Better Off Undead

by Martin H. Greenberg

“I see what you mean about the poetry,’’ I said, pouring him another drink.

  “It got worse. She put the tooth back. And I found I was shrinking. Stiff-backed, limp-leafed. Bound into a collection of three epic poems: Malocclusion, Caries, and Decay. Doomed and trapped there until I could give her the whole tooth. . . .’’ He shook his head. “I was undead with a toothache . . . and not even able to get some relief from it by actually dying. Being undead goes on longer than being alive does.’’ He downed his drink.

  I poured him another. The boss could take it out of my salary if he liked. “But you plainly got out,’’ I said, feeling my own jaw in sympathy.

  “Eventually. It took me two hundred years. Still,’’ he said, smiling, showing the gap in his teeth, “things are looking up. I’m enjoying being undead without the ache. And I got the time knocked off eternity, because I’ve already had two hundred years of damnation without relief. No relief from pain and none from the poems. I don’t know which was more agonizing.’’

  “So how did you break free?’’ I asked, curious. That was plainly a powerful spell. It could be a trick worth knowing.

  “More luck than skill,’’ he admitted. “You know, life as a haunted limited edition folio of three epic odes by a literary poetess of the early nineteenth century was not an easy one. I had to be read to communicate—by moving the letters around. Otherwise I was limited to eerie, tortured moans and a bit of poltergeist work. I was part of the Poet Gnawreate’s estate. She died a wealthy woman, thanks to her clever marketing and tax-free status. Childless and unmarried, though, so the estate had to be divided among her relations.’’

  “So what happened?’’ I asked, curious.

  “Well, the cousin who inherited me, together with her house, didn’t last the night. Old Maggie found my moans a pleasure to listen to. He didn’t. He was planning to burn all her books. But I ran him off by midnight. He froze to death,’’ said the tax man with some satisfaction.

  I nodded. “No finer feelings. Should have been more sensitive about literature. If he’d read you . . .’’

  “Yes . . . but it took a while to find anyone ready to do so. More people write poetry than read it, alas. I saw more of New England than I wanted to. In display bookcases. On shelves in kitchens. Above smoky fireplaces. In some damp chests. I must have been responsible for half the reports of haunted houses in America. No one ever looks at old books as source of ghosts. I was thrown away once . . . but retrieved by an upwardly mobile scavenger. Mostly people keep old leather-bound books, they just don’t read them. I did trips out west, and even a voyage to Bermuda. Pleasant climate. Hell on books. My pages got quite foxed, and it lowered my moan an octave. That was quite nice in its way. I could shake walls when the tooth was really driving me mad.’’

  “No problem with exorcists, then?’’ I asked. I’d had a brush with them myself once. That’s one of the problems of being undead. Everything eventually happens to you, and it’s very hard to live a regular life. Or open a bank account.

  The tax man pulled a face. “One of them—a do-it-yourself fellow—thought I’d do for the book in bell, book, and candle. Give me a proper religious practitioner any day . . . that was close. It would have done dreadful things to me. I got him just in time with a poltergeisted tea-pot. I thought the cycle of haunting would never end. But eventually I ended up in a secondhand bookstore. I’d just about ruined the book-seller when a deaf dentist came in and perused his stock.’’

  “It’s like shaking a piggy bank. Eventually you get a coin out.’’

  “Yes. Mind you I’d gotten very tired of shaking, even shaking walls. But finally I’d struck the jackpot. Except he wouldn’t open the book. Just thought the title looked amusing, drat him. And I didn’t dare drive him mad or shake the walls. I had to modulate my moaning. I poltergeisted any other books out of the place. And he just kept buying more. It took me a full year to get every other book out of the house, before I could get him to open me. And then I could only alter my print in rhyme. You try doing that all the time. It’s like running in slime. It’s a crime. . . .’’ He sighed. “Sorry, one of the aftereffects of the spell. I’m a poem in remission.’’

  “You got liberated, though.’’

