Ingrid had never married, a fact she couldn’t explain specifically, despite questioning glances from her few married friends, and disappointed looks from her mother. The men she had dated were unsuitable. Irritatingly simple and ceaselessly happy, in a moronic sort of way. She couldn’t take someone who was happy all the time.
Ingrid wasn’t, by nature, an uplifting person. That could be why she had been deigned official obituary writer for the Bugle. Writing obituaries for twenty years might have been depressing for another sort of person.
See, they just get keep coming. No matter what. People just keep dying. And, just when you think you’ve got this week’s obituaries all sorted away, a forty-year-old father of three comes through, after he drops dead of a heart attack jogging on a hot day.
For another sort of person, it might get to be too much. But Ingrid was perfect. She found writing obituaries comforting in a sort of way. As long as she was writing them, she had one-up on the dead. Those cold fish were suckers, losers. Unable to control their fate further, which was now held in Ingrid’s hands, poised at the computer key board. She smiled at that thought.
Currently, she was working on the obituary of one Paul V. Warren, III. Age seventy-one, at the time of his death, which, of course, was “blissful” and “peaceful” and surrounded by loved ones.
“Yeah, right, he was probably a drunk who died of liver failure,” Ingrid said to herself. She was alone in the small Bugle office and frequently talked to her obituaries out loud.
She preferred to process her obituaries in the evening, as it was quieter, without all the young reporters chattering excitedly about the latest unimportant story. This way, she also could avoid her editor, Dan, who probably preferred it this way as well.
In her earlier years at the Bugle, Dan Southers had been a managing editor and had shown a great interest in Ingrid’s career. He suggested they meet regularly after work, and that he could become her mentor. Despite his marriage and two young boys, Ingrid thought nothing of accepting the offer. It was a professional relationship, she thought.
For the first few months, that was how their relationship remained. Dan would give Ingrid specific assignments or journalistic exercises outside of her normal job duties, and at their weekly meetings at Duffy’s Pub around the corner, he would go over the corrections and provide her with the next week’s assignment. Ingrid had been grateful for her mentor’s assistance, and tried to convince herself that she wasn’t just a little more than professionally excited on Duffy’s day.
See, Dan, especially fifteen years ago, was hot.
Not in the Robert Redford kind of way, but in that powerful, intense, experienced, blue-eyed, sandy-brown-haired way. He was not very tall, but tall enough. He ran every morning, and his body was in perfect shape. He had a way of talking to Ingrid that made her feel as if he cared about more than her Associated Press style and her lead.
But Ingrid, who at the time was no slouch, either, had pushed these thoughts away and concentrated on her exercises. She had channelled her physical and emotional attraction for Dan into doing the best work she could to curry his professional favour. But, as the weeks went by, Ingrid had found herself dressing a certain way on the night that she and Dan were to meet. Sixty pounds lighter at the time, with her hair past her shoulders, unlike her severe cut she sported now, Ingrid would pick out a stylish miniskirt, or a buttoned blouse, with just one button too many open.
She’d catch Dan’s eye on her cleavage, or he’d brush his hand across her knee, reaching for his wallet or keys at the end of their mentor session.
One night, they stayed at the pub after they finished their exercises. Dan had been particularly pleased with Ingrid’s work on the week’s assignment and had said she almost didn’t need his mentoring anymore. That thought had shot fear into Ingrid, who had basically shaped her life around these sessions for the last several months.
They had continued to drink beer after beer. After a while, funny stories about the office led to talking about personal life. Ingrid had asked Dan about how he met his wife, and how long they had been married.
“We were college sweethearts,” he said, beginning to slur a little, “been married almost seventeen years, but she... you know... things, they change.”
“Change how?” Ingrid asked.
“Well, you know, more interested in shopping and the kids than me.... my work, foolin’ around,” Dan said, and laughed at himself.
Seeing her move, Ingrid leaned in, snakelike, and put her hand on Dan’s knee.
