman.

“Does Terence have a problem with shaking hands?” The question made Ash pause strangely by

the door.

“Yes, actually.” The man’s eyes ogled Skunk curiously. “He’s a germaphobic.”

Skunk’s mouth went dry. He’d never heard of a funeral director being afraid of germs. He’d never heard of a funeral director who could foresee a person’s death either. Germaphobia was a far

more plausible explanation for avoiding a handshake. Maybe that’s what Terence wanted people to

think…

“Can I go now?” Ash stood by the door, his arms crossed.

“Is Terence well?” Skunk was grasping. He may as well just ask ‘Does your employer have

supernatural abilities that are making him crazy?’

“No,” Ash answered. “Terence has been under a lot of stress lately.” Skunk hummed

inquisitively.

“You can go now,” he said.

***

The waiting room smelled of popery. The mauve colour scheme of the room reminded Terence

more of a recently renovated bathroom than a waiting room. The perimeter was lined with chairs―all of which were uncomfortable for a man of Terence’s stature.

“Mommy, is that a giant?” A toothless little boy gawked at Terence from across the room.

Behind a magazine, the mother chastised her son with strained whispers. The other patients ruffled

their newspapers and cleared their throats awkwardly, as if the boy hadn’t just articulated each of their thoughts. Terence hated the way people looked at him. For a frighteningly tall man, he often felt small.

His face burned behind the newspaper print. He felt so overwrought with anxiety, he was barely

even cognizant of the words in front of him. It was as though the obituaries in the paper were written in another language. None of the names rang a bell to Terence, nor were any of the services to be held at Amigone Funeral Home. Except…

Cecil Bartholomew. Terence swallowed hard. It was the alcoholic who claimed to be a pianist.

The man had shaken Terence’s hand. Now he was dead. Heart failure. Terence had witnessed every

excruciating detail. The man died in his bathroom. Often times heart failure made a person feel

nauseous. Now Terence was the one who felt nauseous.

“Terence Coon.” A receptionist called his name. Terence followed her down a narrow white

hallway to an empty examination room.

“Mr. Pickler will see you soon,” she said. Terence nodded. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his

forehead and discarded his coat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his doctor. Murphy

Pickler. The name reminded Terence of a boy he once knew from school. The boy had smelled of vinegar and picked his nose.

The doctor entered the room. He wore a black turtle neck and was slimmer than Terence

remembered. His features were also smoother and more defined. The colour of his skin was similar to

the colour of Terence’s breakfast tea. Mr.Pickler greeted Terence pleasantly, all the while examining a folder full of paperwork. When he looked up from his file, he eyed Terence with an air of pity. Though Terence wasn’t entirely sure it was pity. The man’s eyes were black and glimmered enigmatically. He sat in front of a computer screen, his eyes still on Terence. It was almost as if he was expecting Terence to confess his secret.

“What can I do for you today?” Mr. Pickler asked. There was a sly monotony about his voice that

sent shivers down Terence’s spine. This wasn’t the Murphy Pickler Terence remembered. Terence took

his time responding to the man. He picked a piece of lint from his sweater, pretended to admire a

picture of a baby dressed as a cabbage…

“Is something troubling you, Mr. Coon?” Now the man was grinning. It was all but benevolent.

Terence swallowed hard, “You’re not my doctor.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. His eyes remained neutral. “Then who am I?”

Terence scrutinized the man’s features. There was an air of familiarity about his long face and

dark, thin lips. He’d seen another man with a long face―hollow and withered like a walnut.

“Oh, God!” Terence gasped. It was Alabaster Bloom. His guts writhed like a ball of snakes as the

memories ripped through his brain.

***

He was on call. He’d barely been home when his phone went off.

“My Father’s just passed away.” It was the voice of a young woman. Trisha Sparks. She was her father’s executor who lived in a cottage house on the cusp of the Glass Lake. Her father had been under hospice care for a number of years and was finally at rest.

“Do we have your permission to transfer your father and is he in excess of three hundred

pounds?” Terence wasn’t one for softening his phraseology. Fortunately Mr. Bloom had been suffering from cachexia and was severely underweight. He was also, thank God, on the first floor of the house.

The Amigone policy dictated that two staff members must go to complete a house call. Terence

scrawled Mr. Bloom’s address on a coffee stained scrap of paper, called Paul, and off they went to

complete the transfer.

Terence remembered Trisha. She was unusually tactful, considering the fact that she’d just

watched her father die. What surprised Terence the most was her lack of reaction. Terence was an

unusual looking person―a trait which most people were quick to acknowledge. His demeanor and

speech was all but gentle.

“Did the doctor sign the medical?” Terence had asked, his hand outstretched to accept the

document. Trisha had the paper in his hand before he’d even finished the inquiry. He handed off the

paper to Paul for safe keeping and then asked if he could embalm her father. Trisha took a moment to think about her response and then nodded almost eagerly.

“I like her,” Terence had said to Paul while loading the stretcher into the transfer van. Paul had then made an inappropriate sexual comment which prompted a quick ‘shut-up and get in the van,’ from Terence.

In the prep room, Terence was more than pleased with his pre examination of Mr. Bloom’s

body. He was freshly dead, meaning his skin was still warm to the touch. No smell. Very little livor mortis was present, and the rigor had barely even set in. The body would practically embalm itself. Best of all, his staff had all gone home and would not be present to disrupt him. Terence was the only live one in the funeral home…or so he thought.

The man’s skin was thicker than Terence anticipated. Most elderly bodies had skin like tissue

paper. Using the clavicle as a cutting board, Terence made an incision at the base of the neck. He swore when the blood spilled out, black and hot. He turned his back to retrieve a wad of prep towel to soak up the chasm of blood occluding his sight of the artery. When Terence returned to face the body, he found the man upright and choking. His eyes were like saucers as he gaped at the angry wound coating him in his own blood. Dark eyes blazing with terror, and lips parched from his grating breath, the man spotted Terence. Shocked, Terence fainted, concussing himself on the linoleum floor.

***

“You faked your own death and paid some bum on the street to falsify your paperwork!”

Terence exclaimed. The words were hard to pronounce, as he felt strangled with fury. “Who paid you to do this to me?!” He demanded. He’d stood up without realizing it. His hands were balled so tight he could feel his fingernails cutting into his palms. “The mayor of Belleville suspects me of vandalizing his town because of that medical certificate you planted.”

Mr. Bloom―or whoever he was―crossed his legs nonchalantly and scratched at his neck.

“These stitches are horribly itchy,” he stated. His silent chuckle infuriated Terence even more.

“You son of bitch―” A sensation of lightheadedness overcame Terence. He steadied himself on

the corner of the examination table to stop from falling over.

“No one is out to get you, Terence,” The man stated simply. “We’re both lucky to have survived

that night.”

Terence eased himself back into the chair.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You and Paul are working together. You’re working for someone

who wants to make me look insane.”

“I don’t think you need any help looking insane.” The doctor yawned, as if Terence’s display of

paranoid rage was boring him.

“Shut-up!”

“I’m serious. You have an illness in your mind, whispering false postulations.” Terence sighed.

The enigmatic doctor wasn’t the first to have suggested his delusion.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Murry. Put simply, I’m a detective.”

“What the hell did you do with my real doctor?”

“He’s on a vacation of sorts.”

Terence wanted to throw this so-called Murry out the window. His vague explanations and

overly calm demeanor suggested he was an impulsive liar―and a manipulative one at that. He was

probably a psychopath.

“Why don’t you go take a vacation to hell?!” Terence snapped. This entire escapade had to be

Jaune’s doing. She was the one who suggested he see a doctor. Not only that, she hadn’t supported a single decision he’d made since becoming the operator of Amigone Funeral Home.

