R.I.P.

by Charity B.

  Copyright ©2019 by Charity B.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without approval from the author. Doing so would break copyright and licensing laws.

  Editor: Kim BookJunkie

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design: Simply Defined Art

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Deadication

  Part One: Rest In Peace

  Undertaker

  Rigor Mortis

  Cremains

  Body Bag

  Removal

  Formaldehyde

  Toe Tag

  Mausoleum

  Reaper

  Part Two: Rot In Pieces

  Graveyard

  Orphaned

  D.O.A.

  Coffin

  Corpse Tea

  Morgue

  Bopped To Death

  Deceased Childhood

  Mourning

  Six Feet Under

  Will And Testament

  Heriotza

  Tombstones

  Manslaughter

  Blood Lust

  Homicidal

  Cadaver Cake

  Cut Off

  Haematophiliac

  Urn

  Human Creations

  Cereal Killers

  Deathbed

  Little Killer

  Body Parts

  Stab

  Ashes

  R.I.P. Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Books By Charity B.

  About The Author

  Author’s Note

  As an independent author, your ratings and especially reviews mean more to me than you realize. If you enjoy the book, please consider lending your support by leaving your thoughts in a review.

  While I did my best to accurately portray Schizoaffective Disorder, this story is in no way a representation of the disorder or those affected by it.

  Trigger Warning

  This book contains many triggers. If you are not comfortable reading about taboo subject matter, gore, explicit/graphic situations and disturbing content, this book may not be for you.

  To the nine other amazing authors in the Thou Shall Not Anthology: Michelle Brown, Murphy Wallace, Ally Vance, Faith Ryan, Natalie Bennett, C.M. Radcliff, C.L. Matthews, M.R. Leahy, H.B. Jasick, and Faith Ryan… This story wouldn’t exist without you, and I am beyond honored to have had my name next to yours.

  Azalea

  25 years old

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I really don’t mind staying home. The kids will be awake soon, and I know you haven’t been…” Micah’s light blue eyes scan the morgue, searching for the perfect words that don’t exist. “Feeling well lately.”

  You’re a worthless piece of shit.

  Everything’s going to be okay.

  He hates you!

  Not ‘feeling well.’ That’s a pleasant way to put it. Since becoming pregnant with my youngest child, Adriel, I’ve changed—become someone new. At first, things felt clearer. Brighter. As if someone had turned the earth’s light on. But now, I’m drowning.

  My eyes see things no one else’s can, like the brown, gooey glob creatures with sharp teeth and skeletal legs that follow me. Only I can hear the voices that scream, whisper and sing, peeling apart my brain piece by piece. My reality is not the same as those around me.

  I’m barely able to wake up in the morning let alone take care of my kids. Even mustering up the energy to have sex with my husband is impossible. I’m twenty-five years old, and I act like an old woman. Work, sleep and holding my little boy are the only things I look forward to.

  Waste of life.

  Shhhh.

  ‘You make me happy when skies are gray.’

  PATHETIC CUNT!

  Worst are the thoughts I have about my newborn daughter. Just last night, while she watched me from her swing, I washed the filet knife from dinner. As the soap ran down the blade, all I could hear was: Stab her. Things will be so much more peaceful without her. KILL HER! The voices were so loud, I screamed at the top of my lungs to get them to stop.

  I’ve never felt anything like this with my son, Malakai. With him, all I’ve ever experienced is love and the overwhelming desire to protect him.

  “I’ll be fine,” I respond, though I’m not sure how long ago he asked.

  Disinfectant burns my nose as I brush the blond hair away from the glassy eyes of the cadaver. The black holes that sometimes appear to me spread across his face, growing larger, deepening into his flesh.

  I point to the baby monitor. It looks odd, crawling with huge, one-eyed maggots when everything around it sparkles clean. I often wonder how Micah would react if he could see the things I do.

  “I’ll hear them when they wake up. Besides, I don’t think Mr. Olson here will mind if I take a break to tend to them. That’s why I wanted you to bring the T.V. and their playpen down to the hall this morning—so they can watch cartoons while I work.”

  He does mostly everything around the house, so I attempt to control my irritation at his failure to do what I asked. Then I question if I’m remembering correctly and glance toward the hall to see if the playpen is there. As his raven hair falls across his narrowed eyebrows, he gives me that terrified look I’m so tired of seeing. He needs a haircut.

  “You never asked me that, Azalea. The only thing we discussed this morning was how you wanted me to make your eggs.”

  You’re a fucking stupid bitch.

  He loves you so much.

  AHHHHHHH!

  He’s under a lot of pressure right now, and I despise myself for adding to it. Being a pastor has been his dream since we were in high school. He’s always been full of faith, desiring to spend his days honoring God. Now it’s finally happened.

  The Baptist church hired him three months ago when the prior preacher passed. His plans are grand, and his passion is one of the things that made me fall in love with him.

  Ignoring the brown, gooey, glob-like creature crawling across his head, gnashing its teeth, I adjust my goggles. At least I’m able to pull myself together enough to do my work. This may be a small town, but being the only mortuary keeps us above water.

