AHMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

"You're not really dead,” he exclaimed.

  "And you're not really a werewolf,” replied the corpse, as he lowered his arms and seemed to collect himself.

  Realizing his face was now exposed, Yarnell pulled the rubber mask back down.

  "If you're not dead, then what are you doing in a coffin?"

  "I sometimes sleep here,” said the man. “But what, if I may ask, are you doing in the funeral home at this time of night? In any case, we don't do trick-or-treaters."

  "I asked you first,” responded Yarnell. “I've never heard of anyone sleeping in a coffin, except maybe for vampires. You're not one of them, are you?"

  "Depends upon who you ask."

  "Huh?"

  "Well, if you ask my ex-wife, she'll say I sucked all the life out of her youth."

  "What's that got to do with you sleeping in a coffin?"

  "She got everything in the divorce, so I needed a place to stay. Unfortunately, with the expense of alimony and all, the owner here doesn't pay me enough to live on."

  "You live in a funeral home?"

  "Yeah, I clock out and hide in the closet until the owner leaves for the night. Then I pick out a cushy coffin to sleep in. I'm here at work so early in the morning that the owner thinks I'm one dedicated employee. Considering the present circumstances, my paycheck goes further, and it makes everybody else happy."

  For the second time tonight, Yarnell found himself running out of words.

  The thin man reached out and touched the werewolf's rubber nose.

  "You're not really trick-or-treating, are you?"

  "Not last I knew."

  "Then why are you wearing that mask?"

  Before he could answer the man's question, Yarnell detected footsteps coming in from the hallway.

  "Who you talking to?” inquired Beaumont, as he entered the display room.

  Yarnell gestured a hand at the freshly risen corpse.

  "This guy wants to know why I'm wearing a mask."

  "Who the hell is he?"

  "He sleeps here."

  "In a coffin?"

  "That's what I said. In any case he wants to know why the mask."

  "Because we're burglarizing the joint and don't want to be recognized,” replied Beaumont.

  "Why didn't you hit the jewelry store next door? They've got plenty of valuables."

  Beaumont threw up his hands. “Hey look, so I made one little mistake. It could happen to anybody. Geez, give me a break. Think you could do better?"

  The man shrugged. “At least I can tell a funeral home from a jewelry store."

  Thinking all they needed was a fight in the middle of a burglary, Yarnell stepped in between the two. “The owner keep any money in this place?” he asked the man in the coffin.

  "You could try the safe."

  "Where's that?"

  "In the owner's office."

  "I looked there,” muttered Beaumont, “no safe. You think I'm blind and stupid?"

  "Did you look under the round wastebasket?"

  "Under the wastebasket?"

  "Yeah, it's one of them round floor safes."

  "I don't believe this."

  The thin man in the pinstripe suit crawled out of the casket. He straightened his tie, led the way into the office, and flipped on the overhead light. Picking up the round wastebasket, he pointed.

  "There."

  Sure enough, a safe concealed in the floor.

  Beaumont dropped to his knees and tried the safe's handle. It didn't move. He spun the combination dial. The handle still didn't budge.

  "Damn."

  "Exactly,” said the man.

  "You know the combination?” inquired Yarnell.

  "Could be."

  "What do you want to open it?"

  "In my present circumstances, I frequently find myself in need of extra money, some of that cash that's not traced by a W-2 form."

  "So?"

  "So maybe you could teach me to be a burglar like you guys—"

  Beaumont stood up from the floor. “What?"

  "—except maybe with better planning,” finished the man.

  "Let me kill him,” muttered Beaumont.

  "Look,” said the man, “I'm not making any money here in the funeral home, but I can keep this as a day job because nobody will suspect an undertaker's assistant of being a burglar on the side. We're too respectable. Just take me with you on a few jobs so I can learn the ropes, then I'll branch out on my own. No problem."

  "We can't—"

  Yarnell quickly placed his hand over Frankenstein's flat cardboard mouth and hustled Beaumont off to a nearby corner.

  "Just think about this for a minute, Beau. We're not in the jewelry store we're supposed to be in, so we're not going to make a big haul tonight..."