Murry grinned and pressed his hands together. He reminded Terence of a suave villain―the sort

of character you’d see in a graphic novel.

“I know who’s behind the vandalisms in Belleville.”

Terence sniffed, unimpressed. “Then why haven’t you told anybody?”

“Because you have something I want.”

“You can’t have my cat.”

“I was referring to your gift.”

Terence felt his heart flutter in panic. How did Murry know about his ability?

“It’s a curse,” Terence rasped, his throat had gone dry.

“Every gift is a curse in itself. It just depends on your perspective.”

Jaw clenched, Terence grabbed his coat. He was sick and tired of this man’s game.

“There’s a date and address written on the back of the business card in your jacket pocket. If

you want to rid yourself of your curse, and not be suspected for the vandalisms of Belleville, I suggest you show up.”

Terence paused―his nose inches away from the door.

“The only thing I’ll be showing you is my middle finger,” he retorted.

Chapter 16: Not A Germaphobic

There was a man perched on Terence’s front steps. He was but a silhouette beneath the shade

of Terence’s overhanging roof. Illuminated by the stream of light coming from the car’s headlights, Ash squinted and waved. Terence huffed and slammed the car door on his way out. He just wanted to be

alone. He needed to think. He needed to process everything that occurred.

“Get lost, Wilson!” Terence barked.

“I need to talk to you,” Ash said. Terence pushed passed him.

“Why didn’t you just call me?”

“Because you only answer your phone when you’re on call.”

The chill of the evening was red in Ash’s cheeks. He’d clearly been waiting for some time.

Terence sighed until his lungs were empty.

“Have you come to discuss your pathetic relationship with your abusive girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Then come in.”

The two of them sat in Terence’s kitchen, where everything was jarred and the refrigerator

made the most alarming noises. Due to Terence’s height, the only choice for a seat was a chair stool.

Ash was of average height and was forced to climb the chair simply to seat himself.

“Coffee?” Terence took a mug out of a cupboard.

“No thanks. The caffeine will keep me up all night,” Ash said, smiling.

“Good, because we’re not drinking coffee.” The sound of ceramic clinking on ceramic could be

heard as Terence displaced several mugs to reveal a dusty flask filled with an amber coloured drink.

“Is that whiskey?” Ash asked, his voice was high with surprise.

“I have no idea,” Terence responded. “When I moved in here years ago, an old man down the

road gave me this as a gift. I told him I didn’t drink, but he insisted I take it.”

“And you’re just deciding to drink this now?” Terence nodded. He took up a dishtowel and

began polishing the layers of dust from the glass.

Anubis leapt onto the counter just then. The sudden apparition of her alien like appearance

startled Ash so much so that he almost fell from his stool. His jumpiness made Terence laugh―a sound similar to that of an old church bell.

“Stop flirting, Anubis!” Terence called. The cat blinked. Her eyes were like two massive golden coins. Before Ash knew it, the cat was replaced with a mug of liquor.

“You go first,” Terence said, his naked cat cradled in his arms. “I want to know if it’s poisoned.”

“Terence, I didn’t come here to drink―”

“Damn it, Wilson! If you won’t drink what I offer you then you can get the hell out of my house!”

His voice boomed so loudly it caused the wooden shelves to quake. The glass jars tinkled, threatening to tumble from the shelves and burst into a million sparkling shards. Ash obediently took a swig. The scent of the liquor reached his nose before the taste hit his tongue. It smelled of sawdust―or was it cereal? It was thick and hot in his mouth and burned like a creamy sort of fire in the base of his throat.

“Yup,” Ash croaked, smacking his lips, “that’s whiskey alright.”

“Pass the mug over to me,” Terence demanded. His bushy-haired employee’s flabbergasted

expression was priceless as Terence downed the rest of the malt. The thick solution prickled as it went down his throat, causing Terence to choke. His eyes and nose watered.

“It’s like drinking formaldehyde,” he sniffed. “I like it.” Ash looked at Terence as though he was meeting him for the first time.

“You just drank from the same cup as me,” he gaped. “My lips were on that cup. My saliva was

on that cup!”

“I guess we just made out indirectly,” Terence rasped, filling the cup once more.

“Terence, I thought you were a germaphobic.”

“Why are you here, Wilson?” Terence blared. Ash was starting to get on his nerves.

“The mayor of Belleville’s wife is missing. No one has seen her since Les Harper’s funeral. He

thinks you’re responsible. He was asking me if you abuse women, and if you were jealous enough of Les Harper’s work to vandalize it.”

“What?!” Terence spluttered on his draught of whiskey. It was just as Murry had said. The police

suspected him of committing crimes he didn’t do. Unless he voluntarily showed up at some mysterious location to somehow donate his ‘gift,’ Terence could be arrested.

“Shit,” he swore. He pinched his eyes together and took a seat next to Ash. The whiskey was

making his head feel funny. “Go bring me my coat,” he said to Ash. His eyelids were heavy. With the light of the dying sun shining behind him, he looked old. Without asking any questions, Ash retrieved the coat. Terence reached into the pocket and unfurled a crumpled business card. On its back was a boldly written address, along with a date. It was written all in capital letters. A paramount piece of information.

Terence could feel the question welling inside his coworker. It made the air feel heavy.

Ash finally burst, “What’s going on?!” he demanded. Terence barely knew where to begin his explanation.

“I’m not a germaphobic,” he said. He finished another cup of whiskey. Daggers in his mouth. He

knew if he drank anymore, he’d either pass out or vomit. Ash waited on Terence intently. His face

demanded that he continue his confession.

“The man who gave me this flask died only months after I moved in. Lung cancer. He hadn’t

smoked a day in his life. I still remember the wail of the ambulance. He rode in that vehicle thinking how unfair it was that he was dying. Suffocating as his lungs turned to cheese cloth in his chest. He hadn’t even known he was dying, until it was too late. I remember the smell of the hospital sheets, sweet with perspiration. I remember how ragged and panicked his last breath was. His eyes pooled because his

death would be sudden and most upsetting to those he loved. The life left his body like a bird fleeing loud noise―quick and jolting. He was dead. April seventh two thousand five.”

He looked up from the daunting script on the card. His aquiline face was a kaleidoscope of

shadow. “I was out of town when he died,” Terence said. “Yet I witnessed every detail of his agony. All because he welcomed me to his neighborhood with a handshake and a flask of his best liquor.”

Ash said nothing. He merely reached over and took the glass of whiskey, along with the mug,

from Terence’s guard. He took a shot and then glared at Terence incredulously.

“You can predict when someone is going to die simply by shaking their hand?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’ve had too much whiskey.”

“I’m not making this up.” He stood. His height was so grotesque. He was like a gargoyle with his

shoulders pressed forward and his stomach caved in. He looked so fragile as he delicately made his way to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of water.

“I can prove it to you,” he said, his voice softened from the water. “Mr. Bartholomew’s body is

currently residing in the prep room of Amigone Funeral Home, yes?”

“Yeah, so?” Ash shrugged.

“Have you seen the condition of his body?”

“Yes.”

“So have I. I saw when I shook his hand.” Terence leaned so close to Ash he could smell his

cologne. “He died of heart failure. You found him sprawled on the floor of his bathroom, blood caked in the tiles of the floor. He hit his head on the toilet as he fell. There’s a large gash on his forehead. He died Novemeber the second, yesterday. Am I right?” Ash blinked in astonishment.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

Chapter 17: The Search For Terence

Two days without Mink seemed like an eternity to Skunk. He’d barely eaten. He hadn’t shaved.

What was the point? He couldn’t let another woman he loved disappear.

“Play the tape again,” Skunk requested. The light from the computer monitor cast a ghoulish

glow on the surrounding walls. The Belleville library was a happening place. With the elegant fountain outside and the café inside, it seemed like a logical place for a security camera. People were always in and out. Snapping pictures of the building―which, historically, was once a jail cell. Skunk grew more and more embittered as his attempts to protect Belleville were continually thwarted.

