by A. L. Mengel
He looked old.
But he wasn’t. That was what was so laughable. Here he was, standing in the house of one of the most important bankers in Miami, and he knew that the banker was dead.
But that didn’t matter. The man smiled, admiring his silver hair. Laughing, he turned and walked out the front door.
“I will find you,” he said as he opened the door into the night air, “I will find you and you will be mine.”
He closed the door behind him, shrouding the house in silence once again.
*~*~*
CHAPTER SIX
Detroit is a far cry from Miami.
For starters, it’s at least fifteen hundred miles north and the average annual mean temperature is at least twenty degrees lower. But most people know that. Most people also know that Detroit is the “Motor City”, the birthplace of Motown, and the home city of Madonna. What most people don’t know is that Ned McCracken grew up there, in the suburb of West Bloomfield.
Before he became the mortician who loved to burn bodies, he was born on a stormy night at home – his mother didn’t make it to the hospital. She cried again and again for her husband as the baby was pushing its way out of her on the bathroom floor, in a lake of bright red blood and amniotic fluid, as the cracks of thunder rumbled outside in between flashes of lightning and torrential rain.
And then came Ned. All 7 pounds 8 ounces of him.
What he grew in to was a different story.
He was a dark and troubled teenager, and he showed no emotion or reaction when he learned that his brother had died. On the side of Kiev.
“That’s where they found his body,” his mother said to him through tears. Her wavy brunette hair that framed her face, which was usually neatly done and pulled back, was now mussed and covering her eyes. “His body was on the side of the road, drained and dried up. Like it had already started rotting!”
She broke down into her husband’s arms, but that did not phase Ned. When his mother was sobbing in the arms of her husband over the loss of her child, Ned crept out of the room without making a noise.
He grabbed his coat, and exited the front door. It was a chilly Michigan spring night, and he could still see his breath in the air. But he wasn’t thinking about that. All he could think of was his brother. He needed to get to his brother, and it didn’t matter where the body was, but he knew. It was in the morgue. In a freezer, awaiting the autopsy.
And so he got on his 10-speed, in the cool night air, and pedaled out to Telegraph. That’s where the morgue was. A few blocks down Telegraph.
The night was silent and dead. All he could hear was his tires grating on the gravel, and the groan of his bike chain.
No one was out, there weren’t even any cars as he was navigating the back woods roads to get to the main thoroughfare. The only sound he heard was the grating of the pedals on his 10-speed, as the muscles in his legs pushed the pedals round and round.
He had only one destination in mind: the morgue.
He stopped at a desolate, wooded corner with a stop sign on the side of the road to catch his breath. There was a sweaty water bottle fixed on the side of his bike, and he took a large swig. It wasn’t much farther to Telegraph, but he seemed like he was in the middle of nowhere. There were no streetlights, and the only source of light was the moon.
He looked up to a dark sky full of stars, admiring the full moon.
And then a branch snapped to his right.
His head darted in the direction of the sound, dismissing it at first to a small animal. But he didn’t move. He continued to stare and wait and listen. He did not dismiss it and continue on, he stopped and waited.
And another branch snapped.
It still could be a small animal, he thought. But he didn’t know for sure. All he knew was he wanted to get to Telegraph and see his brother. Too many unanswered questions. He had to see the body for himself.
But then it sounded like an entire tree fell in the distance.
What the hell is out there?
His breath quickened as he started to think the worst. Scanning the woods back and forth, he could see nothing but trees and darkness. He started to prepare himself on his bike to pedal away, but stopped.
A tree fell much closer to him, so close that the ground shook beneath him. He stopped where he was standing, holding the bottle of water close to his chest, and exhaled.
Now he was frozen, his rapid breaths looking like puffs of smoke in the cold Michigan night air, but he did it anyway. He got back on his bike and pedaled away, as quickly as he could as the trees continued to fall around him causing the ground to shake.
Something knew that he was going to his brother. This was no small animal. This was not random. The trees fell right next to him, closer and closer to Telegraph, right next to the road. It’s like the trees were after him and only him.
Pursuing him.
And then he saw the lights cutting through the darkness, on the edge of Telegraph. He stopped his bike shortly, stirring up gravel.
The trees no longer snapped and fell, as if he had arrived at a sanctuary. It was eerily quiet. He leaned his bike against a hard stucco wall, and tried the front door. Of course it was locked.
He darted to the side of the front porch, in search of another way inside the funeral home. There had to be some way to get inside. He jumped off the front porch and into the bushes below, scaling the side of the massive house. He saw a small window leading into a lower level, perhaps a basement.
He could not risk breaking the window. He had heard of this funeral home, the family that ran the operation slept in the living quarters upstairs, and those who were up there most certainly would hear the shattering glass from a basement window.
So he chose to wait.
It would be more challenging to break a window in the middle of the night as opposed to sneaking in in the middle of daylight during a viewing as if he were a member of the deceased’s family.
He looked down at himself.