  "Oh right,” whispered Beaumont, “side with a complete stranger on my one little mistake. Some guy that you just met tonight, and him in a coffin, at that. How do you think that makes me feel?"

  Yarnell patted Beaumont on the shoulder. “Take it easy. Now tell me, can you open that floor safe on your own?"

  Beaumont muttered something.

  Yarnell leaned forward.

  "What?"

  "I said no. It's one of them Rabson models, the one brand of safe I can't crack. Yet."

  Yarnell put his mouth close to Beaumont's ear and whispered. “Then, if that man over there doesn't open the safe for us, we won't get anything for our troubles. Let's just humor him and see how it goes."

  "Fine, but you stand responsible for him and anything he does. I wash my hands of any guy what sleeps in a coffin. I'm telling you he ain't right in the head like we are."

  Putting a friendly expression on his face, Yarnell stepped forward and gazed at the thin man in the pinstripe suit.

  Silence ensued.

  "What?” said the man.

  "It's okay,” said Yarnell. “I'm smiling at you."

  "No you're not."

  Yarnell started to argue, then realized that the werewolf still covered his face. He raised the mask up to his nose and tried another smile, but the intended friendly result was found lacking. “Now what's wrong?"

  "Oh sure, the lower half of your face is smiling, but I see wolf eyes staring at me from the top half. I'm going to need some reassurances from you guys if we're going to work together."

  "What kind of reassurances?"

  "Well, for a start, since I'm a partner in this burglary, I ought to get one third of the proceeds."

  "No way,” exclaimed Beaumont.

  "Give it to him,” whispered Yarnell, “otherwise we get nothing and I need the money."

  Beaumont slumped down onto a nearby office chair. “Okay. Do it already."

  "I got one more condition,” said the man. “The owner's going to know he was burgled by somebody, so I can't be here in the morning when he opens up, which also means I can't risk living here anymore. I'll have to go home with one of you guys."

  Beaumont almost grinned. “He's got a point there, Yarnell, and since I gave in on the first condition, this one's all yours."

  "I only got one bed,” said Yarnell, “and me and the missus sleep in that one."

  "I'm easy,” piped up the thin man. “How about a couch in the living room?"

  "My wayward nephew has to crash there fairly often."

  "Got a closet?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'm good."

  Before Yarnell could say anything more, Beaumont jumped in. “Done. Now open the safe."

  The thin man walked to the desk, turned over the telephone and pointed at a slip of paper taped to the bottom. “There's your combination."

  "How'd you find that,” inquired Beaumont.

  "There's no television in this place, so when my insomnia kicks in, I have to do something for entertainment. I've probably searched the entire funeral home. Several times."

  "I'd have found that piece of paper sooner or later,” murmured Beaumont.

  Five minutes later, as Yarnell got to counting out h
is share of the loot, one thousand and three dollars plus a handful of change, he started doing the math. He had just enough money to pay next month's rent. “This isn't gonna work."

  "What doesn't work?” asked the thin man.

  "I still don't have enough cash for Christmas presents. We're gonna have to pull a big job before Thanksgiving."

  The thin man grinned. “Excellent, already we're planning my second burglary. This is really great working with you guys."

  Yarnell found trouble mustering any enthusiasm.

  "Cheer up,” Beaumont whispered to Yarnell, “it could be worse."

  "How's that?"

  "Our new burglar in training could be living in my closet."

  Yeah, right. Yarnell now started wondering how he was going to explain this new pinstripe-suited closet dweller to his wife. It had been difficult enough getting her to accept the nephew's frequent overnighters, and that kid was almost normal.

  Plus, upon further contemplation, Yarnell admitted to himself there was no way now he'd ever be able to enter even his own closet again without flashbacks from the prior job or else mental flinching from someone now living in there. If it wasn't one thing, it was three things or more. This meant another trip to the head doctor and, even with a medical degree from some online college, that man didn't come cheap. Money, yep, Yarnell needed lots more money. Seemed crime didn't pay enough these days, especially if you had to split the take with partners.

