The faint hum beneath the foundation answers me, subtle, but unmistakable. The residue of decades of respectful crossings. The veil is extremely thin here. Cleanly maintained at one point, and intentionally built.
What is the veil, you ask?
It's like an invisible wall separating the living world from the afterlife. Necromancers happen to be one of only a handful of beings with the ability to find an opening and conjure spiritsfrom the other side. Think of the veil as being an invisible door, and me having a key to open said door.
“Alright,” I say to the building. “Can I see what we’re working with inside?”
The breeze stirs again, this time rattling the decrepit white swing to the left of the door. I’m not sure what that means, but I choose to interpret it as a positive sign of approval. I jiggle the key, and it rotates halfway before stopping once again.
“Come on,” I mutter, leaning closer to add my shoulder to the effort while aggressively wiggling the key.
The lock emits a noise that sounds suspiciously like a warning.
“Listen,” I tell the house quietly as I set my coffee on the porch railing. “I respect you setting boundaries, but if I’m going to make you pretty again, you have to let me in.”
I plant my hand against the door and shift my weight forward, applying what I would generously describe as strategic optimism in the form of a firm kick. The key finally turns with a grindingCLUNKthat reverberates through the entire door frame.
“Yes!” I shout triumphantly, doing a little jig.
I blush a deep red when I realize my elderly neighbors are chuckling at my antics. I wave and act like they aren’t watching me struggle to do the simplest task in the world.
I turn the knob and push the door, but it doesn’t budge. I guess I celebrated a little too early. I try again, putting my weight behind the push. The door gives an inch before sticking, refusing me entrance into my own home. I brace my shoulder and shove one last time.
The hinges release a long, theatrical shriek that echoes through the quiet neighborhood like something straight out of a horror movie as I stumble through the open door. Dust falls from somewhere above, floating down in a cloud and covering me completely.
“…Wow,” I whisper to myself in awe.
The building creaks faintly.
“Don’t act coy,” I tell it. “You know how amazing you are. A little spit shine and duct tape, and you’ll be looking good as new.”
I retrieve my coffee from the porch and step back inside.
The air is stale, smelling of dust and something faintly floral, like the ghost of funerals past. The door closes behind me on its own with a softCLICK.
“So, youdoknow how to behave,” I joke.
The entryway is narrow, but filled with potential. Dark wood chair rails line the walls, worn smooth in places where decades of hands must have brushed past. The busy patterned wallpaper is peeling slightly, but the sheetrock underneath appears to be in decent condition. An antique coat rack leans against the wall, one of its legs lying on the floor next to it.
To the right, double doors stand half open to the viewing room. The navy carpet is worn flat along the center aisle. Stacks of folding chairs line the walls, and heavy velvet curtains cover tall windows, the outside of which are covered in a layer of green mold. At the front of the large room, the casket platform sits empty. Waiting.
I walk down the aisle, feeling along the veil for disturbances. Nothing catches. No restless spirits. No lingering grief. Only the quiet echo of lives that have long moved on.
Back in the lobby, I continue my exploration of the first floor. The office contains a massive oak desk and a dented metal filing cabinet that has definitely seen better days. A kitten calendar still hangs on the wall, and it’s almost fourteen years out of date.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “that explains some things.”
Down the hall, there is a supply closet tucked beneath the stairs and the preparation room that sits behind a swinging door. I leave that alone for now, not wanting to think about the amount of work that will be needed to get that part of the business up and running.
Instead, I follow the hallway toward the back staircase. The carpet runner on the stairs is so worn that the wood steps show through. The banister is smooth and covered in a layer of grime from years of balancing hands.
I climb slowly, admiring the frames lining the wall next to the stairs. Obituaries are framed with pressed flowers. There must be more than a hundred of them. Clearly, my uncle was a sentimental man. Makes his avoidance of the family even more curious.
The living space upstairs is modest but bright, thanks to two large windows overlooking the street.
Art covers the walls, old New Orleans-style slate paintings fill the available space, shrinking it but adding so much character you hardly notice anything else. Lots of sad clowns painting happy clowns and jazz bands dancing in the street.
Like the rest of the building, the furniture is covered in dust, the rainbow couch and floral pillows in desperate need of a good cleaning. I admire my uncle’s ability to go against standards and lead with his personality.
