HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

by Edited by Peter Giglio

  Acclaim for

  HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

  “Help! Wanted is a rollicking, creepy, crazy, and thoroughly unnerving collection of work-related horror stories by the cream of today’s horror crop. Each story is as stingingly fresh as a razor cut!”

  —Jonathan Maberry, New York Times Bestselling author of Dust & Decay and Patient Zero

  HELP! WANTED:

  Tales of On-the-Job Terror

  Edited by Peter Giglio

  Help! Wanted: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

  Copyright © 2011 by Evil Jester Press

  ISBN-10: 0615536352

  ISBN-13: 978-0615536354

  eBook edition

  Published By:

  Evil Jester Press

  46 Gull Dipp Road

  Ridge, New York 11961

  http://www.eviljesterpress.com

  Edited by Peter Giglio

  Cover by Gary McCluskey

  All stories contained in this volume have been published with permission from the authors.

  All Rights Reserved

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to Melissa Mia Hall. Rest in peace, dear scribe.

  Table of Contents

  The Chapel of Unrest Stephen Volk

  Another Shift Change David Dunwoody

  Face Out Lisa Morton

  Carpool Gregory L. Norris

  Grist Zak Jarvis

  The Interview Adrian Chamberlin

  The Tenure Track Lottery Ellen Herbert

  Words, Words, Words! Gary Brandner

  Team Player Patrick Flanagan

  Agnes: A Love Story David C. Hayes

  Work/Life Balance Jeff Strand

  Monday Shutdown Vince A. Liaguno

  Accountable David Greske

  The Gardeners Amy Wallace

  New Orleans’ Best Beignets Vic Kerry

  The Vessel Henry Snider

  Playing Blackjack with Mr. Paws Craig Saunders

  Must Be Something in the Water Mark Allan Gunnells

  Like Riding a Bicycle Marianne Halbert

  A Hundred Bucks is a Hundred Bucks Will Huston

  The Pipes Trevor Denyer

  Deadline Matt Kurtz

  The Little Church of Safe Crossing Joe McKinney

  Expulsion Eric Shapiro

  Career Day Scott Bradley

  Editor’s Note: British English spelling was left intact for stories by Stephen Volk, Adrian Chamberlin, Trevor Denyer, and Craig Saunders

  The Chapel of Unrest

  Stephen Volk

  There is a man frequenting a certain public house in Yorkshire, who, for the price of as many pints as it takes to tell, will share with you this story:

  There is one question I cannot answer. Given the choice, would I have chosen a different profession? The business was my father’s, and his before him. Mine was the name above the door, and somehow I knew that from infancy my destiny was to be fulfilled therein. By the time I was old enough to question, I was too old to change my ways, and there it is.

  The profession of funeral preparation necessarily separates its acolytes from everyday society. Apart from the solitary nature of the work, there is some suspicion on the part of a public satiated by centuries of folklore, that such a practitioner may somehow be privy to some dark knowledge best left alone, some occult sensitivity merely by dint of his contact with the dead. It is a view one must grow accustomed to tolerating. People brand us as carriers of melancholy and gloom merely because our station requires a modicum of dignity and respect. I became used to being treated as an outsider, as everyone in my trade must. I also became used to my own company, for the same reason. I have only had three friends in my life, and two are dead. I buried them both. The third will bury me, I suspect.

  But we are needed. Why? Because people fear the dead. It is a dirty job, and people do not wish to do it themselves—they would rather entrust their dearest ones to a stranger. It is peculiar, and I will never understand it, but it is true.

  People imagine a corpse to retain something of the nature of the living being that preceded it. However, in my experience, there is no such ambiguity. The dead are sad objects. Their souls have passed on. We deal only with the husks, and it is our function therefore, not to attend to the needs of the deceased so much, but the living—by providing sympathetic services to help the process of grief. That is our function, and no more.

  One thing changed my mind. One thing happened to make me question all the certainties I have just expressed. One thing made me begin to approach my job with increasing—unease. Even, yes—caution.

  It was a day in April. I remember because one of the boys made a joke about April showers. The sun shone brightly on pavements like glass. It was a miserable day. I had stayed in my office all night, pondering my accounts. My father had died seriously in debt, and however I juggled the figures, it always came out the same—I owed his creditors several hundred pounds. I could not even afford to pay them pennies. The resolution that greeted me with the dawn was the only possible one: with a heavy heart I decided to sell the business.

  These thoughts were foremost in my mind as I received a message from Dr. Frith that a death had occurred up at the Big House to the west of town. (It had been called “The Big House” since my childhood, though its true, unremarkable name was Pryne Hall.) In a miserable stupor, I took the hearse whence I was bidden, and found myself ushered into a death-bed tableau no different from dozens of others at which I had been present over the years.

  The owner of the house was a tall, thin man with a stooped back, and a jutting chin supported by a wiry neck. His eyes were pale and clear for one of such advanced age, and his head was adorned with white hair as insubstantial as melting snow. He gestured with the cordiality of a nobleman, and spoke, which he did infrequently, with the merest hint of an accent, though his English was nothing short of impeccable.