“That’s a real waste,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later, he was fucking her on the copyeditor’s desk in the darkness of the Bugle’s office. Ingrid was ecstatic, as she fumbled to find the front of her miniskirt by spinning it around her waist and digging her bra out from the recycling bin.
Dan, however, was not ecstatic. In a sombre discussion the following day, he explained that what had happened was a mistake, and he apologized. Ingrid had just sat silently and listened, until Dan told her that the mentoring sessions could not continue.
“But why not?” she had asked, fighting tears.
“Our relationship is just no longer appropriate to continue outside the office,” a business-like Dan that she didn’t know, said.
“If you need anything in the office, or have a professional question, see me any time but only during office hours,” he said.
Ingrid left his office, and part of her passed away.
Through the years, their relationship remained cordial. Dan became the paper’s editor, and always treated Ingrid with cold respect. She thought it had been easier for him to avoid her, as her looks went to shit. She gained weight, went gray, and didn’t care what she wore. When she asked Dan via e-mail if it was all right that she worked nights, the response came as quickly as a poisoned dart.
“Absolutely.”
Snapping herself out of the twisted visit down memory lane, Ingrid took to Paul V. Warren’s obituary, to make herself feel better.
“Well, Paulie, I may be an old spinster, but at least I’m not dead,” she said to the computer screen, and giggled.
Reading through the information supplied by the family, Ingrid grew increasing irritated.
“Who do they think this guy is? Elvis?” she said. The notes included every job the man had held since he was old enough to walk, including a paper route, every degree and school he had attended including middle school, every club he had belonged to and every volunteer position he had ever held.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Who the hell cares about all this shit? Maybe Paul V. Warren deserves an entire paper to himself, to properly lament his passing,” Ingrid said. The standard obituary took up about eight inches in the paper. Paul V. Warren’s was twenty-five inches.
After listing that Paul V. Warren was survived by his wife, ex-wife, three kids, four step-kids, nieces, nephews, hedgehogs, and canaries, the memorial donations were listed, as to be made to the Friends of Zohoro.
“That’s rich. Are they Zoro worshippers?” Ingrid snorted. She also laughed to herself, at the cryptic phrase at the bottom of the obituary.
Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.
“Didn’t I see that on a bumper sticker somewhere?” she asked Paul V. Warren, as she cut the saying from the end of the obituary.
She set to slicing and dicing the rest. After a few quick moves of the keyboard, Paul V. Warren’s obituary was neatly in the eight-inch category, with barely a drop of blood lost. Granted, he lost all of his volunteer positions, half of his surviving relatives, and his master’s degree in archaeology, but who cares. Ingrid certainly didn’t. And, Paul V. Warren didn’t. He was a dead loser.
In the world of the living, Ingrid had the last word.
“Later, Paul V. Warren,” Ingrid said, as she shut down her computer for the night.
She let herself into her studio apartment, which was stuffy and windowless for the most part, and dropped her purse on the side ta
ble.
“I hate this apartment,” Ingrid said to no one. She listened to her one answering machine message, which was the weekly sombre call from her mother, asking why Ingrid never comes to see her.
The next message was almost unintelligible, barely a whisper. Ingrid played it back. Still, she couldn’t hear it. It sounded like a man but with a severe case of laryngitis. She flipped through the caller ID, but the number was unavailable. Oh well, she thought.
Must be a wrong number.
Still, Ingrid felt uneasy. Her mind kept drifting to Paul V. Warren and the Friends of Zohoro. Why was she thinking about that loser?
“Come on, Ingrid, that’s your billionth obituary – since when do they get to you?” she asked.
She poured herself a glass of red wine and sat in front of the television. Maybe some boob tube would take her mind off obituaries and whispering voicemails. Normally, Ingrid didn’t watch television. She did not enjoy comedies, so sitcoms were out, and the rest was just shallow celebrities that people used to fill up their own empty lives.