  Copyright (c) 2008 R. T. Lawton

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  OKL UEO PYNLA HD PKYO FEG OH FQRK HCALN PKEG OKL QSX UEO—PKYO FEG UKH AYA GHP LTLG ZQOPYDW KYO LVYOPLGRL MW OILGAYGS KYO DHNPQGL HG KLN. OKL IHYOHGLA KLN KQOMEGA.

  —LNYR EFMCLN

  CIPHER: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: CARRYING THE NEWS FOR A DEAD PAPERBOY by James Van Pelt

  How Bragg got started in it, I'll never know, but I felt the green fog that surrounded him; I knew what interested him. It's what gave me a chance.

  My closest encounter came when he backed his ‘59 Buick out of the driveway and hit my bike. It was my fault, you see, that my bike was there. It didn't have anything to do with him not looking where he was going, not that I think he could see through his sunglasses or his cloud of cigarette smoke, so maybe it was my fault, but BANG, my bike goes flat and all the other paperboys look at it, thinking I'm sure, thank God it wasn't their bike in Bragg's way.

  He steps out of the car, doesn't even look to see if he's dented his bumper, then grabs the front of my shirt and pins me to the chain link fence. It's a tall fence, so my feet are maybe a yard off the ground. I can hardly breathe because his fist tightens my shirt up around my neck, and the fence gouges my back. The greenness that is him engulfs me. Not an ordinary grass green, but bad cold snot green, smelling damp and mangled, like leaves torn to bits and smeared into pulp.

  Mom sighed when I took the paper route job. “You're getting so big,” she said, but I wasn't big enough to hold off Bragg. My dad left before I was old enough to teach me how to defend myself. Bragg picks me up and I feel six again.

  "You're a frickin’ moron, Scotty,” he says, blowing his cigarette and bratwurst breath in my face. He had to be really upset because Bragg usually cursed in the most interesting way I'd ever heard. Once he said in his nasty Irish brogue to a paperboy who'd bumped him, “May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of your breast and bark in your soul-case."

  You don't hear that every day.

  He lets me go. He doesn't throw me; he just releases his grip, so I drop straight down. My knees buckle, and I'm face to face with the cement.

  The other paperboys stand in a half circle, watching what I'll do. Of course they think I'll do nothing. Bragg is three years older than the rest of us; he drives a car, for crying out loud, and he's been shaving since he was five I guess. Even so, I'd done a lot of reading, and I'd thought about what I'd do if Bragg ever came at me.

  It doesn't do any good, you know, the futile gesture, but I've always liked the idea of one. If Bragg was going to stomp my head for denting his bumper with my bike, I wanted to take a shot, so I roll over on my back and say, "Go scriosa an diabhal do chroi," which is Irish for “May the devil destroy your heart.” I'd been practicing the pronunciation for weeks. Mom told me my smart mouth would get me in trouble.

  I felt the green fog that surrounded him, smelling damp and mangled.

  He takes a step back. My victory is in his one-step retreat, but it only lasts a second. The afternoon sun glares behind his head, making his face as dark as a cave, then he crouches beside me. I'm in his green fog again. In a low voice he says, “I'd squash you like a kitten, but I'd rather wait till Samhain. Be guarding your backside asswipe. I know your house."

  So he leaves me lying on the cement, puts his leg over his big black bike he keeps at the paper shack. The joints have been welded so many times it looks lumpy and organic. He pedals toward his route, leaving his car parked on top of my bike. We watch him roll away, the gray bags filled with papers bumping against his front wheel. Then he turns a corner and is gone.

  "Scotty, you're going to need a good disguise the next time you see him,” says Mike, my best friend.

  It is just another day at the paper shack, the last normal one for me, only I don't know it. You see, after his route is done, Bragg picks up a friend for an evening of hell raising, and they decide they want some girls along. So they go to this house where these two sisters live—one's a sophomore and the other's a freshman at the high school—except the girls’ brother is there, and he doesn't want his sisters dating Bragg and his buddy. There's an argument, I hear later; one-fingered salutes are exchanged, and then Bragg and his friend give up. They climb into their car and drive off. Only the brother is still mad, so he reaches into a closet next to his front door, pulls out a deer rifle, then takes a shot at Bragg's car. The bullet goes through the trunk, through the back seat, through the front seat, through Bragg, and out the windshield.

