A Penny Down the Well: A Short Story Collection of Horrifying Events (9 page)

Clint continued. “Some guy
just got into the car while I was waiting for the lead car to get
directions, or confirmation or whatever.” He sighed, looking away,
saying in almost a whisper. “Some old military officer. A crazy son
of a bitch, too.” And the craziness of the man was subjective. The
way in which the meeting came on seemed “crazy” to Clint, but the
story was more tragic than it was crazy.

Kaylie leaned toward
Clint, being sucked in. “He just got right into the car?” The speed
of her speech increased. “What did he say? Why was he crazy? Did
you say anything back? Why did he get into your car?” The question
came one after another, like the rapid fire of a machine gun,
blasting holes through Clint’s weak comprehension of the
event.

Clint lifted a hand,
hoping to stop her. It did. He answered the way he cared to. “He
got right into the car. It wasn’t part of the plan, I don’t think.
He just started talking about an old war tale of his. A terrible
war tale, with blood and dismembered body parts and... I don’t
know, it was nuts.” And that, he believed, it absolutely
was.

Kaylie put a hand to her
chest and leaned back in her chair, in mild disbelief.

“
And... why did he do
that?” The only question she was able to muster in the second
round.

Clint shook his head,
watching her again. He spun his chair toward her and brought his
hands together, allowing them to hang between his legs.

“
I don’t know. I thought
maybe he was senile. Maybe someone had lost him. I didn’t have any
time to ask questions.” Nor did he have the nerve, he thought.
“When he finished talking, he stepped right back out and left. That
was it. He said what he said and then left. Nothing more to it.
Things went on... normally from there.” As normal as he thought the
situation could be, at least.

Kaylie’s mouth hung open,
then curled into a wide smile. “That
is
crazy!” She shouted, slapping his
knee. Kaylie seemed absolutely entertained and it struck Clint as a
bit weird.

“
Weren’t you talking about
how terrible all of this seemed not that long ago? It’s a little
unusual that you’re so damn interested in it all now.” Clint
couldn’t help but criticize her response.

Kaylie laughed and
shrugged. “Well,
I
would never do all of that myself. But, considering that you
did it, and have such a crazy story to tell... well, I have to
appreciate that a little bit. How crazy.” Crazy, it seemed, was the
word of the day. Clint thought it very suiting.

The two didn’t talk much
more about the event. Clint would never share the tinge of feeling
within him that spoke unsettling things, things like “it was a
ghost” or “it was the walking dead.” Clint didn’t want to say that
his first experience working with the funeral home company was
terrifying and that he didn’t want to do it anymore. Then, the pay
was good. His reason fought so incessantly against the possibility
of the supernatural that the only thing he could do is remain.
After all, it was reason that told him not to worry, because it was
unreasonable that such a thing would happen again. So would be
determined a few days later, when Clint arrived for his second
job.

In the funeral home, Clint
found himself more perceptive than he had been the first time. When
he looked at the crosses adorning the walls, he considered the
meaning they may have had to the people that walked the candle-lit
halls, on a march to meet those recently lost. With the staring
eyes of each painted picture of Jesus, the Christian savior, Clint
stared back, hoping to see something. As usual, he didn’t see love
or passion, insight or wisdom; indifference is what he saw.
Indifference may have been the very thing Clint needed to carry on
with the day’s task.

Clint gave a quick rap to
the door of Marie’s office and spoke up. “I’m here. Car’s waxed and
polished. You can take a look at it if you want.”

Marie looked up from some
paperwork and shook her head. “No, no. I’m sure you did just fine,
Clint, thank you.” And she gave Clint a bright smile. “So, I’m
guessing you’re ready to meet today’s client?’

The suggestion made Clint
wince. He was displeased with the thought of referring to a dead
person, waiting (if one did such a thing) to be carted off, as a
“client.” By no means was the dead person the client, Clint
thought. The client was the family. This analysis was kept to
Clint’s mind and he simply nodded, though he was certain his face
and silence expressed the negative.