“I notice no one ever includes how much television they watched in their obituaries,” she said, “Now, that would be an accurate statement for a change.”
Ingrid flipped through the remote control, until she came upon the black-and- white version of Night of the Living Dead. Ingrid wasn’t frightened by horror movies. She just thought they were stupid.
But now, she found herself transfixed by the people trapped inside the old farmhouse, and the shambling, starving corpses after their flesh. Ingrid found herself wondering if Paul V. Warren looked like any of those corpses right now. And, she got a chill throughout her.
“Jesus, Ingrid, get a grip!” she said, pouring more wine.
As she continued to watch the movie, Ingrid started to feel like her job very much mirrored the plight of the living, trapped in the farmhouse. Like them, she dealt with each dead person as they came at her, and like them, the dead just kept coming.
No matter how many Ingrid processed, sliced, diced, and published, the dead would keep on coming until she herself was dead.
What was that phrase at the bottom of Paul V. Warren’s obituary? She couldn’t remember now.
Ingrid decided to look up Friends of Zohoro on the Internet. There was no official Web site, but there were news articles.
“Friends of Zohoro banned from Orange County.”
The controversial Friends of Zohoro, a group that traces its origins to Voodoo, black magic, and other ancient mystical religions, has been banned from meeting in the area, after several animals have been found ritualistically sacrificed.
Estella Warren, spokesperson and leader of the local chapter, has not denied the sacrifices, but says that it is ignorance and fear that oppress her group.
“You refuse to learn from us, we can guide you and protect you, we bring you justice,” Warren said.
Warren. Ingrid wondered if this Warren was related to the infamous Paul V.
The next piece she found was a police report, describing the gory sacrificial remains.
“A rabbit and a coyote were dismembered alive. Those responsible used their bare hands to perform the dismemberment. After the limbs were removed, the animals were disembowelled, one organ at a time, and the organs were neatly placed by their sides.”
The police report also concluded that the sacrifice may have been performed in the rites of fertility, as it appeared an orgy followed.
Ingrid shut the computer off and went back to the television. She had learned all she wanted of the Friends of Zohoro. Stupid freaks. No wonder Paul V. Warren, the loser, was associated with them.
She dreamed that night that she was buried alive and felt animals chewing on her ankles. At least, Ingrid thought that they were animals. She felt the dirt start to shift above her. Someone was going to rescue her! She pounded at the coffin lid and screamed, scratching her nails to blood.
Finally, the lid shook and opened, and Ingrid looked up into the night above her hole.
There was a group standing around the open grave, a thin woman with long white-blond braids and colourful gown. Others faded into the dark.
“Rise,” the thin woman said. And, Ingrid listened. She was helped out of the hole and stood by it. This must be the Friends of Zohoro. Of course, I’m dreaming about them, Ingrid said. How could I not have? Freaks.
“Circle,” the woman said.
The forms around Ingrid formed a hand-held circle. They began to mumble. It grew louder.
“Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.” Over, and over. And over.
This is the phrase that was at the bottom of Paul V. Warren’s obituary, Ingrid thought. Makes sense that I dreamed that, too. But, she was beginning to get really creeped out. The night air felt too real on her pyjama-clad body.
In the distance, behind the circle around her, Ingrid saw a form. Barely distinguishable in the dark, but there all the same. Then, another. Then, three more.
Ingrid started to panic, when it looked like there were increasing numbers approaching, and getting closer.
The chanting stopped.
“You know them,” the thin woman said, pointing in the distance.
“N-n-no, I don’t,” Ingrid stammered.
“You know them. It is time,” the thin woman said.
The faceless members took Ingrid’s arms and legs and held her down flat to the ground, easily overcoming her struggling.
As the approaching shapes got closer, in the moonlight, Ingrid could see that they resembled the corpses in the horror movie she had watched earlier, and laughed.