How would he pass as a grieving loved one wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and dirty jeans? On the alternative, he could not go back home. He knew what that would entail. He knew that his mother would come into his room and lie down next to him, cuddling next to him, seeking the affection that she longed to have from his father, and then she would fall asleep in his arms, and he would lie awake for the entire night listening to her mellow breathing.
So he decided to stay right where he was. He didn’t want to deal with grieving parents, and it wasn’t as bad as he thought as he lay down in the bushes on the edge of Heavenly Slumber. It was very well tended, there were no leaves, and it was actually rather nice.
*~*~*
The sun roused him with its warm fingers on his face, and he slowly opened his eyes, picking away at the grit, and Ned had forgotten where he was. He was very sleepy and very groggy, and something felt cold and hard as opposed to the warmth and softness of his bed at home. Yes, he certainly was not in his bed at home. He knew that much.
Once his eyes adjusted to the bright early morning sunlight, he looked around and saw that he was lying on a bed of mulch in the bushes, and it all came back to him.
He was at Heavenly Slumber Funeral Home. He could see the twin white and black hearses parked next to each other as he peered through the foliage.
And then he heard voices.
He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were coming from behind him. He craned his neck, and saw that he was still concealed by the bushes. Through the leaves he saw people entering the front doors of the home, and it was a large number of people. Many were dressed in black, some were dressed in blue and other darker colors, but all were dressed formally.
This was his perfect opportunity.
He still lay in the mulch under the bushes, as he could not risk being discovered. He wanted to make a very silent and nonchalant entrance. So he waited. He waited until he had heard no voices and saw no mourners for at least ten minutes, waiting patiently an
d silently.
And then he took his cue.
Once the area had quieted and it was apparent that the activity had moved indoors, he stood and brushed himself off. He could walk right in. But how could he pass as a member of the family or a friend dressed in jeans? Jumping over the bushes and into the parking lot, he decided that he had to risk it. He knew that his brother was in there, and it wouldn’t be long before he would be embalmed.
Maybe he would get lucky.
He tried the brass doorknob, this time, it turned. He turned the knob to the left as silently as he could, to where he could feel that the door was ready to swing open, and paused. This was the moment.
This was the point of no return. Either he pushes the door open and goes through with it, or he carefully lets the door knob go back to its resting position and pedal his bike back home and forget that this night ever happened. He would pedal furiously past the uprooted trees south of Telegraph, back home to his warm, safe bed.
But, then, he would never know.
And so he pushed the door, closing his eyes so tight and praying that it would not make a sound.
And it didn’t.
And when he felt the warm blanket that wafted out of the door, in a stark sharp contrast to the chilly morning air, he stopped and basked in the feeling. Warmth. From both directions. From the sun, and from the inside.
And then again he heard voices from ahead. Eyes still closed, he tried to make out what the voices were saying but he could not. The trees. On the side of the road. Speaking to him. The voices became louder and seemingly closer, but remained unintelligible. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make out a single line or conversation, and simply listened to what might have been a boisterous cocktail party.
“Good morning sir,” the voice said, very clearly, from right in front of him, breaking his trance in an instant. He opened his eyes to see a tall, grey haired old man with a gaunt sagging face and a bushy mustache. And he looked at him with what Ned thought might be a sense of suspicion. “I know you are not here to pay last respects to Thaddeus Norton. That I can tell.”
Ned did not answer.
He shuffled from foot to foot, and shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed, looking downwards.
The old man opened his eyes wide, as if he had just made a revelation. “Oh wait!” he exclaimed. “You…I know you!” he said, pointing his bony finger at Ned.
“I am Ned McCracken,” he offered, as he looked up and extended his hand.
“Yes! I knew it!” The old man stepped back from the door, inwards, and opened his hand gesturing for Ned to come forth.
He entered the foyer of the funeral home and scanned the area. He saw to his left was undoubtedly the family and friends of Mr. Norton. There was quiet and somber organ music playing in the background.
Ned walked over to the archway that led into the viewing room, and peered his head around the side. There was a crowd of people in dark clothes blocking his view, but they soon parted and then he saw Thaddeus, lying in a dark casket surrounded by lilies.
“Come with me, Mr. McCracken,” the old man gestured, placing his hand on Ned’s shoulder, startling him for a moment. “I know what you want to see is down below.”
Ned turned and looked at the old man directly in the eye, a look of distress on his face. Something was not right about how the old man was operating.
“You are here to see what is down below, young fellow,” the old man smiled a yellow tobacco stained smile. “You know who is down below?”
Ned shook his head indicating that he knew.
But Ned didn’t really know.
The old man had a look in his eyes, a look that indicated that there was something more to say. His eyes, standing out bright and vivid in a sea of scattered wrinkles, beckoned him to come further into the pastel colored foyer, past the pinkish floral arrangements, deeper and deeper down the hallway until they were in front of a large, white wooden door.
