Prayer for the Dead (Revenants in Purgatory)

by Nicki Scalise

  Prayer for the Dead

  By

  Nicki Scalise

  ©Nicki Scalise

  Editor: Cynthia Shepp

  Cover Design: Rene Folsom, Phycel Designs

  All rights reserved to the author.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

  permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either the product of the

  author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to:

  Jon-

  How I managed to find a husband who is so supportive and honest, I’ll never know. I couldn’t have done this without you. Thanks for being you. I love you.

  Special thanks to:

  My big sister, Kris-

  There aren’t enough words to express the gratitude I feel for your advice,

  suggestions, and encouragement.

  Love you.

  My editor, Cynthia Shepp

  Your whim opened this door.

  I’ll be forever in your debt.

  Much love to:

  My own personal cheerleading squad:

  Jannah, Jayne, and Angie.

  Without you I would have gone completely mad.

  Thanks for keeping me only slightly crazy.

  My art consultant, Dominic Quintana-

  You’re one clever bitch.

  All my friends and family who

  helped with this endeavor.

  A special shout out to:

  My cover artist, Rene Folsom.

  Thank you for creating such a beautiful cover

  for my first novel.

  And last but not least:

  A big cyber hug to all my Facebook friends

  and fellow indie authors.

  Thanks for the support and advice over the past year!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Connect with me:

  Chapter 1

  The round man with a pudgy belly and white hair sitting across from me wept huge crocodile tears. His face, wrinkled with time and distress, begged me for audience. I folded my hands neatly on my cluttered desk as I explained the situation to him, again.

  “I’m sorry, Dean. You haven’t met your prayer quota yet.”

  “Are you sure?” he sniffed, wiping his nose with a tissue. “Maybe there was a mistake... you know like a bookkeeping error? Can’t you do something, please?”

  “You know there’s nothing I can do. Until you meet your quota, my hands are tied.”

  There had never been a bookkeeping error. The head honchos were meticulous and ran a rather tight ship. I assured him of the management’s precision, yet it was hard not to have sympathy for him. He reminded me of a kindly old grandfather. I always had a strange image running through my head of him dressed as Santa Clause, depositing presents under a tree. How could I tell Santa no? It seemed wrong, like a crime against the universe, yet there I was.

  His belly jiggled with each sniffle and he twisted the tissue between his fingers. When he blew his nose, the noise reminded me of an elephant trumpet and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to contain the laughter threatening to erupt from my mouth. Given the seriousness of our discussion, I felt it would be horribly inappropriate to laugh in his face.

  “There has to be a supervisor or someone else I can talk to.”

  I reclaimed my composure. “My supervisor will tell you the same thing I just did. We don’t make the rules here—we just follow them.”

  He explained how devastated, pissed off, frustrated, and annoyed he was at the very prospect of spending another moment trapped in the series of endless, mindless moments of his new existence. He believed his prayer quota was set too high, because he wasn’t that big of a sinner. He wanted to move on and hated this “layover”.

  As desperation escalated in his voice, I kept repeating the office mantra to myself. Keep calm and fuck off... Wait, that wasn’t right. Maybe I picked that one up from an online meme.

  “Why can’t I just go talk to my wife?”

  “We’ve been over this. She can’t see you because you can’t interact with anything outside this building.”

  “How come you can interact with the outside world and I can’t?” He flopped his large hands down in his lap with a huff.

  “Because you’re a soul in transition and I’m not. There is a difference.” I felt like I was talking to a child throwing a temper tantrum over something an older sibling was allowed to do but he wasn’t.

  “Then you go talk to her.”

  I considered just continually pounding my head on the desk to see if it might get my point across better. My hopes weren’t high; there was a better chance of giving myself brain damage before I would get through to him.

  “I can’t do that. You know it’s against the rules. I’m sorry.”

  If I could go talk to his wife, I’d tell her to drop to her knees to pray for him, so he could move on. Better yet, hold a proper funeral and then those prayers would help him move on. Just do something, anything, to get him off my back.

  The anger on Dean’s face was almost palpable. “Olivia, I don’t want to get stuck here and end up like you.”

  Like me.

  His words hung in the air as I lifted my coffee mug and took a slow pull of the cold, bitter liquid. I set the mug down and crossed my hands across my lap before meeting his eyes again. He had been here long enough to know how painful those words could be. Dean shook his head, breaking away from my gaze.

  He had no chance of ending up like me. He would move on one way or another and I never would. There are times when a person passes away but no one holds a proper funeral or prays for them. Without a service or those prayers, there is no absolution. Without absolution, there are no chances for the soul to leave purgatory. Some of us that are unlucky enough to have this situation arise take jobs here at Purgatory and Associates, processing those who do get to move on. We’re called Revenants—those who returned but, for all intents and purposes, are dead. We’re confined to walk this middle plane of existence, purgatory, until the end of time.