  “Eventually. It happened like this: picture the scene.’’

  “My girlfriend has left me. My friends won’t visit. The cable company has refunded my subscription. I’ve lost four hearing aids this month. I have bought thirty-one paperbacks this week. Every one has gone missing. My life is mess,’’ said Dr Jim Edwards to the slim leather-bound book that was his sole companion in the house’s smallest room. “Malocclusion, Caries and Decay. Three epic poems by Maggie Inplank. If that doesn’t move me, nothing will.’’ He opened the book. He was one of those souls so conditioned to reading on the john that he found it nearly impossible to go without one.

  “Your various problems are

  many,

  Your pleasures are few,

  If help to me you render any,

  I’ll help you too. Awoooo.’’

  “Good grief. And she got this published? What has it got to do with malocclusion?’’ said Dr Edwards, looking faintly nauseous.

  “A hole in my tooth was my woe,

  And to the witch dentist I didst go,

  With a toothache in this book she trapped me,

  Set me free, I’m in pain pain pain pain, aieeeeeeee!’’

  “I swear the letters moved. And what rot. It’s enough to induce constipation. . . . Holy mackerel! The toilet roll is levitating! Who the hell locked the door? Help!’’ And he tried to break the door down. It took him a while to look back at the floor. To the toilet roll, which had unraveled to form letters.

  “HELP

  BOOK’’

  As he watched, “BOOK’’ turned to “LOOK’’ . . . and he pounded on the door frantically. There was no one else in the house, and it was a good solid door.

  Eventually, desperation made him pull up his trousers and open the book.

  “From this book of poetry,

  You must set me free,

  And liberated you too will be,

  Ahhhhh, Aroooooooweee.

  I’m in pain, pain, pain,

  Please fix this tooth again.’’

  He sat down on the only available throne. “A haunted book of poetry. With a toothache. I have finally gone crazy.’’ He reached into the pocket of his white coat, pulled out a vial, broke the top off, and poured it onto the pages. “Novocain. Just what every slim folio of self-published poetry needs.’’

  “Thank you! Oh the wonderful relief,

  The tooth has given me much grief.’’

  “It’s talking to me. The damned book is talking to me.’’

  “You and I never will be free,

  Until whole is made the tooth that bound me.’’

  “Oh, now I’m supposed to do a root canal on a poetry book? What about a simple extraction? I’ll tear your pages out until you let me go.’’

  “Your death would be chilling

  But a filling would be thrilling

  And to let you free I’d be willing.’’

  “And just how do you do a filling on a poem? Anyway, do you have a dental plan?’’

  “Dental man, be a gentleman,

  Help a poem without a dental plan

  Or finish your life in the can.

  Of letters I the tooth can make.

  Fix it and remove the ache

  And free I’ll let you break.’’

  He felt in his pockets. “Open wide. Ah. I see the problem. You really should have taken better care of your teeth. First filling I’ve done with magic marker.’’

  "Now in a pentacle the book you place,

  Certain magic symbols you must trace,

  Needs must I should go down to hell,

  Make a deal with the devil, before all is well.’’

  “I’m a dentist. Not a Satanist. There is a difference, you know.’’

  “
If rid of me you want to be,

  You’d make haste

  Not in idle debate, while waits my fate

  My time do waste.

  Being meek, Maggie Inplank, I must seek

  The last hurdle must be faced.’’

  The dentist drew the pentacle and the circles nine, and the symbols of summonsing. He had to escape the bitter verse.

  I’d heard a lot of tales here as the late-day barman at the Open Crypt, few with worse poetry, but not many stories in that league. “Worth a pint of gin, that yarn,’’ I had to admit.

  “Ah, but it wasn’t over yet,’’ said the tax man. “I had my tooth, and the devil was not going to let me speak in verse, so he gave me a temporary body, but he didn’t have my soul. Maggie the witch had that, and I had to give her my now-whole tooth before she would set me free.’’

  “His Infernal Majesty couldn’t have liked that too much. He’s never been too happy about the soulless undead.’’