“Right there.” Pollock, Skunk’s most burly guard, pointed his massive finger at a blurry speck on

the screen. “That man enters the library an hour before closing and never comes out.”

“Are you certain of this?” Skunk asked.

“Absolutely,” Pollock answered. “Ninny and I skimmed over these tapes at least a dozen times

after the service. We stayed up the whole night. I think we must have drank through four pots of

coffee!”

So that’s where all the coffee had gone.

“Anything you can tell me about him?”

“Not a lot. His picture isn’t very clear on the tape. What we can tell is that he’s a Caucasian male with blonde hair and was wearing a black leather jacket, flip flops and sunglasses.”

“Flip flops and sunglasses?”

“Yeah, I know. In October. That’s the only way Ninny and I could pick him out of the crowd.”

“Did you ask anyone if they’d seen him?”

“Temaru asked around. A librarian named Macy said she saw him head toward the self help

section on the second floor.” Pollock crossed his arms. They were so thick they were like tree trunks.

“What do you want us to do now, Mr. Mayor?”

Skunk stroked his chin. His developing stubble felt like sandpaper. His new police squad had

searched the interior of the library after the incident and found no sign of a man adorned in sunglasses and flip flops. How could he have vanished overnight? Did he escape through the open window they

found? If so, how did he manage it from such a height?

“Get the librarians to search all the males who have checked out self help books in the last week

or so,” Skunk ordered. There was a clamor at the door.

“We have a warrant to search the Undertaker’s house, Mr. Mayor.” It was Officer Russ Farland .

This was it. Skunk’s opportunity to find his wife. What if she was injured? Or worse. The worry

made Skunk’s insides feel as if they were melting. He quickly ran from the station to his vehicle, driving close behind Officer Russ Farland ’s cruiser.

With the warrant in hand, Officer Russ Farland motioned for his team to back him at the door of

Terence’s house. The building was both eerie and homey at the same time. The white paint on its

exterior had yellowed over the years and the roof was missing a few shingles. It had a defenseless sort of look―like the look of a begging child. The house was both charming and sad.

The officer began by ringing the doorbell. He pounded his fist on the door when there was no

answer.

“Open up, Undertaker! We have a warrant to search your house!”

A November chill tickled the back of Skunk’s neck. The bushes rustled and the sky was overcast.

Still no answer.

“Maybe he’s not home,” Temaru suggested.

“Or maybe he’s just hiding from the law!” Officer Russ Farland bellowed. He slammed loudly on

the door―loud enough to attract the attention of a few dog-walkers. Skunk shushed him. He thought he heard a noise coming from inside the house. He pressed his ear to the door and listened carefully. It was faint, almost non existent, but it was there―the plea of a beautiful woman bound in strangling cloth.

“She’s in there!” Skunk exclaimed. “I heard her.” The police squad exchanged frantic looks.

“What are you waiting for you bunch of sissies?!” Officer Russ Farland bellowed. “Break the

door down!” The officer, Pollock, and Temaru braced themselves to charge into the door. Before impact, Ninny placed herself in their line of bombardment. The men stopped and watched in awe as she pulled two bobby pins from her updo and casually picked the lock. The door clicked open. Ninny bowed and

waved the squad in.

The interior of Terence’s house was a wooden tundra. It was dark and smelled of a newly

purchased car. A black iron staircase coiled up to a second floor.

“Mink!” Skunk called. “Where are you?” Strangled words emanated from above. She must have

been gagged. Skunk climbed the curling steps―each one clanging coldly beneath the sole of his shoe. He dreaded what he would see at the top. His wife struggling beneath ropes as thick as snakes, one eye bruised and caked in blood and her innocent round face a smattering of brown, yellow, blue and purple.

Skunk blasted through the first door he saw. Canvases were propped in every corner of the room. The wooden floors were stained with dried paint, but not a single drop appeared on any of the canvases.

His wife was handcuffed to the post of Terence’s bed. A sigh ripped through Skunk’s chest. He tore the gag from her mouth and collapsed next to her.

“You look worse than me,” Mink laughed. It was a forced sound―not at all the same cheerful ring it used to be.

The rest of the squad rushed in. Ninny used her lock picking abilities to free Mink from her cuffs.

“You must show me how to do that sometime,” Mink said to her. There was a sadness, almost

longing behind her usual cheery tone. Skunk took her tenderly by her shoulders. He touched her hair.

“Did he―” Skunk hesitated before continuing. “Did he do anything to you?”

Mink shook her head, “No. He was actually very kind.” Her words astounded Skunk. Kind?!

“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Diggory?” Temaru asked politely. Mink answered his question,

but directed her response toward Skunk. She took his hands.

“It’s true, Skunkie. The Tale of the Three Morticians. Terence is cursed.” Skunk pulled away from

her. She couldn’t be serious. “I know it sounds crazy, Dear, but you have to believe me. Terence

kidnapped me for my own good. He saved me.”

Skunk sat down. His head was so full of hysteria he thought he was going to explode. In the few

days she was imprisoned, could his wife―his strong willed, clever wife―develop Stockholm Syndrome?

Mink’s voice was a dull ache in Skunk’s ears. She droned on in a way that was uncharacteristic

of her. Terence knew Mink was going to die. She couldn’t remember when he’d shaken her hand, but he must have. It was the only way he’d have seen her death.

“Where is he now?” Skunk asked. His voice was an angry whisper.

“Rachelle’s,” Mink responded. “Terence is tired of living in anguish from his curse. I told him if

anyone would be able to lift the curse from him it would be her.”

Skunk left the house without another word. Terence had put his wife under some sort of spell.

She was mesmerized by him. Terence wasn’t a hero. He kidnapped Mink. He toyed with her mind. His

wife was a pale silhouette of what she once was. Skunk didn’t know what the man could possibly want with Rachelle. Perhaps he wanted her for his own sick amusement too. Was Terence connected to the

vandal? Skunk didn’t know. What he did know was his own hatred. It burned his insides, turning each organ to stew. He wouldn’t rest until he’d brought Terence to justice. He’d undertake that undertaker if it was the last thing he did.

***

His current location made Terence very uneasy. Wilson’s presence didn’t help any.

“This place is weird,” Wilson said. His hands were draped in the pockets of his beige overcoat.

“What did you expect, Disney World?” Terence croaked.

A gravel path twisted to the entrance of the house from the road. A heavy wind rustled through

the brush on either side of the path. Terence could hear the water on the beaches below crashing

against the rocks. He crossed his arms against the gale and gazed up at the charcoal sky.

“They’re calling for thunderstorms today,” Ash declared.

“They most certainly are,” a voice rang from behind. The two of them turned to see a woman so

heavily shrouded in multi-coloured scarves, she resembled a tie-dyed mummy. “Come,” she beckoned,

“we must get you out of this weather.”

As they approached the house, the sound of wind chimes became clear. The ringing

contraptions were latched onto the tree branches and swayed harmoniously in the wind. The woman

caught Terence staring at them and announced they were her connection to the spirit world.

“If you listen close enough to the chimes, you will begin to hear voices. The voices will guide you and tell you what is to come.” She paused by the entrance of the house. “Only if you let them, that is.”

The house was made of stones, so covered in moss and vines, one could barely distinguish it as a

house. Terence was beginning to regret listening to Murry. The man was probably a bluffing cook who had escaped from an asylum, along with this crazy witch lady. Ash didn’t look too thrilled either. The man was an idiot for wasting his one day off to accompany Terence.