  He sat immobile in a cushioned chair as the doctor and I conversed, all the while his eyes fixed with a kind of deep suffering upon the pitiful figure in the bed. Occasionally his eyes darted sidelong, nervously, or he would blink, or twitch, but always his eyes would return to rest on the deceased.

  She was his daughter, a woman of some forty years of age. She lay as peacefully in death as if she had been arranged there, like the composition of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Her hair was dark and lustrous, and lay thickly on the white waves of the pillow. Yet I saw no tears in her father’s eyes, merely numb and staring eyes set in a wan and haggard countenance. But grief takes many forms, and I thought no more of it.

  The doctor signed the death certificate and I transported the cadaver to my Chapel of Rest. At the door the old man hesitated, as if to say something, then declined, and shut the door. Only upon leaving, and hearing the bolts thrown from inside, did I notice that every one of the windows of Pryne Hall was barred like a prison.

  Preoccupied by my troubles, I could do no more work that day. Instead, I confined myself to my office. I even drew the drapes to block out the mocking happiness of sunlight. Once more I pored over the books, and once more could only come to one conclusion: sell the business. I paced, stamped, cursed. I prayed to God: give me a way out of this mess! There was no answer.

  I had just taken my coat from the peg to go for a brisk walk to work off my frustration, when a visitor was a
nnounced. I had him shown in, though I was in no mood for company.

  It was the old man I had met earlier in the day. His name, I had learned, was Gaetano Prelati. He wore a heavy coat and had his hands stuffed firmly in the pockets. Against the darkness of the material, his pallor seemed almost grey. He refused my handshake and as he sat his head sank into his collar, bird-like.

  “I have come,” he said in his perfect English, “to discuss”—he hesitated—“arrangements.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Have you spoken to the vicar, sir, or would you like me to take care of everything? Naturally, you will want things taken care of as soon as possible. Perhaps we should strive for a Friday funeral? I’m sorry—I have not asked if you are—er—Church of England, Roman Catholic...?” His unemotive manner was flustering me.

  He shook his head. “Whichever.”

  I coughed. “I see. Well, we have a rising scale of prices; perhaps you would like to see that?”

  “No.”

  “There is a wide range of caskets available: oak, mahogany, satin black—plain, velvet-lined—with gold furniture or bronze. Let me see if...”

  “I am not interested in the quality of the coffin,” said Mr. Prelati.

  “Then what have you come to discuss, sir?” I enquired with what politeness I could muster.

  “The preparation of the dead.”

  “You would want our full treatment, sir? Yes, we can do that. Naturally, we can do that. The normal health and hygiene processes...” I used the usual euphemism for embalming, of course.

  His pale eyes were unblinking as he produced an envelope from his pocket and placed it in front of me. “I wish my own treatment. I realise my request is unusual, and when you read it, you may well have extreme reluctance to carry it out. I can only say, however, that my daughter’s condition necessitates such action, and if you will not comply, I shall find another who shall.”

  I held the envelope in my hands, and let out a light laugh. This all seemed over-dramatic: why didn’t the old man merely tell me his instructions? Why the secrecy? Why the warning? What could be so—objectionable? I was soon to learn, and as I read the enclosure my fingers began to tremble, and a cold sweat rose up my body.

  After reading it, I flung it down. I stared at him.

  “In the name of God, man!”

  My first instinct was to throw the fellow out. Had he not been so old and frail I may have dealt him a blow. As it was I just stared, and he stared back with limpid blue eyes.

  “There is no purpose in explanation,” he said. “I could tell you the truth or I could give you one of many lies, but I have no intention of either. You accept the work, or not, as your feelings see fit.”

  “What kind of monster are you?” I blurted, able to keep my silence no longer. “This goes against every law of God and Man. It is the foulest of all deeds to abuse the sanctity of the dead!”

  He sneered with awful bitterness. “You do not need to lecture me about the sanctity of the dead. I have my reasons. Religious, philosophical, call them what you will. I need your co-operation, and for the use of an hour of your time, and your guilt, I am prepared to pay—let us say—substantially.”

  I looked at the paper again. “Nothing can pay for—this! This—abomination! Good God, she was your daughter: does that mean nothing to you?”

  “It means everything to me,” he said quietly. He took out a cheque and laid it on the desk before me. Upon it was my name. He said, “One thousand pounds. In your pocket—or another’s. Nobody will ever know. The grave cannot speak.

  I was struck dumb. My thoughts spun, my head swam, no longer with disgust but with—interest. The rest of the conversation I cannot, will not, remember.

  I poured myself a brandy, and to my horror found that I had poured two, and before I realised it we had raised the glasses and made a toast for which, to my eternal horror, I was, in that moment, eternally grateful.

  ***

  Time was the monster.

  I lay on my bed, fully clothed. The clock in the room ticked like the workings of an infernal machine, each passing minute reminding me of the first two words of Gaetano Prelati’s abhorrent instructions.

  Before sunset.

  I turned on my side, closed my eyes to block out the room, but could not block out the thoughts. I felt unclean. I felt as if I had been complicit in a Faustian bargain. My body churned inside—my professional ethics flung asunder, my soul felt like a sacrificial lamb, terrified, bleating, yet unable to escape. To do this—to succumb—for greed. Where was the dignity of death? Where was the dignity of life? Would I ever have it? Could I ever truly live? Oh God—help me.

