by A. L. Mengel
COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER
All rights reserved. All characters and plot elements originally created by author A.L. Mengel and fully protected by Copyright 2007-2014.
This work is on file with the Library of Congress 2009-2014 in the United States of America and is recognized as such.
Any similarity to any other work in any format, written or filmed, published or released; unpublished, unproduced or unreleased, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Any quoting for any other published work must be approved in writing by the Publisher or Author.
All characters are originally created by A.L. Mengel. Any similarities to any person, living or deceased, is also unintentional and purely coincidental. Any similarities to any other fictional character, from filmed, published or unpublished work is unintentional and purely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction. A.L. Mengel holds all rights to this novel, including television and film rights.
This novel was published in the United States of America by Parchman’s Press, printed by Createspace and distributed by Amazon and Barnes and Noble Booksellers, among others.
www.parchmanspress.com
www.facebook.com/parchmanspress
ISBN-10: 0989377377
ISBN-13: 978-0-9893773-7-9
Cover artwork by Shoutlines Design, LLC.
Seattle, WA, USA
www.facebook.com/shoutlinesdesign
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ABOUT A.L. MENGEL
A.L. Mengel is a writer of Supernatural novels and short stories. His works have been called a "complex examination of relationships" with strong anti-heroes.
His works address issues of alcoholism, intolerance, grieving and death, fear of the afterlife, and the journey for understanding, among others.
His protagonists, some of which are angels and demons, are frequently found on a search for purpose or transformation, which are recurring themes in his stories.
A.L. Mengel grew up reading Stephen King and Anne Rice, two of his favorite authors. He first found a love of writing upon taking a Creative Writing class in High School - but did not become a more serious writer until becoming an Arts and Entertainment Editor in Philadelphia, and later while taking another Creative Writing class in Miami where he was inspired to complete his first novel.
More recently, he has connected and interacted with his readers via "The Writing Studio" on his Facebook page where he shares his writing methods and inspiration. He enjoys time with his two dogs and two cats, and loves to write outdoors as much as possible.
ALSO BY A.L. MENGEL
Ashes (The Complete Novel)
The Transformation
Dirty Little Secrets
The Coming of the Green Mist
Curtains and Fan Blades
The Other Side of the Door
Nesmaron’s Egg and a Casket Full of Ashes
Find more about A.L. Mengel and his works on his Facebook page or www.almengel.com
REVIEWS FOR “ASHES”
"Scary"
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"Lush and Resonating..."
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"Mengel's scene setting and shifts in perspective will not disappoint..."
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"...A.L. Mengel has written a beautiful novel..."
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"...the cleansing act of forgiveness – the power of that simple act is shown tremendously in this story."
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"The prose is a feast for the eyes."
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"His craftiness by weaving the story lines gradually together like ribbons on a maypole is nothing short of a stroke of genius."
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"The book will raise questions about purpose and sanity, but never strays from the final message – that imperfection is never absolute."
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“A Masterpiece…”
Read the reviews in their entirety on www.amazon.com and www.barnesandnoble.com
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
I treasure you all.
For you make it happen. You are the reason why I sit in front of a computer screen in the wee hours of the morning or the late night to build these characters and craft these stories. Those of you who have not made it to the A.L. Mengel Facebook page, I urge you to. It’s multi-layered, like my storytelling.
I have built the page to appeal to more than those who read my novels and short stories. But also to appeal to lovers of music, art, spirituality and philosophy. And you will find it all there. My writing encompasses so much in my life; characters reveal themselves to me slowly, over time, and that is how I reveal them to you. And on the page, I share with you my inspiration, drive and method. It’s all there.
For those of you who are familiar with my writing style, I will let you know that this novel is far different from Ashes. It is a walk down the path of vast evil, but in that darkness, the light does shine through. And here, I present to you my sophomore novel, the sequel to Ashes.
This novel was many years in the making with many different people involved – from those who I talked to in the beginning stages while crafting the initial storyline, to those who painstakingly put together the final product in the publication process. I owe a great debt of gratitude to all of those involved in the process of creating and publishing this novel. Thank you all for your assistance in creating this beautiful and profound story.
When I first started this book, my life was very different. I had just finished Ashes, and I was reeling from that moment when I wrote the words “The End”.
But I had another story inside me to tell. New characters revealed themselves to me, new dreams gave me direction, and familiar characters did not want to be silenced.
So now, let’s let the horror continue.
A.L.