The interior of the house was more bizarre than the exterior. Beaded curtains replaced doors

and every piece of furniture was disguised in an array of intricately embroidered drapes. Curled on a ratty, silk pillow, was a one-eyed cat. Terence took a seat next to the scruffy creature. The sofa cushions felt as though they were filled with a gelatinous substance. Terence sank into them and felt as though he would never escape the plush prison.

“What, may I ask, brings you both here today?” Rachelle asked. As if she didn’t know. She lit a

pot of oil and the smell immediately made Terence’s head swim. Terence shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Beside him, Wilson sat pretty on a wicker chair. Terence wished he had taken the wicker chair.

“A man named Murry sent me here,” Terence said.

“Did he threaten you?”

“Yes.”

Rachelle clucked her tongue, “He covets your gift.”

“He can have it,” Terence scoffed, “I’ll even wrap it in a pretty little bow for him.” The cat next to him yawned and splayed its claws. Terence scratched the feline behind its ear. It began to purr and rub its flat face against Terence’s hand.

“Gypsy likes you,” Rachelle said. Terence snickered. The cat’s name was befitting.

“Okay. There’s one thing I’m not getting here.” Ash leaned forward in his chair.

“What’s that, Dear?”

“From what I’ve heard, it sounds like this Murry guy wants to steal Terence’s ability. How is that

possible? How is it even possible to get rid of a curse? How is it even possible that he’s cursed in the first place?”

Rachelle laughed, “Your questions are my question, Dear. Terence’s curse has been floating

through his family tree for generations. I guess you could say it’s genetic to some degree―like this accursed hooked nose of mine!”

Terence groaned and dragged himself from the sinking cushions. If he sat any longer the sofa

would undoubtedly swallow him whole.

“Well, this has been a giant waste of time,” Terence declared, cracking his back. “Thanks for

nothing and give my regards to Murry. Tell that asshole he can inherit my curse when I die.”

A crack of lightning split the sky in two. Then the rain came. Everything went dark.

“I’m afraid, Dear Mr. Coon, that is the only way he can.”

Chapter 18: Death and Truth

The rain had turned the gravel road into a gritty paste. Skunk’s feet sloshed around in his

shoes―bits of stone stuck between his toes. Through the wall of rain, Skunk could make out Rachelle’s house. It was a stone island surrounded by plant growth. Even in the chill of the storm, Skunk burned.

His skin ached, his eyes watered, and his heart beat madly beneath his ribs.

The chemical in his pocket felt like it was burning through its canister. It was as though it was

begging to be used. The smell proved fatal only once. Skunk was never caught for murdering his father.

The toxin he produced in the lab was unidentifiable after the passing of several hours. It could not be detected in an autopsy. The beatings. The bruises. Skunk tolerated that man until the day he went too far―the day he murdered his mother. The man was asking to be killed. Only Mink knew the truth. Still, she loved him... and now she was brainwashed. Skunk knew what he had to do to Terence. He’d done it before and he would do it again. The world was better without scum like him anyway.

Thunder roared. The sound was like a kitten purring compared to the sound of Skunk’s heart

pounding. The wind was so ferocious it tore the leaves from the trees and plastered them to Skunk’s face. The wind didn’t matter. The rain didn’t matter. His wife mattered. His mother mattered. Anyone who’d ever loved him, mattered.

“I’m going to send that creature back to where he belongs.” Skunk’s thoughts were so

pronounced they seemed to echo in the distance. A black figure swept from the entrance of Rachelle’s house. Terence. He was a smear of ink. A mistake. Skunk started sprinting. His legs moved of their own accord. The creature moved along the side of Rachelle’s property. He seemed to be staring at the sky.

Then he looked down at the water below. The hungry water― licking the rocks and crashing in on itself.

Skunk struck the man without warning. The wind, the rain, and the thunder masked his

footsteps. Terence’s face was as hideously miserable as before. His eyes were as colourless as the veins of electricity in the clouds. They seemed to inspect the inside of his head as his body swayed

precariously over the rocky height. The canister was in Skunk’s hand. His knuckles were white and

wrapped tightly around it. When had he taken it out? He couldn’t remember. Blood trickled from

Terence’s nose. He made a desperate sort of gasping sound before stumbling over the edge. Skunk put a hand to his face and found that his own nose was bleeding. He coughed and hurled the canister into the lake. His chest tightened and he fell to his knees. In his rage, he’d forgotten to protect himself against the effects of his chemical. Tears burned in the pit of his eye as he struggled to breathe. His wife would find him dead in the mud. Terence’s corpse would be a journalist’s dream. Skunk could see the headline: Strange Skeleton On Beach Of Belleville.

Before his passing, Skunk saw another man’s face. It squinted at him smugly.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Mayor. Your wife saved you some wine and cheese.”

***

Drowning hurt. Terence’s body flailed for oxygen. The water froze and burned his lungs, along with that nauseating odour. Terence could taste it, bloody in his throat. Each time he managed to take a breath, he’d gag and swallow more water. He felt as though the waves were tearing the limbs from his body. What had he done to upset the mayor? It didn’t matter. He was dying. Once he was dead, he’d be free of his curse. Terence knew this, but was still afraid. The water flooded his nose, sinuses, and froze his brain. A stillness fell over his body and he became limp in the water. Hands gripped the sides of his abdomen and he was lifted upwards. Perhaps this was his soul ascending. He felt light, as though he was made of nothing.

Indistinct voices spoke. Or was it one voice?

“So you’re dead too now?” Terence didn’t know how to respond. Did he know the voice? “Being dead’s not so bad. Dying sucked though.” Was it…it couldn’t be…

“Les Harper?” Terence was surprised to hear his own voice. How was he able to speak without a

body?

“I was, wasn’t I. To take my own life. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

“Where is here?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. I don’t know. You’re the expert on death. You even saw me die.”

“He saw me die too.” It was Mr. Bartholomew.

“And me. Did you enjoy the whiskey?”

Terence wanted to scream as the voices bombarded him. They all belonged to the people in his

visions. They demanded to know why he hadn’t tried to help them.

“We could be alive right now!” They shouted. Children cried. A woman screamed. Terence was terrified.

“You can’t stop death!” he shrieked. “You can’t!” The voices stopped. Then they whispered

incoherently. Terence was cold. He didn’t have a body, but he was cold. He saw something…something

inside of him. It was a tree. Then a hand. Then a bird. Then smoke―warm, spiraling smoke.

“Leave him alone!” The smoke had a voice. “ I chose him.” Like water on a hot pan, the words hissed menacingly. “I will live inside him like a blessed parasite. He will hate me. But like an incurable disease, he will not be able to rid himself of me. He is not calloused. He is not complacent. He is me!”

Sure enough, the voice was his own―deep and brutal. “So shut-up and do whatever the hell it is

you do!” Definitely him. The other voices grumbled. Soon there was silence. Peace.

***

“Wake up!” Skunk wasn’t dead after all. He felt an open palm slap him across his face. Lucky for him, he was so numb with cold he couldn’t feel it.

“Don’t you dare hit my Skunk like that!” Mink?! Skunk wanted badly to open his eyes―to see

her beautiful round face again. He was paralyzed. All he could do was lie helpless and listen.

“Relax, Mink. I’m only trying to elicit a physical response from him. He’s still breathing, which

tells me he didn’t succeed in poisoning himself.”

It was that snakelike man, Murry from the visitation. Skunk assumed him to be just another of

Mink’s random acquaintances. “From what Archie tells me, Terence didn’t succumb either.” Murry

swore under his breath. “I don’t understand…that other guy wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“You never told me you were planning on letting the mayor kill him,” Temaru said. Temaru knew

this guy too?!

“It’s the only way to extract the gift,”Murry responded. “Besides, Archie would have brought

him back. If he had only been left five minutes more…”

Archie was the doctor who signed his name upside down on the medical certificate Skunk found.

Mink had been the one to identify his name. Skunk was bursting with inquiries. He wanted desperately to be able to move his lips.