  The tension was still thick in the room but to Dean’s credit, he did try to remedy it by apologizing. I accepted his apology, but even as cruel as his insult had been, that made it no less the truth. I reassured him again that I would send for him just as soon as I could. He accepted my polite dismissal, but when he was gone, I heaved a heavy sigh. I wished I could go talk to his wife because if she didn’t start praying her ass off soon, Dean was destined for a one-way t
rip into the Silence. Feeling exhausted and dejected, I thumped my head down on my desk.

  I hated my job.

  ...

  Yoda, a wise, green, Jedi master, was quoted as saying, Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will. That, in a nutshell, should be the Silence mantra. The Silence is a separate state of purgatory, a gray area, if you will. A soul trapped in the Silence will spend eternity alone, unable to interact with anything or anyone, living or dead. It’s a state of consciousness and coma. It’s neither here nor there. It’s everything yet nothing. It’s the space in between.

  The Silence souls will never move on to whatever eternal destiny may have awaited them. They become lost unto themselves within an expansive void. It’s hard to say what tips a soul into this unfortunate circumstance, but the leading theories range from anger and frustration to simple impatience. While others swear it is sadness and guilt. One thing is for sure, whatever the case may be, it is almost always emotionally driven and the end result is always the same. A soul destined for the Silence is rare and sadly, no one is immune. Once a soul crosses into that territory, there’s no coming back, ever. If the whole situation wasn’t so damn sad, one might find some poetry in it.

  A crumpled wad of paper hit me, forcing my head up, putting a stop to my pouting. Tore, my brother, stood in the doorway of my office with a smirk on his face. His dark brown hair was spiked up in that I don’t care but clearly, I care because I have product in my hair sort of way. His black pinstripe shirt, which he paired with a gray t-shirt, was untucked, hanging loosely over his dark-wash jeans. I scowled at him and his chipper demeanor as he took up the chair Dean vacated.

  “What’s up, drama queen?” He squinted mockingly at me with dark eyes that resembled my own.

  “Don’t ask.” I sighed, rolling away from my desk. Leaning back, I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes.

  Tore pointed with a thumb over his shoulder “Dean?”

  I nodded.

  Without a hitch, he changed gears on me. “What do you want for lunch?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno.” I pulled on my coat and began to ponder, not what to eat but the big picture. “Do you ever wonder why we still perform all the same functions we did when we were alive? We still eat, sleep, go to the bathroom... but we’re dead. Shouldn’t all those functions and urges have stopped?”

  “Okay, I’m going to stop you right there.”

  “Why?”

  “You do this every time one of your charges gets all hazy. You become all reflective and philosophical, start questioning the meaning of shit. Look, we died. Yet, somehow, we’re still here. Can’t you just take it for what it is?”

  The quick and easy answer was no. Why couldn’t I get philosophical and reflective? Isn’t that what the human race had always done? Besides, a man’s soul precariously hung in the balance. I found it hard to gloss over that to worry about what food to shove into my craw.

  Most days Tore’s laid-back attitude was nice to be around, yet others it did nothing but grate on my nerves. Nothing ever bothered him. The two of us could not be more different, in that respect, if we tried. I tear a situation apart to analyze every minute detail until I’m running circles around myself. I do nothing but stress. Tore takes everything in stride. Occasionally, it would be nice if he paid a visit to crazy town. I think we could have some really great conversations if he’d just stop by once in a while... or at least call.

  We made our way to the lobby, weaving in and out of the crowd. I narrowly avoided being run down numerous times while Tore glided through effortlessly. I caught a glimpse of Portia and waved to her as we zigzagged through the sea of bodies. As Portia strutted her way towards us, her long, brown highlighted hair bounced around as if she was in a Pantene commercial. I expected Tore, at any moment, to slip in the puddle of drool slowly accumulating at his feet. Who could blame him really? Portia was a natural beauty. One of those girls who made it seem effortless, always made-up, but not overdone. Fuck Maybelline, she was definitely born with it.

  “Hey, heading out to lunch?” Portia called.

  “Yup, wanna join us?” Tore swaggered in her direction, stopping abruptly in his tracks, hitching a hip out as he came to a stop. I fought hard not to laugh because his behavior reminded me of a John Wayne movie. I fully suspected that if he were wearing a hat, he would have tipped it down and called her “little lady”.

  Portia patted his chest, slipping past him, “Don’t think so, champ. I’m working through lunch today.” I waited to see if Tore would start panting next. “Olivia, we’re still on for tonight, right?”

  I furrowed my brow in a lame attempt to play dumb, “For what?”

