Chapter 8 Zoey
ZOEY
“Is this it?” I whisper, stretching my arms above my head.
Death’s Door sits back from the road and is partially hidden by a row of trees that feels more intentional than a mere design choice. The building itself is larger than I anticipated. It’s constructed of dark brick that appears ominous, as if not just anyone can walk through its doors.
Lucky for me.
I cut the engine, and the quiet envelops me. There’s no traffic, no distant city noise. The only sounds are the wind and my pounding heart.
We’re not in Chicago anymore, Toto.
I grip the steering wheel, steadying myself before pushing the door open and stepping out into the cold.
The air is crisper here, cleaner than in Chicago. I take in the property as I move toward the building: small parking lot, a narrow path leading around the building, and a front entrance with what appear to be heavy, black doors that look more like they belong to a gothic mansion than a business.
When I reach the door and pull, it doesn’t budge.
I try again, a little harder, then blow out a breath when it still doesn’t open.
“Seriously?” I mutter, and then follow the narrow path to the back where, hopefully, there’s another way in.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk, and when I reach a second door, I find it locked as well. I hesitate for a moment before pulling out my phone and sending a quick text.
Me: I’m here. Both doors are locked.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Lyric: On my way. Code is 56262.
Frustrated at his terse response, I circle back to the front and enter the code into the keypad to the left of the door. The click of the lock disengaging seems loud against the backdrop of silence.
My stomach clenches with nerves as I grip the handle.
This is it.
I step inside as soon as I open the door, and an eerie calm greets me. If I thought it was quiet outside, then inside is as silent as flapping butterfly wings. The scents that fill my nostrils are faint but familiar. For the first time since I left Chicago, I feel like I made the right decision.
So far.
The interior is as dark as it is silent with black walls and accents, dark wood, and muted lighting that casts more shadow than light.
The furniture is as heavy as the doors and arranged for the grieving without trying to eliminate the reality of where they are.
It isn’t cold, but it’s not exactly comforting either. It’s… real.
I move through the lobby to the viewing room, and then deeper into the building to the office space. There’s a prep area, as well as a kitchen. The layout is efficient and practical.
Continuing down a narrow hall, my gaze is drawn to a door with a sign that says ‘stairwell’. I open it and look down the steps that disappear into the darkness. It doesn’t surprise me that there’s a basement because there has to be a space for the less public-friendly aspects of the business.
I take a breath and start down, and when I reach the bottom, I’m in a larger, more clinical space.
I flip the light switch, and the fluorescent bulbs hum faintly when they come to life and reveal storage, workspace, several stainless steel tables meant for embalming and body prep.
There’s a door with a flame logo on it, and I assume that leads to the cremation area.
An invisible pull has me turning slightly to take in the opposite wall where there are several morgue drawers.
As if the dead are softly singing a siren song, I slowly walk toward them.
There are only four, which seems odd because I’m used to having twenty units, but maybe Death’s Door doesn’t do much business since it’s a little bit out of the city.
I stop next to a chair that’s positioned directly in front of one of the drawers. It doesn’t belong there which makes me wonder if it’s placement is deliberate, if it’s so someone can sit and guard the body inside.
My gaze lifts to the unit it’s facing, and something settles deep in my chest. It’s part instinct, part something else entirely. Not fear or discomfort but… recognition.
I step closer, my movements slow and cautious. I don’t question the pull, the urge to be closer to the dead in one way or another. I never question this feeling, because it’s never been wrong.
The handle is cold as I wrap my fingers around it.
“Okay,” I murmur, grounding myself before I tug.
The door slides open, and I guide the tray outward. My eyes catalogue every inch of the man’s body as it’s revealed, trying to piece together what his final moments must have looked like.
My breath hitches.
The injuries are severe, consistent with high-impact trauma sustained in a vehicular accident. His death was violent, sudden, and unavoidable. Whoever he was, he didn’t go easily.
“I’m so sorry you suffered,” I say softly, staring at a face that’s weathered by sun not age.
Lowering my gaze, I take in the black ink on his chest, feeling an insane relief that his injuries didn’t ruin the tattoo. The symbol that is forever etched into his flesh matches the Death’s Door sign out front.
I get it now. The urgency, Lyric’s cold detachment during my interview… It all makes sense.
This man isn’t just another dead body.
This place, Death’s Door, it was his. Or he’s tied to it in a way that goes far beyond work.
“What the fuck are you doing?”