  The car goes off the road, onto a guy's yard, knocking down a mailbox, coming to rest in a thick privet hedge.

  Bragg's dead.

  The next afternoon, before the papers are delivered, Mike says, “Let's see the body."

  I lean on my bike, trying to act cool, but my insides shiver. “Why'd we want to do that?” The clouds hang low. Rain has fallen off and on all afternoon.

  Mike looks at me like I'm a weird bug. “I've never seen a dead person before. You chicken?"

  Which I'm not, not of a dead body, anyway, but it's Bragg's dead body. I straighten up. “If you think we can get in, let's go."

  The mortuary is across the street, next to the White Spot Café. Nothing like a little formaldehyde to make your food taste good, I figure. Mike leads the five of us through the mortuary's double doors. The foyer is warm and bright compared to the overcast. Our coats smell of wet street and soggy leaves. A receptionist sitting at a desk by the door says, “Can you boys sign the bereaved book?"

  A minute later I'm standing behind Mike and the gang as they file past Bragg's coffin. His hands are across his stomach. Mike looks back at me, then at the corpse. Everyone is so quiet. I'm thinking that I can turn around right then, walk down the little hallway and out of the mortuary. There's no reason to see him; I didn't like him when he was alive. The flower smell coats my throat. If I put my finger in my mouth, I figure I could swab it out.

  "Come on,” Mike whispers. Without deciding to, I take a step forward. Bragg's nose and cheeks come into view. He's facing straight up. It's unnatural how square his shoulders are, how perfectly aligned his head is. Whenever I see someone sleeping, their head tilts a little to one side or the other, but
Bragg's head is locked into a perfect line with his neck. Then I'm beside the coffin, my hand brushing the polished wood. Bragg's face is smooth, his cheeks flush, and I realize he's wearing makeup.

  I bump into Mike, who isn't moving. “Looks like a mask,” he says.

  Bragg is only a foot away. His red painted lips don't look human at all. I'm thinking about the reading I'd been doing, the Irish reading, so I could counter Bragg. It's not just leprechauns, you know. Nasties filled Bragg's world: banshees, trolls, devil dogs, Fomorians, and the bad half of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the gods of old Ireland. I'd been watching Bragg's backyard from my bedroom window for a year. I watched him dig his own sidhe, a fairy mound to hide in, and he'd built a henge out of sawed-off sections of telephone poles he'd cemented upright into holes and six-inch beams to top them that formed a circle fifteen feet across, and then, last Halloween, when I first started getting really scared, I watched him slaughter Mrs. Wisnewski's Pekinese. The moon had been full, and my binoculars saw it all: his naked pale chest, the hunting knife, the little yippy dog he'd tied to a picnic table bench.

  The knife plunged, and out of the wound flowed the green fog. It had a shape, it did, for a second, a head and eyes, and it towered over him. Then it turned and looked at me, straight through my binoculars. I whimpered, but kept watching. Bragg chanted. From a hundred yards away, I could hear him. The green shape bent. It surrounded him. Became him. Weeks of reading later, I decided Bragg must be a Druid warlock, if there ever was such a thing. There was the Irish accent he picked up after that, for one thing, and the oaks he planted around Scrap Wood Henge that grew so fast, and the interesting curses. Bragg moved in a different reality.

  Mike leans over the coffin. I almost reach out to hold him back, but my hands quiver in paralysis behind me. Mike whispers, “Do you think they plugged it?” I half expect Bragg to sit up, to seize Mike by the throat.

  "What?” I say. The buzz of our voices is too loud in the room.

  "Do you think they plugged it, or ... you know ... left it?"

  Bragg's jacket is taut across his chest. I figure they didn't put makeup under his clothes. What did they do with the bullet hole?

  I giggle.

  Mike gasps. The boys behind me whisper for a second.