  “No, nuh uh, nice try, but you promised this time.”

  “But I don’t wanna go,” I whined, slouching my shoulders.

  “Tough shit, we haven’t been clubbing in ages. Besides, it will be fun.”

  Ages? Pah! It had been one month, and it was never fun. There were always too many people, the drinks were overpriced, and I hated having to contend with the grease-ball goobers that swarmed us because Portia looked like a supermodel. Problem was that she batted those ridiculously long lashes at me and rather than refusing to go to one more meat market, I caved.

  “Fine, I’ll go.”

  “I’ll be at your place around nine. We’ll pick up some cute men this time, you’ll see.”

  “No need to go to the club to pick up cute men, Portia, when I’m right here.” Tore gestured to himself like a Price is Right model. She let out a howling laugh as she walked away. I stifled a snort, clamping my hand over my mouth, trying to contain my laughter.

  He watched her go before turning a nasty glare in my direction. “Why do you have to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Cock block.”

  “Don’t unleash your bruised ego on me, bucko. As if using terms like “cock block” when referring to one of my friends isn’t reason enough. I think there are enough of your ex-girlfriends running around the place as is. I would really prefer she didn’t become one of them.”

  “What makes you think we’d break up? What if she’s the one and you’re standing in the way of our happiness?” His jerky smirk returned as he crossed his arms over his chest. Somewhere in that delusional mind, he believed he was near victory with this argument.

  “Really, you believe she’s the one? Let me put it to you this way then, big brother. In purgatory, if you say you want to be with someone forever, you better Damn—Well—Mean—It.” Emphasizing every word with a hard poke to his chest, I watched the smirk melt off his face.

  “Wow,” he nodded, “well played.”

  I raised my arms in a triumphant victory, looking for cheers and acknowledgement from someone, anyone.

  Nothing.

  “Okay, quit gloating and let’s get some food,” he said, pushing me towards the front door.

  ...

  Lunch was completely uneventful and once I was back in the office, I plopped down on the floor to sort through the clutter and organize my files. It didn’t take long to become overwhelmed and start drowning in a sea of manila. There is never an end to the IN pile. At no point will that little box ever be empty. There’s never a pat on the back or a job well done when it’s finished. There’s never a sense of accomplishment. Therefore, I was ready to give up, light a bonfire, and dance around in naked victory.

  “Hey Liv.”

  I already knew who snuck up behind me without turning around. I only allow one person to call me by that nickname without the ultimate penalty of pain. Devon strolled into my office, but he could have just as easily stepped off the pages of GQ. He was in charge of training during my first day on the job. I spent most of the day freaking out, worried about accidently sending a soul to hell or something, but he handled my spastic nature with a smile. We’ve been best friends ever since.

  “Hey,” I said, passing two files over my head that I knew he was af
ter.

  He flipped through the file pages for a few minutes before sighing loudly. “Damn it, there goes knocking off early.” He slapped the folder closed. “What are you doing in here, besides making a mess?”

  “Can’t you see?” I held my arms out in a sweeping motion. “I’m attempting to be a more efficient worker bee.”

  He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his long black hair. “And how’s that working out for ya?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I shrugged and tried to act casual as I thumbed through a file. “So Dev, how come you wanted to get out of here early? You have plans tonight?”

  “Why?” His blue eyes filled with suspicion. As one of the few men in my life, he often was swept up in the wake of Portia trying to socialize me. He’s learned to be cautious when answering vague questions.

  “Well, Portia is dragging me to the club again and I’ll need protection from the goobers.”

  “As much as I would love to be on goober patrol, no can do, dork face. I’ve got a date.”

  I gasped in feigned horror, “You have a date? You’re going to abandon me in my time of need? Bros before hoes, Devon... Bros. Before. Hoes.” I shook my head, overemphasizing my “disappointment”.

  “You’re not a bro, technically you’re a...”

  “I would not finish that sentence if I were you.”

  Whacking me on the head with the folders, he laughed. “Have fun tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Pounding my chest, I tossed up a peace sign as he swaggered out of my office.

  Devon was a big reason why, with the exception of Portia, I don’t have any female friends from the office. They either hate me, because they assume I’m sleeping with him, or believe I’m mentally deficient because I’m not. In the early stages of our friendship, in the case of the latter, I wondered if they weren’t right. He was the one man every woman wanted to get their hooks into. Yet, he chose to hang out with me most weekends and I have confined him to the friend zone.

  Submitted for your disapproval—The Friend Zone—A dark place for the male of the human species. When confined to it, there will be no chance to see the female naked. Instead, males will listen to her complain about other males and her fat thighs. Placement within concludes the female hath deemed the male “unbangable”. Males must do everything in their power to avoid this precarious situation, for there is no return from The Friend Zone.