  “Too true. But I pointed out a few things to him. How taxation was second only to direct demonic intervention for presenting the temptation to sin, as well as generating huge amount of blasphemy, which is music to his ears. Then I made him an offer . . . so he let me speak to her. Released her from the awful torment by honest criticism, and literary award assessment on merit.’’

  “I’m surprised she agreed to free you. You must have been one of her last remaining works in print.’’

  “Well, you know what they say. Literary prostitution is more a case of haggling about the price—whether you take it in satisfaction, fame, money or all three, or just a get-out-of-hell ticket. I must say she looked a sight, her soul lashed with red pen. But she recognized me right away, in spite of my being in a borrowed body. The soul sees clearly. 'You! You philistine! You called my work potty poetry!’ she screamed at me.

  “ 'I have the whole tooth for you,’ I said, doing my best to keep it friendly.

  “ 'Too late,’ she said nastily. 'I’m dead and in the pit.’

  “ 'You could free me,’ I suggested.

  “She hadn’t changed a bit. 'No. Not unless you free me,’ she said. 'I want my life back, and literary fame.’ She always drove a hard bargain, even on extractions.

  “The Devil shrugged. ’It is a pity. It was a tempting offer you made me, tax man. But no one gets out of Hell.’ he said.

  “I’d really got onto his Infernal Majesty’s level by now. We were kindred spirits of sorts, I suppose. ’Your Majesty, the literary arts? How many does that send to perdition?’ I asked.

  “The Devil must have consulted his accountants via his bluefang, because a few seconds later he said, ’Many. But poetry less so these days. The smart damnation is into pseudo-intellectual angst-prose and shock-value sexual deviancy.’ His Infernal Majesty looked at me thoughtfully . . . and nodded. ’I suppose so. But she’ll have to change fields to the high-yield area, and operate under a pseudonym. I won’t have all writers thinking they can get away with this,’ said the devil.

  “Miss Maggie looked sour. ’Well, I still won’t give his soul back. I’m a poet at heart. It’s the highest art, although I will admit literary prose can be very moving. And that’s a mended tooth, not the whole one.’

  “ ’You may have custody of my soul,’ I offered. ’As long as you liberate me from the verse fate. Just think of all the wonderful sneering you’ll be able to do at lesser literary forms. All I want is to be free of the dusty, yellowed, foxed, lonely pages of Malocclusion, Caries and Decay.’

  “She thought about it awhile. Then she turned to the devil. ’I’ll need glowing reviews . . .’

  “The Devil smiled, showing long yellow fangs. He’d be needing her or my friend Dr. Edwards soon. And hell gets few dentists. ’I can even get you on daytime TV. It’s full of my employees,’ the Devil said.”

  The tax man finished his drink. “And that was that. She’s a major literary figure now, sneering happily at fantasy and science fiction, last I heard. And here I am, too, free of her poetic justice. I believe she’s found literary fiction just as rewarding, with her fine grasp of marketing. And the Devil’s well pleased by the numbers she’s driven to perdition.’’

  “And you?’’ I asked, looking at the demon bodyguards snoozing in the booth. “What price did he demand of you?’’

  The tax man gave me his gap-toothed smile again. A very predatory happy smile. “We made a bargain—both parties got what they wanted. You see, I was able to point out that the soulless undead were technically his property. Heaven doesn’t want them. And thus, even if he was not able to claim their souls . . . they were subjects of his. Liable for taxation. Many of them work among the living with souls to part with, and hell doesn’t mind indirect taxation. I’ve got my old job back.’’ He looked at his watch. “Ah. The bank is open. I have to drop in on the ogre of a manager. Then I’ve got a shape-shifting toad at the local school board. We have a bloodsucking attorney on the list next, with a final visit to a banshee diva at the opera house. They’re in arrears.’’

  He laughed. “I’m better off undead. But they aren’t, now that I’m here. Death may not be sure, but taxes are.’’