“Have Ninny and Pollock tracked down Paul yet?” Murry asked Temaru. Temaru informed him

Paul was found soaked and sleeping on a park bench. “What an odd ailment,” Murry continued. “I’ve

seen strange things, but never a man who terrorized towns in his sleep.”

A man named Paul was the vandal― a narcoleptic man named Paul…was Skunk dreaming?

“Was he aware of his actions?”

“He claimed he wasn’t.”

“I figured so.”

Pollock. Ninny. Temaru. Mink. They all knew Murry. He was their boss…or at least their leader.

Were they part of a cult? Why hadn’t Mink ever told him about this?

“I’m going to talk to that pesky man who interfered. What was his name again?”

“Ash Wilson.”

A set of footsteps drifted away. Skunk didn’t even know where he was. A hospital? Surely he

wasn’t still lying in the muck.

“You poor man.” Mink was still there. Her voice comforted Skunk. “Murry’s a detective. The best

detective in the world. No one knows who he is…except for us. He calls us when he needs us. I can’t

remember the last time he called me. That’s why I never told you about him, because I hadn’t heard from him in so long. I thought maybe he was gone. Dead even.” Mink laughed her glorious laugh. “I

guess I should have known better. I didn’t volunteer to work for him, you know. I just sort of got sucked into his elaborate schemes. Some people who work for him say he’s just a bored sociopath. I’m not so sure. I’ve seen him do good things and bad things.”

Mink paused. Was she crying? Skunk wanted to hold her and tell her he’d love her even if she

was a member of the illuminati. “I’m sorry, Dear. I lied to you back at Terence’s house. He never

kidnapped me. He never shook my hand. I don’t know if he’s kind or cursed or who he even is. I was just a pawn in another of Murry’s little games.”

Skunk suddenly became aware of something: he was lying on a sofa. He could feel the cushion

fibers beneath his fingertips. After getting a whiff of burning spices, Skunk knew exactly where he was―Rachelle’s. His eyes opened. There was his wife. Stroking that patchy one-eyed cat and staring

somberly off into the distance.

“Mink.” Skunk sat up.

“Skunk!” Mink immediately plummeted herself on the couch next to him, stripping the layers of

quilts from his body and smothering him in hugs and kisses. When they finally pried themselves apart, they noticed a shadow encapsulating their own.

“Good to see you awake, Mr. Mayor. Sorry to interrupt, but if we could have a word.” Murry

was behind them, watching them like some sort of deity. Who was this man, anyway? A detective?

What police force was he associated with?

Skunk stood with the help of his wife.

“I think it’s about time we talked.”

Chapter 19: Murry

The two of them left Rachelle’s property and ventured onto a sodden hiking trail. The air was

crisp with the scent of rain.

“Petrichor,” Murry said.

“What?”

“’Petra’ meaning stone and ‘ichor’ meaning the fluid that flows through the Greek Gods. When

it rains, an oil is released from the plants. I’ve been told it’s a wonderful smell.”

“What do you mean you’ve been told?”

Skunk stopped. This was the man from the Stakeout Bistro. It made perfect sense. Mink was

meeting with Murry. Being the master detective he was, he disguised himself as Skunk so he wouldn’t rouse suspicion within the town. His plan couldn’t have gone less accordingly…

“ Congenital Amosnia,” replied Murry. “I was born without the ability to smell. That’s why your

cologne had no effect on me. I’m also an acrobat and contortionist, in case you were wondering about that whole back flip thing I did off the taxi cab.”

Skunk much preferred the sound of the forest over the sound of Murry’s arrogant voice. The

forest was alive with sound. The leaves rustled as squirrels leapt from branch to branch. Birds ruffled the rain from their feathers. Skunk could hear the splash of the lake. The sound made him feel ill with remorse. He almost killed a man―another man.

“You tricked me,” Skunk said. “Terence never kidnapped my wife. You wanted me to kill

Terence. Why?!”

Murry was like a statue. His body was a piece of carved wood. His bored black eyes seemed to

be studying the universe.

“Terence has something I need―an ability.”

Skunk snickered, “If you think for one moment I’m stupid enough to believe Terence can predict

death―”

“Oh, but he can. I’ve seen it. Acquiring his ability was a sub-mission of sorts. My main mission

involved that vandal of yours.”

A semi rotted bench stood adjacent to the trail. It was fuzzy with moss and decorated with the

carvings of romantics. Murry sat delicately on the soft wood. Skunk ensured not to sit directly beside him. He didn’t trust this man.

“Paul is his name,” Murry continued. “He works as an assistant at Amigone Funeral Home―one

of Terence’s employees.”

Skunk wondered how it was Murry knew about the circumstances surrounding Belleville. The place wasn’t exactly hallmark on a map. Murry answered Skunk’s question before he even had time to

open his mouth.

“You have to understand, Mr. Mayor, I have connections everywhere. I’m everyone and no one.

One day I’m a store clerk, the next day I’m a school teacher. Because of my many different masks, I am able to collect valuable information and store it away in my mind for later use. For instance, you’ll recall an incident involving Temaru and some mystical mushroom pizza. Despite what Temaru made you think,

he is dedicated to me. He never consumed any magical mushrooms. The whole thing was an act to get

your old security guards out. I must say, Temaru really gets into character. A little melodramatic if you ask me. His performance also led you to the Medical Certificate of Death. Archie is the doctor who signed it. He works for me. At the moment, he and I are on no speaking terms. You see, Mr. Mayor, I faked my own death.”

Before he could continue, Skunk stopped the man. He couldn’t believe how casually Murry

spoke. He rid a security team of their jobs, impersonated Skunk, and plotted to have Terence killed.

“You're a damn sociopath,” Skunk uttered.

Murry laughed. It was a breathy weezing sort of laugh. Certainly not the sort of laugh Skunk

imagined coming from someone with such an even tone.

“This coming from a murderer!”

Skunk hung his head. He hated Murry. He wanted take a fist full of wood chips from the ground

and shove them down the man’s throat.

“Continue,” Skunk said through clenched teeth.

Murry cleared his throat, “Are you familiar with a drug called tetrodotoxin?”

“Yes. It comes from puffer fish and is extremely toxic.”

“If taken in sublethal doses, it causes one to appear dead, or in a zombified state. After

disguising myself like a dead old man, Archie administered this toxin to me. He’s an expert, you see, and I trusted him to give me just enough. But the idiot gave me too much. Terence almost embalmed me

alive! Not to mention the toxin almost killed me. Anyway, the plan was this: knock Terence unconscious, call Archie, kill Terence, steal his ability, revive Terence, and no one would be the wiser.”

“Oh God…” Skunk couldn’t believe he was sitting next to this man―this insane man. He also

couldn’t fathom why his wife would ever get associated with such a wack job.

“Long story short, I woke up bleeding out from my jugular, and Terence fainted from the shock,

concussing himself in the process. I had just enough blood in me to call upon the aid of my team. Thank God for Pollock’s muscles and big van. I eventually lost consciousness from the lack of blood in my body.

Archie managed to save both me and Terence―only after nearly killing us. He can go to hell for all I care.”

Something didn’t make sense to Skunk. “You had Terence in your custody, why didn’t you just

kill him and steal his so-called power then?”

Murry choked on his laughter. “I would have! Only, I was unconscious at the time and couldn’t

make the decision. If you ask me, Archie planned the whole thing out. He and I don’t always agree with each other’s tactics. He nursed Terence back to health and then returned him to his own residence, safe and not dead.”

Skunk sighed and rubbed the moisture from his forehead. It was so humid he could see water

droplets riding the breeze.

“Tell me about Paul,” Skunk said. He was tired of hearing about Terence.