  “I’m sorry, I must have just thought I mentioned it. It’s all right. Go on, have a good day. I’ll get it. You have a church to run.” I smile up at him with all the authenticity I can muster.

  He sighs, hugging me against his tall frame. I hate my desire to pull away.

  “I love you,” he whispers. At the same moment, Adriel cries over the monitor. “I’ll grab the T.V. and bring the kids down.”

  Nodding, I follow him up the stairs for the playpen before setting it up in the hall outside the prep room. The maggots that seem to follow me everywhere crawl across my feet, blinking up at me with their bulging, cyclops eyes.

  In the nursery, Micah coos at Adriel in his arms. Black, slimy webbing grows from the ceiling, moving as if it’s breathing. The maggots crawl across it and my skin beads with sweat as the voices scream: They’re going to hurt him! Then murmur: It’s not real. None of it’s real.

  “They can’t touch him,” I whisper.

  Malakai’s standing in his crib, holding his hands up, waiting for attention of his own. My palm rubs against my chest. They can’t hurt him. I pick him up, his tiny arms around my neck my only source of joy.

  You don’t deserve him.

  Sweet, precious boy.

  “I’ll bring him down. You can
bring Adriel,” I tell Micah as I back out of the kids’ room.

  One day shy of a year apart, my children couldn’t be any more different. Where Kai was always a happy baby, Adriel does nothing besides cry. More than once, the bodiless voices have told me to hook her up to the embalming machine just to make her be quiet.

  I situate Malakai in the playpen and kiss his jet-black hair as I softly sing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.”

  Micah carries down Adriel, lying her down next to her brother. Malakai is such a sweet boy. He clearly loves his sister the way he cuddles with her like she’s his stuffed giraffe.

  Continuing with preparing Mr. Olson’s body, I clean the dead flesh with disinfectant solution while Micah retrieves the tiny T.V. from the kitchen.

  Adriel wails, and I rub my temples raw at the screeching sound. I can’t concentrate like this!

  Make her shut up!

  She’s your little girl.

  I almost sob with gratitude when Micah returns with not only the

  but the diaper bag filled with a bottle for Adriel and snacks for Kai. Guilt weighs on my heart as I watch my husband risk being late to his new job to help me with the children that I should be able to take care of myself.

  With food and Blue’s Clues to occupy them, they quiet down. Micah makes his way back to me at the embalming table. “Maybe we should see about a nanny?”

  It’s fine, everything’s fine.

  You’re nothing.

  Worthless cunt.

  He’s sincere in his suggestion, only making me feel worse. Money is tight as it is, and hiring a nanny would be solely for my incompetence.

  “We don’t need a nanny. Paying Bennett is bad enough.”

  “Bennett’s a necessity and a blessing. You should appreciate him more.”

  He’s right. My brother is the only family I have since my father died. Not to mention, I’ve never been interested in the business side of things. I prefer the dead over the loved ones they leave behind. Bennett takes care of the families and finances. All I have to do is prepare the bodies and tend to my children, yet I can’t even handle that.

  “I do appreciate him. I couldn’t do this without him. It’s just…we’re strapped. I wish I could do more.”

  We dropped every last penny we had into this place when we took it over from my father. Even though Courtenay Family Funeral Home is a small operation, it takes a lot of money to run.

  He wraps his strong arms around my waist and bends down to kiss my neck. “Pray about it, Azalea. God has the answers. I don’t.” I do pray, but what am I supposed to do when the voices are louder than any answers I may receive? He lifts my chin and gives me a smile, trying so hard to hide his worry. “The only thing I know for sure is I love you. You and our babies. I would do anything for the three of you.”

  “I know you would. Now go, you’re going to be late.”

  Glancing at the playpen one last time, he backs toward the stairs. “Call if you need anything.”

  YOU ARE SHIT!

  You are beautiful and lovely.

  Shhhhh.

  I sigh. His uneasiness at leaving me alone grates on my nerves when I should be seeing it as sweet.

  “Of course.”

  I stand over Mr. Olson inspecting my work. He looks pretty good. There wasn’t much deflation with his eyes, and he had naturally full lips. I push up the right side of his mouth just a hair so he appears more peaceful. The poor soul. He was barely into his thirties.

  With ear-bleeding music from the kids’ television show in the background, I wheel Mr. Olson into the embalming room, leaving the door open in case Malakai cries for me.

  My hands are perfectly steady when I work. Only when I work. A small incision above the clavicle and another one to open the artery is all that’s needed to insert the tube. I take the surgical blade to make my last cut at his jugular. The embalming machine whirs when I turn it on, drowning out the bings and boings of the cartoons.

  Watching the pale blood scurry down the drain, I tug at my gloves and lean over the cadaver to massage and adjust the body.

  “Why didn’t they stop me?”

  The raspy voice is different from the ones in my mind, startling me and making me jump away from the table. My heart ricochets around my chest cavity, becoming worse once confirming I’m alone. I stumble over the boot covers on my feet to check on the kids when a cold hand grabs my wrist over my polyethylene gown. I’m able to scream for barely a second before it gets caught in my throat. Mr. Olson’s eyes are open despite my putting in eye caps to ensure they don’t do that. The cloudy irises stare at me, causing nausea to swirl in my belly.

