Chapter 1 #2
“Well, don’t stop there. Now I’m invested.” She leans back against the rack of drawers, crossing her arms in front of her. This I have to hear, she thinks to herself.
Wyatt shifts uncomfortably, seemingly regretting his question. “Okay, so I was there late, and I was cleaning up after a viewing.”
“You ever notice how people leave their tissues everywhere at those things?” she asks, interrupting his thought. “Suddenly all decorum related to the spread of viral plague goes out the window. How did everyone come to think that’s common practice?”
“Come on, Wren. I feel stupid enough as it is here.”
Wren concedes, gesturing for him to continue. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“So I mean, yeah. You’re right. There were discarded tissues everywhere, and that’s a notable trend that now I’m confused about too.” He looks off at the rack of bodies, chewing on his lip.
Wren laughs. “But first, ghosts.”
“Yes, exactly.” He blinks repeatedly, as if awakening from a daydream. “I was in the viewing room with the casket, and I swear I heard a woman crying. I definitely heard it, Doc. I actually thought it was the woman in the casket, and I about passed away myself. Hand to God.” He holds up his hand.
Another burst of laughter escapes Wren. She can’t help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.
Wyatt meets her reaction with a grin of his own before continuing.
“So after I confirmed it wasn’t my worst nightmare, I went around looking.
I was half expecting to see some extremely bereaved family member who had somehow gotten left behind.
But there was nothing. I checked every corner of the place, and I was alone.
The crying would stop, and then as soon as I started cleaning again, there it was. ”
Wren raises an eyebrow, suddenly curious. “Why would a ghost be crying?”
“I’m telling you, it was so clear and so mournful.” Wyatt appears to be deep in the memory, and then Wren’s question registers. “Wait, what do you mean?”
“Well, think about it. What the hell do ghosts have to cry about? The worst part is over. Whatever horrific end they met has happened, and now it’s all floating around and not having to pay bills. I’ve never understood the melancholy ghost thing.”
Wyatt shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s like that. I think some of them get trapped. I don’t think it’s this great adventure where you get to appear wherever you want. Maybe you have to suffer another kind of torment after you think it’s all over.”
Wren narrows her eyes at him, feeling a clear shift in the conversation’s tone. “What do you mean ‘another kind of torment’?”
“Well, we are all living the first kind right now, aren’t we?” he asks, smoothing some of his dark curls down with his hand.
“Are we?” She echoes his question with her own.
“Come on. I don’t want to get all existential here, but life—isn’t it all torment? Even the good parts?”
Wren feels the slight inclination to agree with Wyatt, given her recent circumstances, but she shakes it off. “I feel like that’s a narrow lens to view things through. There’s always good to outweigh the bad if you look hard enough.”
Without warning, the refrigerator kicks off—it routinely quiets down after it reaches the set temperature.
Now, without the hum of the machine, it’s eerily quiet, amplifying the weight of the conversation’s new direction.
She always hates when the fridge hits this part of the cooling cycle, in the middle of the night especially; it’s like every other sound in the morgue increases to a roar.
Sometimes she feels like she hears conversations that aren’t there or the shuffling of feet.
It’s easy to let your mind get away from you here, in what most people view as such a macabre setting.
She detects Wyatt jump slightly at the lack of sound.
He recovers quickly and chuckles, now shifting almost nervously.
“Well, I suppose you are the better authority on this kind of thing. I mean, with all you’ve been through.
But I would think that knowing someone so evil is still around would be a certain torment. ”
Wren looks up and sees Wyatt’s eyes staring right into her own.
She breathes in through her nose slowly, trying to control her reaction.
“Jeremy Rose is in prison.” Her tone is firm but not angry.
The monster that the press stupidly dubbed “the Butcher” had kept a suffocating watch over her life for years.
He had stolen so much time from her, had stolen her husband’s life, but she wouldn’t let him have another second.
Wyatt breaks her gaze. “Absolutely. Sorry, I didn’t mean to take it there.” He seems genuinely flustered, shaking his head and suddenly not knowing where to put his hands. He settles on shoving them into the pockets of his dress pants.
Despite Wyatt’s attempt, the heaviness hasn’t lifted, so Wren pivots. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve never met a crying ghost, but I believe you. Maybe you need to do a cleansing at the funeral home.” She claps her hands together, grabbing her clipboard again and pretending to busy herself.
Wyatt can sense the tension. His cheeks redden, and he nods, grabbing hold of the gurney suddenly. “That’s a great idea. I’ll give it a try and let you know how it goes.”
“Please do,” she says, looking up with a half-hearted smile.
He pushes the gurney to the door, propping it open with his foot to direct his patient through. Before it swings closed behind him, he says one last thing, almost to himself: “Take care of yourself, Dr. Muller.”
The moment is sealed in there with her. It’s like Wyatt, as well-meaning as he is, leaves a virus behind, and she feels infected with thoughts of her promise to Detective John Leroux, now one of her closest allies on the force, to speak with Jeremy.
For a moment, she’s angry. It’s as if Wyatt pulled the pin out of a grenade and handed it to her, and now she’s stuck, too afraid to move and set off an explosion.
The silence beats on, making the anteroom feel like it’s contracting.
Each breath brings the walls closer and closer. The silence is deafening.
Suddenly the refrigeration unit kicks on with a harsh clack, followed by what she always thinks sounds like a deep groan. It snaps her back to the present, back to the task at hand and the cool calm of routine.
Not everyone has a hidden agenda, Wren. She shakes her head, quietly chastising herself for being so paranoid.
But most people do.
A cleansing, she thinks to herself, mulling over the word in her brain. She had really just told Wyatt to cleanse the funeral home to make the awkward conversation end. But now the idea feels kind of at home in her brain.
She exits the anteroom, stopping to peek into the cramped, isolated morgue office just one door down.
“Sabrina, will you finish the cross-checks? I think I need to head out.”
Sabrina swivels in her chair, then immediately rises from it. “Of course, Dr. Muller. Have you finally burned a little too much midnight oil?” she jokes.
Wren forces out a chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. “I think so. My eyes are crossing.”
“I got it. Get out of here. Get some very earned sleep.” Sabrina squeezes Wren’s arm lightly, shooting her a warm and genuine smile as she heads into the morgue to finish the job.
Walking outside to her car, Wren scrolls to a contact in her phone and hits call. After the second ring, Maya picks up.
“If it isn’t my favorite ghoul,” she says loudly from the other line.
“Your favorite ghoul needs the assistance of her favorite mystical—” Wren stops, trying to convince her exhausted brain to conjure up a clever title. “Mystical mama? I know that was … not good. I’m tired. Forget I just called you that, please.”
Maya laughs, and it’s the kind of laughter that comes from her belly. Wren can’t help but smile listening to Maya’s genuine glee, even if it’s at her own expense. After a moment, Maya starts trying to speak through chuckles.
“No, I’m going to need you to call me Mystical Mama from this day forward.” She starts laughing again. “What can I do for you, Wren?”
Officer Maya Rodriguez is one of the better human beings that Wren has come to know.
Recently transferring to the New Orleans Police Department from Florida, she immediately caught the eye of Leroux, who found her to be an extremely capable and promising young recruit.
When he introduced her to Wren two months ago, Wren felt like Maya was the younger sister she’d never had.
Wren admired Maya’s attention to detail and found herself fascinated by the woman’s knowledge of mysticism.
Maya is always willing to share her wisdom, which is vast for her years.
Hearing her laugh on the phone is something Wren didn’t know she needed tonight.
Wren sighs. “This is going to sound random, but I need a cleansing ritual.”