Yes, Ned didn’t know. He didn’t really know what was past that door. And when the old man chuckled and withdrew a dull copper key from his jacket pocket, Ned stopped and closed his eyes. He saw his brother.
He could see Stephen.
Lying on the preparation table.
In the center of the room below, the room below where Ned and the old man were standing, the room with the aspirator and trocar lying next to him ready and waiting for puncture and to take his brother’s blood.
Those light pastel green tiles. Ned could see them. Covered in small dried up reddish brown smears of blood.
Looking up, the bright white light temporarily blinded him. It was so bright and so white, he thought that he brought his arms up to shield his face, but no, the light continued to blind him. It continued and then he heard something. A deep voice calling him.
Ned?
The light faded quickly.
He was still in the hallway.
The one with the bloody green tiles.
Those hideous green tiles. The ones with the crushed insects on them. The hallway continued for what seemed like forever. The lights above were no longer as bright as the one right above him; they continued into darkness, each exuding a pale yellowish glow, making the tiles seem like they were bluish farther down the hall.
NeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEdddddddddd……..
He moved forward.
This is what he came for.
And then he was there.
The expansive room before him looked nothing like how he had imagined an embalming room would look like. It was not bright and sterile and light green like he had imagined – it was dark and cellar like and there were fires burning in rounded ovens against the far wall. There was no light except for the flames.
The room felt cold, but he felt the heat from the fire. He raised his hand and mopped his brow, the flames reaching out towards him as if beckoning for him to come closer. It was not like he had pictured it at all.
He turned back, hearing the deep, bass filled slam of a heavy door far in the darkness behind him. But he saw nothing.
It was eerily silent. The only noise he heard was the crackling of the flames, and a low hiss that might have been gas. Nothing else.
As he slowly moved forward, he slid his feet on the concrete floor and it sounded like paper rubbing on paper – he took a step, and then stopped and waited. And then he took another step, and he stopped and listened. And then he took a final step –
“You have come for me Ned!” a deep grating voice said.
He fell backwards. He heard the voice – coming from right in front of him – but he did not see the source. He scanned the room. There was a preparation table in the center of the room, the stainless steel surface reflected the flames back in his face – but little else. The four walls did not reveal any doors or other passages. So where was the voice coming from?
And no one else. Who was calling him?
“Ned!” it cried again, deeper and raspy, this time from his left. He snapped his head in the direction of the voice, only to see the green tiled wall in the shadows.
He slowly took a step back towards the hallway. He took another careful step backwards and bumped into a wall. He turned around fast, reaching his hands up and feeling the cold green tiles. His left hand felt something warm and wet against the tiles. Bringing his hand closer to his face to examine what he had placed his hand in, he saw the bright crimson.
Fresh blood.
“What the?”
He scanned the room again. The fires were raging like angry pits of hell in the wall burning with intense heat on the back of his neck. He desperately searched for an exit. He felt up and down, across the tiles, smearing fresh blood from top to bottom.
“Don’t go, Ned…” The voice continued, less deep, less raspy, less grating. “You have come to see me…”
Ned stopped.
For an instant, the voice was familiar. He knew.
“Stephen?” he asked the darkness out loud. No. No way, it can’t be.
No way.
But that is why he came. That is why he came here, because he knew. He knew that Stephen wasn’t really dead. He knew that from the moment that he was killed. He knew because he watched it. Through the trees.
It wasn’t much earlier. Stephen couldn’t have been lying at Heavenly Slumber for more than an hour or two. Last night, when his crying mother fell into her husband’s arms, he was not emotional nor was he surprised. He had just come from the scene of his brother’s death.
In life, Stephen was a strange character. He did not have many friends, but that was not because he did not fit in. He chose to be by himself, and write. He wrote and wrote, everyday he had something to say. Many times, he would sit in the hallways in the West Bloomfield High, his head buried in a journal, his shoulder length brown hair concealing his face.
He wrote furiously with a fountain pen that his grandfather gave him for his eighteenth birthday, and he always held his head with his right hand. No one could see his face. It was covered by his hair, and that’s how he chose to stay and sit, each morning, day after day, furiously writing in his journal.
And that’s the last time that Ned saw his brother until he saw him later that evening after the sun went down. Sitting in the hallway waiting for homeroom to start and the morning announcements to end, his head buried in his journal.
And then later that same evening, Ned saw Stephen through the trees. He didn’t follow his brother, he just saw him by chance. Pedaling his ten-speed through the woods on the side of Telegraph, he stopped short in a spray of gravel when he had heard voices coming from deep within the woods. It was the voice of two men.
And one of the voices sounded like Stephen.
“You want to live forever, don’t you?” the one male voice asked. He did not hear his brother’s response, it was too muffled.
Ned’s curiosity got the best of him, and he lay his ten-speed in the overgrown weeds at the edge of the forest, and eased his way in. It was just after dark, it was the kind of dark that wasn’t as dark as midnight but definitely past dusk. If he strained his eyes and peered through the trees, he could see the outlines of figures.