THE QUEST
FOR
IMMORTALITY
A Novel
A.L. MENGEL
THE SECOND BOOK OF THE TALES OF TARTARUS
FOR TY
For pointing me back towards the light
There were many others involved in the creation of this novel. For all of you who were involved in the process – whether it be friends and family for a phone call, reading a passage, designing a cover with a very particular author, or other authors who I bounced questions off of in Groups online or in person – thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
And, most importantly, I thank the readers. Those of you who have embraced Ashes and this series of novels. Without those of you who like and who are engaged on the A.L. Mengel page, and who read my writing, I would not be where I am today.
Thank you.
Now, let’s really let the horror continue…
“Emile, I’m comin’ in,” she said quietly and carefully, as she turned the squeaky doorknob, the concern showing on her face. “I hope you’re okay, and I hope that you hear me ‘cause I’m comin’ in right now…”
-“TRAMOS THE CONQUEROR”
THE
MORTICIAN’S
MORTICIAN
________________________
Stephen died on a Tuesday.
It was his destiny with death.
But still, he got his wish.
He didn’t die in a hospital connected to machines.
He was in his backyard in the bright warmth of the sunlight, surrounded by his family and friends, and, just as he had requested, at the moment he passed and his death was declared, a flock of white doves was released, flying upwards towards the sky. Stephen’s body lay on a large lounge chair, spread out and overlooking the expansive gardens that he had tended before his health had failed him.
Now that he was dead, the eyes that overlooked the yard saw nothing, but in essence, the presence of his body still took command of the gardens. And as the doves flew ever farther away, and spread out towards the blue heavens, there was a silence that fell over the small group on the terrace that sunny morning. As Stephen’s closest family members fell into each other’s arms in tears, not far from the lounge chair, Darius stopped and stared at his friend. He looked down at the frail arms, the sunken cheeks, and the sullen eyes.
He knew that Stephen had been ready for a long time.
For Stephen had been angry with the world since he contracted his disease, and ever since they had formed their friendship and fought together, he got another reason to live, to forage on, and to get just one more day in the world, even if the ending was inevitable.
*~*~*
The morning sun kissed the sky two days after Stephen died.
The warm rays touched the sidewalks and evaporated the morning dew, the orange fiery beams of light awakened the world, as the sky to the west gradually transformed from black, to blue, to pale to brilliant – and then to the growing shadows that ensued elongated; the warmth and the heat, the sweat and the caffeine.
The sun warmed the city during the midst of a wintertime cold front. It was a rare presence these days, and the citizens of Miami were out and about reveling in its warmth and hospitality, even treasuring the cooling shadows that each building formed as the sun rose farther into the sky. Some shoppers would find respite in the cool shadows, others sought the ocean and the beach. But there was one shadow that formed throughout the morning, somewhat separated from the others.
But it was there, and many didn’t take notice of what created the shadow until they didn’t want to face it.
It was the shadow of the Heavenly Slumber Funeral Home. It wasn’t terribly large, considering it was a one-story building. But it was imposing nonetheless. And the shadow covered cars as they passed by. The shadow successfully blocked the sun, and, when one were to look at the front doors, one might wonder if there were a permanent shadow.
Stephen’s body had arrived at Heavenly Slumber Funeral Home just before dawn from the Morgue. Ned McCracken was clutching the autopsy report in a manila folder in one hand, as he hovered over the body of Stephen Henry Drake. The report contained some hastily written notes, but what stood out to him was the cause of death, Pneumonia as a Complication of AIDS.
Ned McCracken grabbed a white coat, grabbed some rubber surgical gloves from the kit and placed them on each hand, paused and looked at Stephen’s face.
The man looked at peace.
Very smooth skin on his face, thin lips, and manicured eyebrows. The eyes were already closed, but Ned secured them anyway with white medical tape, by placing a strip across each eyelid. He picked some cotton from a jar on the counter next to the preparation table, and pulled it apart into wispy strips. He stopped a moment at the lips.
The man seemed to be smiling.
Was he?
Ned looked throughout the preparation room.
The pale green tiles were the same that they always were. The room felt very clinical. Like it could have been in a hospital. There was the cold and dusty tile on the floor, the heavy, steel door with the small window in the center, and the stark, steel countertops.
The chill was always there.
The striking smell of alcohol, mixed with the stench of rotting flesh, and the overpowering scent of formaldehyde.
It was always there.
Everyday.
And when he left each night, he carried the smell with him on his clothes.
The smell of death.
He couldn’t get away from it. It followed him everywhere. But he knew this was the life that was he was meant to live.
And then Ned looked down at the body again. At Stephen.
What did you do, my friend? To get something as devastating as AIDS?
But the man seemed to be at peace.
He longed not to disturb that peace, but he needed to fill the cheeks. They were sunken dramatically on both sides, to the point where the cheekbone was highly visible through the thin layer of flesh. This man was clearly dying for a long time.