“Oh yes, Paul. He’s narcoleptic. He experiences something called microsleep episodes. Even in

his sleep, he can continue to function. He awakes and has no recollection of his actions.”

“Are you saying this man vandalized my town in his sleep?”

“Precisely. Belleville was the perfect target, what with your horrid security. Thankfully, my team

changed that. We got him on film, Mr. Diggory.”

Skunk remembered. The man with the spiked platinum blonde hair emerging from the library.

“We found him passed out on a…”

“Park bench, I know. I heard that part.”

“Hmm,” Murry rubbed his chin inquisitively, “interesting. Your cologne paralyzes but keeps the

victim conscious. Nasty. I like it.”

It was nasty. Skunk would never be able to void his mind of his father’s screams. The panic he

felt in his stomach as he watched his father claw at his eyes. The ambulance came too late. The house smelled of burnt flesh and rotting kelp. Skunk remembered fleeing the place, gas mask still in hand. His wife was in the car, ready for a getaway. No wonder she was involved in Murry’s plans.

“What I especially find humorous about this whole escapade was your stupidity.”

“I beg your pardon?” Skunk said.

“You sprayed your repulsive cologne into the easterly gale while facing eastward. Haven’t you

ever heard the expression a wise man never urinates into the wind? Terence survived because you

efficiently managed to spray more cologne into your own face than his! At best you made him dizzy

enough to stumble over the edge into the spray below.”

Skunk couldn’t help but chuckle. Anger often stifled his common sense.

“ That pesky kid with the bushy hair pulled Terence to the beach and performed the kiss of life.

It was really quite romantic. Terence would have drowned otherwise, and I would have been able to

predict death.”

Skunk knew exactly who Murry meant. The man with the pleasant face and curly hair who

worked at Amigone Funeral Home. His name was Ash Wilson. Skunk didn’t know what Terence could

have possibly done to deserve the man’s respect. Ash had defended Terence adamantly during the

questioning.

“Where is Terence now?” Skunk asked.

“With that asshole Archie at his cabin. Terence’s little savior insisted on being there as well.

Pollock and Archie came with the van and transferred him there for treatment. The cabin is where

Ninny and I staged my death. She played the part of my bereaved daughter.”

“What of Paul?”

“Upon discovering Paul on the park bench, Temaru and Ninny awoke him. They were to act as a

couple on an evening stroll. As far as I know, Paul is unaware of his condition. Temaru and Ninny were to suggest he see his doctor and drive him home. They were not to let on they were observing him, and

they were not to inform him of his narcolepsy. That will be Terence’s job. Informing Terence will be your job, Mr. Mayor.”

Skunk stood. His behind was clammy from the saturated wood of the bench. He dreaded seeing

Terence. The memory of Skunk’s father was a whip that lashed at his mind. Being in Terence’s presence would only encourage the flashbacks. Still, Skunk had to apologize. He had a duty to protect his town from anymore future vandalisms. If he didn’t tell Terence about Paul, who would tell Paul? Paul needed time from work at Amigone Funeral Home to seek treatment for his narcolepsy. Only Terence could

grant him his leave.

“Take me to the cabin,” Skunk declared.

Chapter 20: Amends

It hurt to be cold―a painful sort of lethargy. Terence almost wished he was dead. He felt dead.

He was numb and stiff, yet he knew he was shivering madly. Where was he? He had enough feeling to

detect a weight both above and beneath him. Wherever he was, smelled of abandonment. A lingering

must heavy in the air. Each breath Terence took was a strain on his system. God, he wished he was

dead.

“Open your eyes, son.” Terence knew that voice. It belonged to the English trespasser with the

mangy hair.

“Get out of my house!” Terence tried to say. He was surprised by how sloppy his speech was.

After a few tries, he managed to enunciate the words―though the threatening tone behind them

dissolved after the fourth attempt.

“You're in a medical facility of sorts. My name is Archie. If you’ll recall, our initial meeting wasn’t exactly pleasant. Despite your paranoid beliefs, I really am a doctor. I work for Murry, not by choice, I might add. I came to your house that night to warn you of his intentions. He wanted to kill you, Mr.

Coon. He wanted to extract your gift for himself. He’s a real greedy bastard.”

Terence opened his eyes. Images bled together like different colours of paint. Though his

eyesight askew, Terence knew he was not in the comfort of his own house. There were bars on either side of his bed. A different kind of prison only found in hospitals. His surroundings became more clear as his eyes focused. Terence could see the walls were composed of great shining logs stacked neatly on top of each other. Archie really was a doctor; and his facility―a log cabin.

“I feel like a human lasagna,” Terence uttered. Layers and layers of blankets encased him. Wires

weaved like vines to a screen monitoring his heart, while a tube, attached midway up his arm, fed him a clear liquid.

“You’ve got hypothermia,” Archie stated. “The warmth from the blankets and the salt water

solution I’m giving you will help raise your body temperature. You’re lucky that friend of yours took lifeguard training. He somehow managed to dive after you and drag you to shore. It was incredible

really. Any longer in that freezing water and you’d be dead on a slab.”

Friend? Terence wasn’t familiar with the notion of friendship. His countenance was far too

obscure to attract friends. He articulated this fact to the doctor who simply chuckled.

“Try telling that to him!” The doctor gestured toward the doorway where his alleged friend

stood in the ugliest sweater Terence had ever seen. Woolen and an atrocious shade of pink, the neckline of the sweater resembled a set of swollen lips.

“Did your mother make that for you?” Terence laughed. The sound was almost foreign to him.

“It’s Rachelle’s actually,” Ash said. His face turned a shade similar to that of the sweater. “I ditched my wet clothes after dragging you to shore.”

Terence suddenly became aware that he too was not wearing his clothes. He decided against

inquiring after the whereabouts of them, as he figured they were cut from his naked body and

discarded. Terence was repulsed by the thought of another person seeing his sunken chest and bulging ribs. Why would anyone bother to save someone as monstrous as himself?

“You’re an idiot, Wilson,” Terence breathed. His ingratitude angered Ash.

“I saved your ass!” he cried.

“That’s why you’re an idiot. Why would you save me?”

“Because if you died, Jaune would take over as manager.”

Terence snickered at Wilson’s response. If Jaune were in charge, she’d practically crown herself

queen of the universe. Everyone under her authoritative powers would become a slave. Perhaps this

man was his friend.

“Thank-you,” Terence said.

***

It was late in the evening. The windows revealed a setting sun, bleeding amongst the fading

wisp of cloud. Skunk gazed at the spectacle from inside the cabin. It was a simple lodge with minimal furnishings. Judging by the single bedroom, it was only designed to house one: Archie.

Skunk couldn’t bring himself to look upon the doctor’s patient― the pale life form resting in the

room before him. Had the quilts not been moving slightly with the pattern of Terence’s breathing, Skunk wouldn’t have believed the man was alive.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Archie entered the cabin, returning from his evening stroll. A waft of

frigid air carrying the scent of pine followed him into the cabin. The doctor had been so shaken up by Murry’s appearance, he required a walk to cool his head.

“Murry is a master manipulator,” he stated. “Terence almost lost his life because of him, not

you.” He rubbed the chill from his arms and shuddered before pushing past Skunk to hang up his coat.

Murry left shortly after arriving. One would have thought him to be a walking disease the way Archie thrust him from the cabin. What frightened Skunk was not Archie’s display of hatred, but Murry’s

indifference. The man was a walking machine. He saw people as pawns in a chess game. Losing a few

was inconsequential.

“Any place away from that bastard is a safe haven to me,” Archie went on. His voice traveled

from the kitchenette, where Skunk could hear the hiss of a stove light. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

Skunk didn’t answer. He was transfixed beneath the opening of Terence’s room.

“So that’s why you’re here,” Archie sighed. “Murry’s forcing you to―”

“He’s not forcing me!”