  THE INFERNAL REVENANT SERVICE

  Laura Resnick

  Death was not turning out to be the picnic that I had expected.

  “What do you mean, I’m not being admitted to heaven?’’ I demanded of the celestial bureaucrat who greeted me at the security checkpoint outside the waiting room to get into the registry hall to sign up for the angelic inspection that was required before being admitted to the Divine Presence for final approval and an I.D. card valid for eternity.

  “That tone is quite unnecessary, sir,’’ the winged official said frostily.

  “Listen. . . .’’ I looked at her nametag. “Listen, Lucy—’’

  “Saint Lucy the Chaste, if you please. I find that it’s best to keep things formal when dealing with petitioners for entry into the afterlife.’’

  “But I’m already in the afterlife!’’ I said. “I’m dead. I swear to God.’’

  She flinched. “We don’t do that here, sir.’’

  “Sorry,’’ I said.

  “Try not to let it happen again.’’

  “Look, I’m here because I died, Saint Lucy, so how can I be a petitioner—’’

  “Saint Lucy the Chaste,’’ she said firmly.

  “That’s quite a mouthful.’’

  She arched her brows. “Nonetheless . . .’’

  I silently begged God for patience. “My point is, my life is over, I’m dead, so this is after my life. You know: afterlife. I’m here already.’’

  “No, you are currently making the transition between your life and eternity,’’ she said, as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted child. “And in order to enter the afterlife, you’re going to have to fill out the correct application for an entity of your classification and be routed to the right department.’’

  “But isn’t heaven the right department, Saint Lucy?’’ Seeing her frown, I added, “Er, the Chaste. Tell me, what do your friends call you?’’

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be several millennia before you find out. According to my records . . .’’ She flipped through some pages attached to the clipboard she carried. “You’re scheduled to go to holding for the next ten thousand of your earth years.’’

  “ ’Of your earth years’?’’ I repeated. “You sound like someone from a Star Trek episode.’’

  “Do you want me to give it to you in metric time?’’

  “What’s metric time?’’ I asked.

  “Perhaps you see my point.’’

  “Oh. Yes. Okay.’’ I frowned. “But . . . ten thousand years? I think that must be a mistake.’’

  “On the contrary. In eternity, that’s a mere drop in the bucket. And He Who Rules On High has determined that it’s a fair penalty for your sins.’’

  “What are you talking about?’’ I said.

  “The Maker of All Things has j
udged that you should spend ten thousand years meditating upon your misdeeds before your application to heaven can be considered.’’

  “My misdeeds? Oh, wait a minute! Is this because I didn’t pay that parking ticket?’’

  “Hmmm . . .’’ Saint Lucy the Chaste flipped through her paperwork again. “Unpaid parking ticket, unpaid parking . . . Yes, here it is. Listed under Moral Infractions, Minor.’’

  “No way!’’ I said. “That was a totally bogus ticket! I was in a store, only twenty feet away, getting change for the parking meter, when some cop came along and started writing that ticket! And when I got back to the car and explained, he wouldn’t stop writing the ticket! Wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence! It was completely unfair!’’

  “Nonetheless, the Lord God Almighty is a supporter of law and order (he’s also a fan of that clever TV show, though he doesn’t like the spin-offs as much), and you were unquestionably in the wrong when you chose not to pay that ticket.’’

  “Unquestionably? How can you say that?’’

  “The Master of the Universe judges that you were wrong. Therefore, you were wrong,’’ the chaste saint said. “And you’re going into holding.’’

  “’Holding?’ What does that mean? Limbo?’’

  The saint rolled her beatific eyes. “We don’t have limbo anymore. Don’t you keep up on current events?’’

  “Oh, right. I guess I heard about that in the news while I was still alive.’’

  Lucy the Chaste shook her head in exasperation. “The Vatican gets a whim, and we have to shut down an entire dimensional plane. You have no idea how much red tape is involved.’’ She sighed. “I really hate popes.’’

  “Then I guess you mean I’m going to purgatory?’’