passing car. After all, it was past midnight on a residential street in a small town that pretty much rolled up the sidewalks at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m.
In the living room, my TV was turned off. In my bedroom the clock radio was my next target, but it, too, was off. I checked my laptop, my cell phone, anything electronic that might have decided to rebel and start playing music. All silent.
I listened, hard, straining. I didn’t realize I’d clenched my hands so hard until my fingernails stung my palms. I forced myself to relax then. The show had spooked me, but faint phantom music wasn’t anything to fear. I didn’t fear the dead. The dead don’t sing or play guitar, and as I listened with every muscle and nerve in my body, that’s what I heard.
I’d seen too many horror movies to try to find the source of the noise. There was no way I was going to slip down the stairs in my pajamas with an inadequate weapon in my hands to confront what surely was a homicidal maniac with a hook for a hand and his mother’s head on a platter. A maniac bent on desecrating corpses—and that was what got me moving, finally, an old golf club of my dad’s clutched in one hand.
If there was some freak downstairs, getting ready to disrespect the dead, it was my duty to stop him. They couldn’t do it for themselves.
The music started and stopped. As I reached the second floor I lost it. I stopped in the small, hidden doorway that closed off the stairs from the hall and listened. Nothing from my office or Shelly’s. I put my ear toward the bottom of the stairs and heard another few notes and the hint of a voice. On the first floor I stopped again, but I already knew whoever was playing wasn’t there. If someone was lurking, he’d be by the bodies.
My hand sweated and loosened my grip on the golf club. I paused to dry my palm and get a better grip. I thought of what I’d say and do. Too late, too stupid, I realized I’d been as much an idiot as the heroine of any slasher flick. I hadn’t called the police.
The stairs at the bottom were even narrower, and darker. I came out into the hallway leading to the embalming room, the laundry room and the closed door to the small lounge. I listened again.
Music. The slow pluck of guitar strings and a low, male voice murmuring words I couldn’t make out. I gripped my golf club tighter, in two hands.
Who the hell was singing and playing guitar over a corpse at one in the morning?
In a dozen steps I was in front of the door. With one foot I kicked it open and leaped through it, club held at the ready. I made a noise, something meant to intimidate, that sounded extra loud in the small room.
Three things happened. First, I remembered, too late, that Mr. Stewart was in this room.
Second, I remembered that Mr. Stewart was being watched over by members of his religious community in keeping with their customs. And third, the man sitting next to the coffin, the man with the guitar in his hand, jumped up at my entrance and turned, his face a twisted mask of terror.
It was a stranger.
It was Sam.
“Holy fucking shit!”
A string on his guitar twanged, protesting his tight grip, and snapped. Sam, whose face had gone as white as milk, staggered back and hit his knees on the back of the chair upon which he’d been sitting. He went over like a sack of rocks. The guitar hit the floor first with another protest, but though the sound of jangled strings was discordant it was not nearly as awful as the noise the back of Sam’s head made when it cracked against the tiles.
I gasped. I might have said something else, something not in keeping with the image of a calm and compassionate funeral director. It might have been something related to intercourse and waterfowl, I’m not entirely sure, because at that moment all I could think of was the stranger from the Fishtank lying sprawled on the floor near the coffin and the way his arm had jostled the gurney as he fell. And the way the coffin was now looking
In the living room, my TV was turned off. In my bedroom the clock radio was my next target, but it, too, was off. I checked my laptop, my cell phone, anything electronic that might have decided to rebel and start playing music. All silent.
I listened, hard, straining. I didn’t realize I’d clenched my hands so hard until my fingernails stung my palms. I forced myself to relax then. The show had spooked me, but faint phantom music wasn’t anything to fear. I didn’t fear the dead. The dead don’t sing or play guitar, and as I listened with every muscle and nerve in my body, that’s what I heard.
I’d seen too many horror movies to try to find the source of the noise. There was no way I was going to slip down the stairs in my pajamas with an inadequate weapon in my hands to confront what surely was a homicidal maniac with a hook for a hand and his mother’s head on a platter. A maniac bent on desecrating corpses—and that was what got me moving, finally, an old golf club of my dad’s clutched in one hand.
If there was some freak downstairs, getting ready to disrespect the dead, it was my duty to stop him. They couldn’t do it for themselves.
The music started and stopped. As I reached the second floor I lost it. I stopped in the small, hidden doorway that closed off the stairs from the hall and listened. Nothing from my office or Shelly’s. I put my ear toward the bottom of the stairs and heard another few notes and the hint of a voice. On the first floor I stopped again, but I already knew whoever was playing wasn’t there. If someone was lurking, he’d be by the bodies.
My hand sweated and loosened my grip on the golf club. I paused to dry my palm and get a better grip. I thought of what I’d say and do. Too late, too stupid, I realized I’d been as much an idiot as the heroine of any slasher flick. I hadn’t called the police.
The stairs at the bottom were even narrower, and darker. I came out into the hallway leading to the embalming room, the laundry room and the closed door to the small lounge. I listened again.
Music. The slow pluck of guitar strings and a low, male voice murmuring words I couldn’t make out. I gripped my golf club tighter, in two hands.
Who the hell was singing and playing guitar over a corpse at one in the morning?
In a dozen steps I was in front of the door. With one foot I kicked it open and leaped through it, club held at the ready. I made a noise, something meant to intimidate, that sounded extra loud in the small room.
Three things happened. First, I remembered, too late, that Mr. Stewart was in this room.
Second, I remembered that Mr. Stewart was being watched over by members of his religious community in keeping with their customs. And third, the man sitting next to the coffin, the man with the guitar in his hand, jumped up at my entrance and turned, his face a twisted mask of terror.
It was a stranger.
It was Sam.
“Holy fucking shit!”
A string on his guitar twanged, protesting his tight grip, and snapped. Sam, whose face had gone as white as milk, staggered back and hit his knees on the back of the chair upon which he’d been sitting. He went over like a sack of rocks. The guitar hit the floor first with another protest, but though the sound of jangled strings was discordant it was not nearly as awful as the noise the back of Sam’s head made when it cracked against the tiles.
I gasped. I might have said something else, something not in keeping with the image of a calm and compassionate funeral director. It might have been something related to intercourse and waterfowl, I’m not entirely sure, because at that moment all I could think of was the stranger from the Fishtank lying sprawled on the floor near the coffin and the way his arm had jostled the gurney as he fell. And the way the coffin was now looking
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