Archie was taken aback by Skunk’s sudden outburst. Skunk swiftly apologized for his abruptness.

He swallowed hard before asking if he could interrupt Terence’s rest for a few moments. The kettle

loosed a deafening squeal and belched steam from its spout. A spice diffused from Archie’s direction and filled Skunk’s nose.

“Here.” The doctor handed Skunk a glass mug of something brown and rich in scent. “Be a doll

and give this to Terence. Be wary, though, he’s not the most cooperative of men.”

Skunk eased his way through the door. He immediately noticed a distinct increase in

temperature. Space heaters lit up in all corners of the room.

“Please tell me that flea bitten doctor didn’t send you in to give me more of that steaming

sludge,” Terence rasped.

Skunk cleared his throat, nervously. A bead of sweat began to take place between his eyebrows.

The room was like a sauna. He approached Terence with the cup of ‘steaming sludge’ in hand and set it on his bedside table.

“I came here of my own accord,” Skunk explained. Shadow draped the walls and bathed Terence

in a sickly colour.

“Impressive chemical,” Terence said, coughing hoarsely.

There was a tightness in Skunk’s throat. His guilt was like a boa constrictor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was a strangulated whisper.

“Save the speech,” Terence groaned. His body shuddered as he sat upwards. Clearly

embarrassed by his rawboned chest, he pulled a cover toward his neck to conceal himself. “Wilson

explained everything to me. Murry tricked you into thinking I kidnapped women. Oddly enough, you’re not the first to attack me under these false assumptions.” He pinched the knot at the bridge of his nose and winced. “Wilson’s ninja girlfriend broke my nose under the same absurd belief.”

Skunk shook his head, “Murry selected me because he knew I would kill you. I murdered my

father many years ago, Mr. Coon. I’m a monster.”

Silence followed his declaration. Skunk expected Terence to expel him―to refuse his apology

and sentence Skunk to an eternity of damnation. Instead, his slight frame vibrated so forcefully it rocked the bed.

Worried he was having a seizure, Skunk exclaimed, “Are you alright?!”

Terence exploded with laughter. The sound was so full-toned it made the floor boards rumble beneath Skunk’s feet.

“What the hell do you find so funny?!” he exclaimed. Skunk had never heard anyone laugh so

robustly in his life.

“You think you’re a monster?!” Terence shrieked. He clutched his stomach and laughed some

more. “Try looking like one!”

Skunk felt like a fool. He’d been bullied and treated differently his whole life. Skunk was

targeted because of a white stripe. A measly little stripe was nothing compared to the physical

abnormalities Terence possessed. The man truly was cursed.

“We all have the capacity to murder,” Terence spoke. His laughter had subsided. “You tried to

kill me because you felt I was a threat to your wife’s safety. As for your father’s murder, I can see you carry a tremendous amount of guilt on your shoulders. Monsters kill for fun and feel nothing. By that definition, you are not a monster, Mr. Diggory.”

Terence’s words gave Skunk a feeling of weightlessness. He was relieved.

“Thank-you,” he breathed.

Before excusing himself, Skunk relayed Paul’s situation to Terence, who nodded almost

expectant of the news.

“I suspected something was awry with him. Though I figured Jaune was bribing him to discredit

me. Of course now that I know the truth, I can’t say that that’s the case. She must be bribing another of my employees…”

“As long as you ensure he doesn’t continue to harass my town, I’m satisfied,” Skunk said.

Terence assured Skunk he’d do everything in his power to get Paul the treatment he needed.

Having made amends with Terence, Skunk traveled home to his wife, who was more than

pleased to have him by her side.

“I promise I’ll never do another favour for Murry,” Mink said softly in Skunk’s ear. Glad to be out of his mud stained clothing, Skunk slid his body closer to hers.

“I love you,” he said. She repeated the sentiment and rested her head against his chest. Skunk

weaved his fingers through her hair. After everything the two of them had done, it was a miracle they could still voice their affections.

“You may want to give Officer Russ Farland a call in the morning,” Mink suggested. “When you

left for Rachelle’s, everyone followed you accept him. I think he may have gotten lost.”

Skunk chuckled, “I’m sure he was just taking a detour past a doughnut shop.” Mink playfully flicked him in the temple.

“He’s going to need a new team now that Temaru, Ninny, Pollock, and the others have fulfilled

Murry’s mission,” she said, yawning. She was right. Skunk owed the officer an explanation. The two of them would have to be able to trust each other if they were to select a new group of guards.

“I wonder where Murry’s going next,” Skunk thought out loud. Mink snored. Her breath was

warm on his neck. He smiled. He’d save his morning thoughts for his coffee.

“Good night, Dear,” he said to his wife. He kissed her gently on the cheek and slept soundly for

the first time in ages.

Chapter 21: The Discovery

People loved to see painted corpses. They talked and laughed as though Grandma wasn’t rotting

next to them. Visitations were repulsive and banal. Terence hated working them, but, even so, he was thankful to be back at the funeral home.

The day he returned, Jaune almost suffocated him with a massive hug. Why didn’t she

understand: Terence hated hugs! Miss Fairweather, too, was pleased with Terence’s return.

“I take it Jaune was riding your ass during my absence?” Terence said to her when the two of

them were alone in the prep room.

“Quite the opposite,” Miss Fairweather replied. “No matter what I did, I couldn’t get her to

correct me. She treated me like a three-year-old and complimented me on every crummy thing I did!”

“Far too nice, isn’t she?” Terence said. “It makes me sick.”

The two of them embalmed the late Mrs. Lounsbury, marvelously. Her wrinkled cheeks and

fingers absorbed just the right tinge of pink. Her turquoise suit, although ugly, was made to fit her body as if it hadn’t wasted away from the cancer.

“She looks lovely, Mr. Coon. Thank-you.” Mr. Lounsbury, with his turtle like neck, put his

trembling arthritic hand into Terence’s and shook it weakly. What Terence saw next, astounded him.

The man stood in place misty-eyed and smiling. There were no ghoulish numbers above his head. No

symphony of suffering. Not a single vision occluded Terence’s mind.

“You’re welcome,” Terence said. Stunned, he watched the man saunter back into the visitation

room. It was the first time he’d shaken a hand without the stench of death lingering like a phantom.

“Are you alright?” Ash called from beside him. He must have witnessed the exchange.

“Either that man’s immortal, or I’ve miraculously lost my curse,” Terence said. He stared at his

hand in exasperation for a moment before excusing himself for dinner. Ash trailed after him. He was glad to have Ash close by. Funny. Usually Terence would have preferred to eat in the silence of his own company. Could this man really be Terence’s friend?

“Maybe Murry did steal your ability.” Ash said, lightly. He grinned at Miss Fairweather and Jaune

as they passed by from their dinner. “Break a leg out there!” he told them. That was Ash: charming and affable. His giddiness was contagious to all except Terence.

A dreadful thought wormed its way into Terence’s mind as he took his place at the lounge table.

What if Ash contracted the curse?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Ash bit into an apple.

“The penny was abolished,” Terence replied. He turned to face Ash. Innocent. Youthful. The man

didn’t deserve to be cursed.

“Nice night,” Ash declared. He was wise to change the subject. Terence grunted an affirmation

without even looking out the window. He then picked up a flyer and pretended to inspect it for cut-out coupons. “I get to meet my new roommate tonight,” he continued. Terence wasn’t listening.

“I’m free,” he uttered. The realization dawned on him― it was like waking up from a terminal

illness, cured. His curse was like the cancer that killed Mrs. Lounsbury. It wasn’t the sort of illness you could catch from someone else. Terence’s curse was genetic. The Tale of the Three Morticians was more than just a tale―it was a legacy.

Terence stood so suddenly, he startled Ash. The night was beautiful. The moon was a bright

sliver in the sky and the November breeze blew serenely through the mesh screen.