Marie, uncaring or
preoccupied, stood and moved on past Clint with the keys to the
viewing parlor in hand. Clint followed. He eyed Jesus again. Jesus
eyed back. The second battle of the Mexican standoff came and
passed. Eventually Clint and Marie made it to the
parlor.

As there were before,
candles lit the room, though the majority of them were out. A dim
dome light near the entrance into the room gave a hint of
illumination to the dark room and stabilized the flickering he’d
experienced before. The demons were gone, Clint thought, and was
consumed by the thought until snapped away from it with the final,
halting click of Marie’s heel before the grey casket.

Marie gestured to the
picture of an old woman. The woman was exactly the visage of the
typical elderly woman, with many generic qualities. Her hair was
short and was a desperate mix of silver, grey and black; the black
an homage to the societal model hungry for youth and rebellious
against age. Clint new the elderly to be rebellious to little more
than their own creeping mortality, despite, though a stereotype he
understood, the majority of them were more religious than the
youthful. The hairstyle itself wasn’t youthful. No, instead she
displayed the image of a person, like many her age that were
interested in rekindling
their
youth, not the model of youth present. The large,
auburn-tinted glasses dated the time exactly when she may have
decided to stop moving forward with style and fossilize eternally
right where she was. Her lips with thin, but very red with
lipstick, a boldness Clint had only seen in women most recently.
Her eyes were small and brown, with hanging eyelids that left the
only contrasting white in the photo at a string of beads around her
neck. She wore a church-going sort of blue dress. She was just an
old woman, which was settling to Clint.

“
Her name is Maggie.
Maggie Wilcox. She was a dear old lady and the community here cared
for her very much. You can expect there will be a lot of friends
there at the funeral.” And Marie’s affections as she spoke,
dripping from each word thickly, brought Clint to assume that Marie
knew the woman personally at some point.

“
Alright. I’ll make sure
everything goes as planned. Follow the lead car.” Clint said with a
half-smile, sticking to what he knew and nothing more.

Marie nodded quickly and
stepped hastily past Clint. A sharp sniff suggested she may have
been crying, but before Clint could think any further of the
peculiarity of it all, Larry and Morton came in, Larry with what
was becoming a trademark, a tuna fish sandwich, and Morton with his
hulking size and uncomfortable silence.

With his mouth full, Larry
pointed off toward Marie and spoke aloud, casting fish particles
out of his mouth as men would have cast nets to catch the now
minced and chewed thing. “What’s with her?” Either the eating while
saying so or his general demeanor made the question lack much true
compassion.

Clint shrugged, truly
unsure, but likely more concerned than Larry was. “I think maybe
she knew the lady.” Clint looked back to the picture, joining a
second staring match. He muttered, “Maggie.”

“
Right.” Larry said,
glancing up to Morton, who didn’t bother to look back. “Well, we
got work t’ do kid, so maybe you should get your effects in order.”
Said like a true man of the business.

“
My effects?” Clint
replied quizzically.

Larry moved past him and
Morton went along the same. Larry shoved half of the tuna fish
sandwich into his mouth, using it as a placeholder while he
prepared to lift one side of the coffin. He shook his head,
watching Morton, but speaking to Clint. All that came out was a
muffled puzzle of words, but it was easy to identify that they were
said in a condescending manner. “Shrm tyrm krd, er shwer yer er
brggr sterf thrn thr durd whr durg ottr er...” And Larry nodded to
Morton. “Wrn. Tr. Thrur.” And they lifted the casket, moving it
over to a small dolly a short distance away. Larry pulled the
sandwich from his mouth after the casket was secured and he saluted
Clint with it before shuttling the casket toward the
hearse.

Clint sighed, looking back
to the picture one last time. He spoke softly toward it. “Don’t
think about coming to talk to me.” A gentle instruction and a
serious hope.