Ned shook his head and paused for a moment. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Some of these cases were some of the most complex. AIDS, Cancer. They were all wasted away. And it was his job to make them look like they did before they got sick. So he fished for some gloves from the box on the counter, and started to pry open the lips.
Dead skin.
The cold, hard, uninviting flesh of the corpse. Tough, firm, cold.
It was so difficult to manipulate, to form into something that wasn’t horrific.
He knew that he had to handle the face with care. For if he didn’t finish this task soon, the face would freeze in a state of surprise and that just wouldn’t do. The time to manipulate the skin and flesh and prep the body for viewing was very finite. And Ned knew that he couldn’t waste any time with this one. The corpse came in wasted away, and he had to fill the fill and get it ready for display.
That was the everyday task at Ned McCracken’s job.
As he stood over the body, bending down towards the face, he took great care in parting the lips, and the jaw, using both hands to pry each layer of lips and teeth away from each other, he placed a wad of cotton in the left, and then the right cheeks. He removed his hands and let the jaw close.
He stood back for a moment and looked down at Stephen.
Ned nodded for a moment, and reached down to adjust the chin. He stood back again and studied the corpse. His forehead wrinkled and he reached up and stroked his chin. “More to the right,” he said, and reached down again, pried open the jaw, and stuffed some more cotton on the right side of the mouth.
“There.”
He stood back to admire his work.
The cheeks looked noticeably fuller. The man now looked like he could have been sleeping. But there was a large, purple lesion at the base of his hairline above his right eye. Ned reached for his makeup kit, and searched for a foundation that would match Stephen’s skin tone.
It was pale, but he had a camouflage crème that would work. He searched through the plastic box and found a shade that might match Stephen’s skin tone. He knew that the family would be wanting to view their deceased loved one as if he were sleeping; sometimes, Ned achieved that goal. His mind started to wander as he started to apply the makeup to Stephen’s forehead.
He remembered, a while back, a boy was wheeled in after getting hit by a car riding on his bike. He was thrown fifty feet. His skull was crushed.
Ned had felt the boy’s head, and it felt like a bowl of jelly. The bones were shattered underneath his scalp. The family had begged for an open casket. But Ned knew that the possibility existed that he would not be able to prevent the corpse from being grotesque. There were large gashes on the side of the boy’s head. But the mother insisted.
And Ned was one of the top Morticians in Florida.
He was able to work his magic, he applied the just-so shades of makeup to cover the gashes, filling the wounds with cotton and covering it with a layer of clay, smoothed over very delicately with the detail and precision. And then, the makeup would come into play. The foundation, his artistic palette. While the gashes on the sides of the cheek were there, it did not matter. They were not visible once he was finished; Ned worked his magic.
And when the family was ushered in to the Biscayne Room for the initial viewing, there was no indication that the boy was anything other than asleep. The body lay in a small, white casket with rose tinted lighting and flowers surrounding the coffin, and when family members passed by the casket, stopped for a few moments to shed tears and view the young boy, no one noticed the line on the side of the face – where the makeup met skin, where the clay was covering the cotton, there was just the slightest imperfection if one were to look extremely close at the finest of details.
But Ned was not worried.
> Because the family was not concerned with that tiny detail.
They knew that their boy was mortally wounded. They knew that Ned was behind closed doors, working his magic, preparing their boy’s body for viewing one last time. They didn’t care about those little details. They longed for the big picture. They wanted to see their son as if he were sleeping, and that’s what they got. The details, Ned was able to conceal. Because concealing is what it’s all about, that’s what Ned had always been taught.
And that is exactly what he was doing with Stephen and his purple lesion on the forehead just at the hairline. Because Ned knew that Stephen would be having an open casket.
There was no reason not to.
“The cheeks are sunken,” Ned had said to his assistant, Pat, when Stephen’s body rolled into the morgue on a shiny, silver gurney which gleamed in the harsh florescent light. “They have to be filled.” Ned pushed some hair away from the forehead. “I have something that can cover that.”
“Says he had AIDS,” Pat had said, his southern drawl still eminent despite living in Miami for several years.
Ned looked up. “Oh did he now?” He returned back to the body, examining all parts that would be on display in a coffin. He paid close attention to the hands. “He had nicely manicured fingernails. That’s surprising for an invalid.”
But after Stephen’s body was prepped, ready on the table, Stephen had seen exactly how macerated the man had become.
The purple lesion on Stephen’s forehead at the hairline proved to be one of many.
Pat had cut the pants and shirt away from the body with a pair of scissors. As the clothes fell to the floor, each rib was taught against the skin, and several more lesions on the torso were revealed.
