A bang from above freezes us in our tracks. A door slams shut, and Jesse releases a string of profanity vile enough to make a pirate’s ears bleed. “My dad is home.”
Jesse slams a button on the computer, closing out the open screens.
Panicked, I say, “You can’t let him come down here. It’ll just be the three of us, and after Mr. Hale—”
I can’t let Jesse fight his own father if the thing takes Elias. Not to mention our cover would be blown, and Jesse’s dad would probably force his son to stay away from me. One curse on Jesse’s plate is bad enough, and adding the girl next door’s might be too much for Mr. Talbot to handle.
“I’m aware,” Jesse grinds out. “I’ll go upstairs and tell him my truck’s engine is busted. When you hear the door close, turn left for the kitchen and sneak out the back door. There’s a hole in the chain link fence you can fit through.”
Inanely, I think,So that’s how he got to the front door without crossing the driveway.
Without waiting for my input, Jesse unlocks the door with his thumbprint. He grabs a clipboard from the rack and uses it as a doorstop, forcing the door slightly ajar. “Don’t let the door shut,” he says. “Only my dad and I can open it.”
“Trust me, I won’t. Getting stuck in here would be the final nail in the coffin.” I laugh nervously. “Get it?”
Jesse stares at the ceiling for a long beat. When he lowers his gaze, it’s unbearably soft, his panic temporarily shoved to the wayside. “Yeah, Mansour. I get it.”
Jesse disappears, leaving me alone in the mortuary. Without thecomputer to focus on, ignoring the corpse on the other end of the room becomes impossible. I fiddle with Mr. Talbot’s tools, but the knives and stitching equipment gross me out. The air conditioner clangs to life, shaving another few of my nerve cells to the nub.
Why hasn’t the upstairs door shut yet? What’s taking so long?
I tug curiously at the red handle of one of the metal lockers on the far wall. The latch catches, refusing to open. I try a blue handle. It unclicks easily. There’s no one lying inside, thankfully. I hastily shut the locker door.
After accidentally inhaling a few too many chemicals, I hop onto a metal slab and lie back, tucking my hands neatly by my sides.
Wedding rehearsals, graduation rehearsals, why not death rehearsals? I’m more likely to die than graduate at this point, aren’t I?
Jesse’s dad will be the one who cuts me open, probably. He’ll have no choice.
I turn my head to the large rectangular mirror reflecting the length of the mortuary. My hair spills over the side in a black wave.
If Jesse’s research proves true, if my mother really was trying to break the curse … that would mean there was a solution. A way to survive.
In the mirror, the sheet-covered corpse on the other end of the mortuary sits up.
My heartbeat slows. Subsumed under a tidal wave of terror so potent, I can taste its sour tang under my tongue. I lay still on the table for six seconds that stretch out into eternity. In those six seconds, a reel of disjointed thoughts flick through my mind like credits at the end of an old movie.
I should’ve gotten the second cartilage piercing on my seventeenth birthday instead of waiting for my eighteenth.
Who will take care of Baba when I’m gone?
I wish I’d adopted a hamster. Everything would suck so much less if I had a hamster.
And finally:I miss Mama. Monster or not.
The white sheet slides from the corpse as it stands, revealing the pale, puffy, and very naked form of a middle-aged woman. A long line of stitches runs from her throat to her pubic bone. The thin lines of a tattoo twist over her hip, unreadable under the peeling flecks of skin. The flap of her skull curls at the edges, where it’s been surgically carved into a U-shape above her neck.
Where was the rot smell to warn me? The orange eyes? Bluish veins coil over the dead woman’s white eyes. It’s almost as if the thing simply plucked the nearest human-shaped entity in the room to control.
Jesse was right. It hasn’t just gotten stronger; it’s gotten strategic.
The corpse stands between me and the door. Slowly, I slide off the metal bed. Maybe if I injure it and run, I can make it to the stairs before it recovers.
Can you even injure the dead?
Limbs stiff with petrified flesh move toward me. I spring into action, grabbing a handsaw from Mr. Talbot’s workstation. Shrieking at the top of my lungs, I swing the saw without aim. In my frenzied grip, the saw meets it mark, gouging a gash across its chest. The would-be fatal wound doesn’t slow it down.
The corpse grips my arms, knocking the saw loose, and hurls me into the door. I collide against the solid surface. A loud snap rings in my ears.