  “Nobody stopped me.”

  Terror forces immobility onto my limbs as I shake my head. I’m completely crazy. I wired his jaw shut. How is he speaking? What am I talking about? He’s fucking dead!

  Smell the flowers, blow out the candles.

  My breathing slows, though his pressure on my arm gives new meaning to the term ‘death grip.’ With a shaky breath trembling through my lips I whisper, “Stop you from doing what?”

  “They trusted me. I was their teacher.”

  His lips stay still, yet I can hear him as clear as I hear myself when I ask, “Who?”

  “The boys!” he screams. “For years I scared them into letting me touch them. None of them told. Nobody ever stopped me. I would have kept doing it if death hadn’t intervened.”

  Tears burn my eyes as I try to pull my arm from his grasp. All I can imagine is his hands touching Malakai. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you need to stop them. You need to stop them before they do any more damage.”

  I shake my head again. What the fuck is happening to me? “Who? Stop them how?”

  “The sinners and evil doers of this world. The same way I was stopped. Death is the only answer. Who better than an undertaker? A henchwoman of the grim reaper?” He finally releases my wrist, his hands resting across his stomach just as I had arranged them moments earlier. “Evil leaves a residue, a feeling you can sense in your gut. Most people ignore it, unaware of what they’re experiencing. Don’t ignore it, Azalea.”

  My nostrils flair with my rapid breaths. His eyes close, and he lays as still as…well, a corpse. The words he spoke burst apart in my brain as I nudge him.

  “Mr. Olson?”

  Lifting my face guard, I walk into the prep room and out to the hall, watching my children who are oblivious to the evil around them.

  Malakai

  14 years old

  I swear I’m gonna jump over the desk and choke this bitch with her ugly-ass green scarf if she says, ‘do you understand?’ one more fucking time.

  “I just don’t get it. The fighting, the cheating and now a weapon?” Principal Richards holds up the blade I pocketed from the Wiggle Mart. “This is very serious, Malakai. Do you understand?”

  With flaring nostrils, I grip the wooden armrest of her office chair and glare at her. “It’s not like I stabbed anyone.”

  Her beady eyes widen only for a second before she narrows her gaze at me. “I had no choice but to call Pastor Micah. He’s on his way.”

  Sweat wets my hairline, my heart picks up pace, and I slouch in the chair. I’m completely screwed. He warned me not to mess up again. I cross my arms to look out the streaky, snow-covered window.

  My dad’s the pastor at First Bethel Baptist and how lucky for me, the only church in town besides the Catholic one on Main Street. Around half the teachers are members of the congregation, giving them some weird sense that I’m somehow their responsibility.

  I scowl at Principal Richards while we sit in mostly silence—besides her dramatic sighing every five seconds like she’s expecting an apology. Yeah, right. She’ll hyperventilate before that happens. Her frazzled, red hair sticks out around her head, and her pencil tap, tap, taps against the desk, driving me crazy.

  Leaning back in her seat, she takes off her wiry gl
asses. “Technically it’s against school policy to ask you this, but since I know your parents on a personal level, I feel it’s all right.” The chair squeaks beneath her weight before she makes eye contact with me. “What’s your relationship with God like?”

  I snort and shake my head. That’s not hers or anyone else’s business. “Probably about the same as your relationship with your diet.”

  Her red lipstick-smeared mouth falls open, and I kind of feel bad, but she asked for it. A knock at the door has us both looking up to watch my dad walk into her office. As soon as my eyes meet his, I want to disappear. He doesn’t acknowledge me when he holds his hand out to Principal Richards.

  “Hello, Janet. I’m sorry—I have no words. I don’t know what’s gotten into Malakai this past year. His mother and I are at a loss.”

  She waves him off. “It’s a tough age. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I shove my hands under my arms to keep from grabbing my knife when she holds it up to show him. I hate people touching my stuff. “This, however, cannot happen again. I have to keep the other children safe. He’s suspended for three days, and if he’s caught with any type of weapon again, expulsion may be the next course of action.”

  “I understand completely. This won’t happen again.” I feel his gaze burning against my temple before he digs his fingers into my shoulder. “Do you have something you want to say to Mrs. Richards?”

  My eyes meet her brown ones when I hold out my hand. “Can I have my knife back?”

  The second my smart-ass response leaves my lips, my father grips my shirt, yanking me to my feet.

  “Why don’t you try that again, boy.”

  I sigh in defeat and say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Richards.”

  She nods before I’m shoved out of her office by my father. He towers over me as we walk down the hall in silence. Once we reach the glass double doors, he pulls on his leather gloves and fastens his black scarf.

  “This was your last chance, Malakai. Things are about to change drastically.” He pushes open the door, and a flurry of snow blows across my face the moment I step outside. I follow him to our station wagon, seeing my sister, Adriel, already in the front seat. Turning to me he snaps, “Riding in a warm car is a privilege—not a right. We’ll discuss this at home.”