  Before sunset...

  It was madness. My humanity does not have a price. There are more important things. No. I shall not do it. I shall resist. I respect the dead.

  Why?

  What are they? What is it? A husk of flesh and bone. It isn’t alive. It’s a thing. It can help me. If it knew what I needed, perhaps she would have said in life—yes, do it. Do it if you need the money. Do what he wants you to do! Who are more important, the living or the dead?

  Before sunset.

  No. I can’t. I have to resist.

  Yes. Do it! Now, quickly. Don’t be weak, have strength for once in your life. Do it and build the business again, or if you don’t you’ll go under, you’ll be destroyed, you’ll die.

  Suddenly in an instant I became aware of the lengthening shadows in the room. The sun was setting over the far rooftops. I sat up, rigid. I took in a deep breath of air. Even so, I swayed giddily, heady with the responsibility of a decision I had now to make in a moment.

  Why?

  Why before dark? What nonsense was this? Bugaboo tales? Would an hour make such a difference? Does it have to be now? Couldn’t I have an hour, a minute, to think, to ponder, to decide. I laughed, but the air was chill. I was cold. Evil, feverish cold fell over me, and I shivered ‘til my teeth chattered.

  Obey them to the letter, he had said.

  Before sunset.

  I stood, determinedly. I went to the telephone. I rang Prelati’s number. But before it began to ring, my mind had begun to think of the money again. The madness was mine: what did it matter why? Ask no questions. This is no murder, no one will come to harm. Why am I even questioning it?

  It goes against God. But where is God in my hour of need?

  I took up the paper again, and read it.

  Before sunset...

  Yes, yes. I picked up the box on top of the wardrobe which contained all the equipment I needed. It had not been taken down since my mother had died. It seemed faintly sacrilegious even to touch it—but I dispelled my fears. I took the crucifix from the wall above the “Home Sweet Home” emblem.

  The shadows were like a thick wash of seaweed at a shoreline as I waded along the landing and, in the silence now, not even comforted by the ticking of the clock, I descended to set about my grim task. Moonlight imbued the passage downstairs with a church-like serenity, filtering as it did through the stained-glass of the front door. For once I wished that my profession did not regale in the trappings of Christianity. The Christ portrait stared with accusing, watchful eyes as I entered the Chapel of Rest.

  My hand twisted the handle of the door.

  In the ante-chamber, coffins were stacked in rows, one on its end, its lid half-open. I used one arm to part the scarlet drapes that led into the Chapel itself, and the candle-lamp that I had brought from upstairs lit my path with a flickering, beeswax glow.

  The Chapel was not a catacomb. It was not shadowy, nor sepulchral, nor even eerie. But the silence of the place seemed designed to catch any whisper—even the unsaid whisper of a guilty mind. I was afraid even to breathe.

  The coffin lay on its bier, without a lid. I paused for a moment, looking down at the pallid figure of Alba Prelati. I thought it must have been the intensity of my emotions, or the ambiguity of the candlelight, but for an instant I would swear she had the face not of a forty-year-o
ld woman, but of a girl of less than twenty summers.

  I could not shy away now. I had come too far. Then it must be done without faltering, quickly.

  Holding my breath, I placed the crucifix from my bedroom wall in the corpse’s limp right hand, closing the fingers tightly around it. Strangely, they were not yet stiff with rigor mortis. In fact they were curiously warm and clammy. Hastily removing a second crucifix which I wore around my neck, I placed this one in the palm of her left hand.

  Place a crucifix within each of her hands.

  I turned and went to fetch the large, leather-bound Bible from the lectern that faced the pews. I placed it upon the dead woman’s breast, the cross embossed on its black leather covering her heart.

  And a Bible upon her heart, the Trinity to bind her to the place, the weight of the Lord’s might to hold her down...And in penance for her Sins, in Hell for all eternity.

  I opened my mother’s sewing-box. You cannot imagine how long it took for me to thread the needle with thick black twine. The perspiration more than once blinded me. I licked the end of the cotton a hundred times into a tiny point, but still it would not thread.

  Before sunset...

  The needle finally threaded, I leaned over the beautiful face beneath me. The beauty of the dead had not been lost on me, the sadness of a perfect child, the pity of beholding the full bloom of womanhood cut off in its prime: but here was something altogether different. Something inexplicably different about the upturned nose, the full lips, the almond-shaped eyes.

  I touched her lips. They were dry as parchment. I puckered them together between my forefinger and thumb and began to sew. I had seen my mother sewing the Christmas turkey, pricking the pale flesh with the needle, forcing it through, pulling, stitching again, yanking the twine until the whole was a tight, immovable scar.

  ...the mouth must feed no more, and let her hunger...

  The twine criss-crossed the mouth, pulling it shut, dragging the entire face into a grimace, drawing hideous wrinkles across the once-perfect cheeks. With the black outlines, it seemed she had the grinning teeth of a skull. I bent down and bit off the twine, and knotted it.