The procession brought
Clint to the gates, as he’d been before. He waited, anxiously for
things to move on, looking in his side and rearview mirrors. He was
waiting for anything that might have mysteriously opened his door
and sat beside him. This time, at least, he would be prepared.
Though, nothing came and the procession continued on through the
cemetery to the funeral site. Loads of well dressed, mostly elderly
people emerged from the parked limousines and ushered toward the
tent for the day’s event. A few strong men came and retrieved the
casket and it was gone. Clint took a deep breath, leaned back on
the cool leather and closed his eyes. He made it. Or, so he
thought.

“
You’d think that slut
Gertrude McCarthy would have a little more tact when coming to a
funeral! Instead, she takes an opportunity to flaunt her plastic
additives to all the old horn-dogs, most of them doomed to drool
all over themselves already, much less be inspired to make things
any worse!” The elderly, female voice echoed in the previously
silent place.

Clint nearly jumped out of
his skin. There wasn’t an opening of the door, or an image in the
mirror. There was suddenly a woman. It wasn’t any woman in the
passenger seat, either. It was Maggie Wilcox.

Clint’s hand shot to the
small metal bar that was the door handle and pulled relentlessly,
but the door didn’t bother to submit and fly open. He shoved and
prodded the automatic unlock switch, but no motor could be heard
signaling his release. Already, sweat beaded down Clint’s face. He
yelled, “What do you want from me?” and covered his face with his
hands, palms toward her in a defensive pose.

“
Oh, calm down, child. I
don’t want a damn thing from you at all. I just don’t want to be
out there with all them stuffy fools. I ain’t the type to attend
funerals. Never have been, never will be.” Maggie said loftily.
“But, as life goes, or death for that matter, it seems I don’t have
much of a choice in attending my own, do I?” And she looked back
Clint’s way, who still sat defensively, as if waiting for an
inevitable strike.

Clint’s heart beat wildly.
The woman didn’t sound or look threatening. She wasn’t the horrific
image portrayed in horror movies. There was no skin hanging from
her face and no eyes bulging from their sockets. Maggie appeared
very much as she did in the photo Clint had seen in the parlor at
the funeral home; dreadfully normal. However, it was that which
wasn’t normal was what paralyzed Clint into his protective
position. This woman was supposed to be dead, yet there she was,
sitting in the passenger seat.

A small, stuttering voice,
leagues less confident than Maggie’s snuck timidly from Clint.
“W-Why are you here? Y-You’re dead, right? How?” Clint’s hands
slowly lowered to examine the elderly woman not far from
him.

“
How?” She laughed,
rolling her head back. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I’ll
tell you, there’s something about this vehicle that feels...
right.” And her shoulders lifted before she took in a deep breath
and let it out a second later, resolving to a comforted
smile.

Clint glanced to the dash
of the hearse, then to the seats. It was just an old hearse. The
very essence of the vehicle’s purpose undermined, in Clint’s
opinion, any chance of it being “comfortable.” Then, to the dead,
maybe it was something different entirely.

Clint cast out
desperately, “I don’t believe in ghosts. You’re not
real.”

Maggie laughed again,
reaching a hand across to his knee to give him a gentle pat, a pat
that he felt as real as any other touch Clint had been privy to.
“We call those that ignore the truth before them ‘fools,’ child.”
With a gentle lean toward him, her eyes lurching a skeptical gaze
over those tinted glasses. Her tone and look were both calm and
motherly.

Clint slid up, pressing
his back to the driver’s side door that wouldn’t open. “If you
won’t answer how, then answer why? Why show yourself to me?” Less
threatened and becoming more curious, Clint waited for the
answer.

“
Didn’t I tell you, boy?
This place is comforting. Makes the spirit feel right. Probably the
last ride I’ll ever take.” Maggie’s voice fluttered, stricken with
the first sign of pain she’d expressed since her odd and unexpected
arrival.

Clint cocked his head,
feeling suddenly bad for her. “You have somewhere you have to go?”
Questions came. Important questions, the ones that Clint hadn’t
thought to ask before because they never needed to be. He just
didn’t believe and when you don’t believe, you don’t ask questions
about supernatural. Instead, you refute the supernatural. But, if
this was what Clint thought it must have been, there were
questions.