“This is a dream,” she shrieked over the resumed chanting of the crowd.
The first corpse approached and in a dirt-choked, disintegrated vocal chord way, said:
James T. Scarpelli
Ingrid’s mind raced. What the hell? It was only as the creature leaned over and took a bite out of her calf that she remembered faintly that was an obituary she had cut in a half. She screamed in pain and fear. Her calf was bleeding from the open wound.
Ingrid struggled. Dream or no dream, she’d had enough.
A teenage girl’s corpse approached her next, not too badly decayed, but milky-white eyes and razor-blade wounds glaring against her pale skin.
Alice Stedman.
Ingrid screamed again, as Alice bit off her right ear.
“Who fucking cares that you were valedictorian in eighth grade!” Ingrid said, remembering and screaming.
As they kept coming, Ingrid calculated in her head and realized that there had to be thousands of obituaries out there that she had dismembered. Thousands of....
And she screamed and screamed.
The last corpse she saw before passing out was an older gentleman, who hardly looked like a corpse at all. By now, Ingrid was almost eaten to death and was moaning in agony and hysteria.
The white-haired man almost looked kindly upon her face, as he leaned in to deliver his name.
Paul V. Warren, III.
Then he smiled, and bit off her face.
The next morning, the landlady noticed that Ingrid’s apartment door was open and knocked cautiously. Ingrid didn’t like interruptions.
“Ms. Fowler, are you all right?” she asked.
The old woman made her way into the apartment and heard nothing. It wasn’t until she entered the bedroom that she realized Ingrid was definitely not all right.
Her five minute long scream ended in a blind faint.
The police had never seen anything like it, and the only clue was a mysterious message on the voicemail. After many replays, the message was finally understandable. It sounded like a warning.
Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.
All that was left of Ingrid fit about eight inches, nicely.
Christmas Spirit
by Tracey Goodwin
Christmas. The most stressful time of the year, with Christmas dinner being the ultimate peak of tension. Bad enough with one set of guests,
but at number twelve, The Downs, two sets were beginning to arrive. The conventional set, comprised of assorted relatives, arrived in the normal way, but the ghosts had no need to knock on the wreath-adorned wooden door.
Emily, the resident ghost, was there already, sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, reading a novel. Emily wasn’t fond of Christmas at the best of times, because she’d died on Christmas Day and didn’t like to be reminded of it. She’d choked on a coin hidden in the Christmas pudding, and was now fated to drift around the house, moaning out an eerie warning whenever she came across any loose change. Only her cautions to be careful with pennies made people think that their subconscious was telling them to go easy on the credit card, rather than making them afraid of a coin-related demise.
A portly face burst through the wall next to her, making her jump.
“How about a Christmas kiss, then?” said great, great, great-uncle Wilfred, beaming at her in rather an alarming manner. He noticed that he’d startled her. “For goodness sake, girl, pull yourself together. You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.” He laughed mightily at his own joke, then looked around again. “Where IS everyone? What sort of Christmas party is this supposed to be without any guests?”
Emily became aware of a cold breeze tickling the back of her neck. There was no reason for the draught – all the windows were double-glazed and all the doors were closed. The draught intensified and an eerie moaning began, a doleful sound, as if all cheer and hope had died. Emily shuddered, and even as she watched, the draught began to take on a misty form, then solidified and poured itself into the shape of a person.
“Cyril, why can’t you stop that nonsense and come in through the wall like everyone else?” Wilfred demanded. “You sound like an escaping fart.” There was a muffled pop and the figure of an elderly man appeared, as gaunt as Wilfred was stout.
“Don’t see you coming in through the wall,” Cyril remarked. He was right; Wilfred was still puffing from the effort of passing through the front door, and only his head was in the living room. Going through solid objects was a lot harder for the more generously proportioned, although Wilfred wouldn’t have used an open door, any more than he’d have bought a bigger size of clothing – it would be admitting failure.
Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 Page 17