“I’m going to Bob’s grave tonight,” Terence announced. He turned to Ash, who was clearly

puzzled by Terence’s sudden change in temperament. “Will you come with me?”

Ash accepted the invitation without pause.

***

Terence went home that evening and filled his empty canvases with colour. He painted the essence of his curse as a black dripping wisp―his liberation a flock of majestic birds. He lost himself in the artwork, expressing everything he couldn’t otherwise express. The shock of Paul’s open mouth when Terence told him of his disorder. Now Paul was a painting. Sad and alone…

The doorbell rang. Terence wiped his stained fingers on an old towel as he weaved his way down the stairs to the front door. His cat hobbled curiously after him.

Ash stood with his hands draped in the pockets of his overcoat. He was staring at his shoes with

an uncertain kink in his brow. Anubis arched her back against his leg and gave a little mew.

“What’s the matter, Wilson? Are you afraid of cemeteries, too?” Terence pulled his long black

coat on in a single movement. Ash chuckled. The sound was far from genuine.

“I guess I’m just a little tired,” he responded. “Must be spending too much time with the dead!”

“It’s the living that tire me,” Terence said. He bid his cat farewell and beckoned for Wilson to follow him.

Terence loved the night. Everyone was tucked away neatly in their beds. The stench of car emissions, barbeques, and tobacco, was gone with the day. Each breath Terence took was fresher. Ash said not a word until they reached the gates of the cemetery.

“You never shook Bob’s hand?”

Terence stepped onto the gravel path, avoiding a chalky puddle of rainwater. “Never,” he answered. “Bob believed wholeheartedly that I was a germaphobic. He dared not shake my hand.”

There was an echoing crunch of stone as Ash ventured next to Terence.

“So, there’s nothing you can do to stop someone’s death once you see it?”

“Not that I’m aware. But I don’t know. I foresaw my own drowning and you prevented it, so…”

The rows of stones and crosses were audience to their conversation. The graves were like empty

seats in a movie theatre. They all looked the same. Terence visited Bob’s plaque so often―its face became different from the others. He stood staring at the engraved name. Amigone.

“Why the hell did he leave everything to me?” Terence thought aloud.

“Isn’t it obvious, Dear? You were the son he never had.”

Rachelle’s sudden appearance terrified Terence. He yelped an exclamation and shot backward

into Bob’s stone. Buried in black scarves, the woman was almost invisible against the night sky.

“What are you doing here?!” Terence cried.

Rachelle nodded calmly in Ash’s direction. “Your friend has acquired your ability.” Ash was on

his knees, breathing spasmodically and clutching an inhaler. “Poor man.” Rachelle stroked his head softly. “You’ve shaken someone’s hand, haven’t you, Dear.” Ash had barely pressed his lips to his inhaler before showing the whites of his eyes.

“Witch!” Terence roared. He sounded more fearful than angry. Rachelle removed a thick

tasseled scarf from around her neck and draped it over Ash’s body. His panicked fit was short-lived and he was now still in the damp grass. “What did you do to him?!” Terence demanded. All that could be

seen of Rachelle were her darkly decorated eyes. They studied Terence, glittering like marbles beneath the moonlight. He blinked, and suddenly his hand was swept into hers.

A flashlight uncovered a gruesome display: rats nibbling on a scarf, hungrily tearing at the fabric and squealing with delight. The place was a madhouse. It was full of deep throated laughter and sharp acrid scents. A bundle rocked on a bed with no sheets. It babbled incantations and clicked its long nails.

“She’s gone,” said a man.

“End stage dementia, I’d say,” said another.

The scene dissolved to a grubby cramped hospital room. It smelled of stale bed pan and dying

plants. Rachelle’s mouth was agape and browning with dehydration. Her body was a shell of what it was and her eyes were crusted over.

“Contact the family,” said a woman with a clipboard. “She’s dead.”

Terence wretched as he came out of the vision. The numbers were back and brighter than ever.

They nauseated him.

“What have you done?” Terence coughed. He grabbed Rachelle by the shoulders and shook her

wildly. “I was cured!” he screamed. His voice seemed to project louder in the quiet of the cemetery.

Rachelle pulled away, her scarves still in Terence’s hands.

“You were never cured,” she snarled. Her exposed arms adorned faded tattoos and silver scars.

“You knew that. You just didn’t want to accept it.” The scarves rippled like water from Terence’s fingers.

He felt a weakness inside him he couldn’t describe. He thought he was free. He thought his curse couldn’t be shared.

His voice a grating hush, Terence said, “I shook another man’s hand today and saw nothing.

Why?” Rachelle groaned as she bent to retrieve her scarves.

“He was there with you, wasn’t he?” She beckoned to the feverish lump that was Ash’s body.

Terence hung his head and swore.

“Curses are tricky,” Rachelle went on. “Typically, they remain in bodies of the same blood line.

Their hosts are embittered from them―isolated from them. In the case of your great grandfather and

his brothers, they can be tortured to the point of madness. Curses like to survive. But how can they survive when they are driving their hosts off the edges of cliffs? When one man puts himself at risk for the life of another, he accepts the consequences so long as the other may survive. Wilson saved you from death―he saved you and he saved the curse. He accepted the possible consequences. Now, he has

to live with them.”

There was a rustle as Ash stirred in the grass. Terence looked at the man with pity. He’d never

have saved Terence if he’d known he’d be cursed.

“Where are the disclosure papers?” Ash wheezed and took a waft from his inhaler. Rachelle helped him to his feet. “I didn’t consent to being cursed!”His knees wobbled and he collapsed at the foot of the late Wilbur Ross.

“The universe doesn’t have an attorney, my Dear.” Ash laughed. Even cursed, he was cheerful.

“So long as you are together, you may shake hands and experience no visions. Mathematically,

this makes sense. Two negative numbers cancel one another out. The same applies for two cursed men.

When together, the negative energies cancel one another out, rendering the curse inactive. But when you are apart, or when one of you is incapacitated, the curse and all its horror, will remain.”

There was a silence in which the three of them stood glass-eyed. The information was

overwhelming. Terence’s suspicions were correct. His beaming bushy-haired friend was cursed. Funeral arrangements and services would be a nightmare for the two of them. On his own, Terence was deemed

germaphobic by everyone in the area. He was accustomed to the gruesome sights and smells of his visions. Ash was squeamish. The sight of blood sent him sprawling to the ground. Without Terence, the curse would cause Ash great illness.

Ash spoke,“Well on the plus side, at least we’ll get to know each other better.”

Terence pressed two fingers to his forehead, and sighed deeply. It would be his responsibility to teach Ash how to live with his curse. If he didn’t, the man would be at his side like a lap dog. Terence didn’t mind Ash, but his constant company would drive Terence insane. The man was as optimistic as a Disney princess. Even in the bleakest of times, Wilson would break out into song.

Terence shivered, “This is going to be dreadful.”

“Nonsense.” Ash put out his hand for Terence to shake. “You teach me how to be alone and I’ll

teach you how to be with others. Deal?” Terence hesitantly took his hand from his pocket. The cemetery had grown colder since their initial arrival.

He sniffed and took Ash’s hand. “Doesn’t appear as though I’ve got any other choice,” he said.

Ash’s grin filled his entire face. Terence grumbled, “Could you please stop smiling. You look like a clown with an agenda.”

Ash laughed, “This is going to be fun!” Terence swore.

Rachelle vanished. Just as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone. Ash followed Terence’s gaze

passed his shoulder, his smile dissipating.

“Where’d she go?” he asked.

“Back to the hell from whence she came,” Terence answered. He pulled his hand from Ash’s and

slid it over Bob’s marble head. “Idiot,” he uttered.

THE END

Table of Contents

Chapter 6: The Tale