#ShortStorySaturday: “Necrosylabic” by D. Norfolk

Please enjoy this Short Story Saturday submission from D. Norfolk.

“If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he’s dead, then maybe he was a great man”

Before most of the living world had risen from their chambers of mortal slumber, Aubrey was already through a majority of his mornings chores. His supple, delicate hands a flurry of motion, polishing, cleaning, arranging and tidying. It was these simple vessels that had started his journey of discovery, it was these two pounds of thin ghostly flesh and brittle bone that had turned his passions around.

Now he had time to finally stretch, his posture had never been the best, but the low level manner of his early morning duties saw him hunched and crumpled like yesterday’s newspaper. Here in the main chapel, he now broke this labor, a pleasure he reserved for just this time of the morning.

Checking his watch it was exactly oh-six-fifty and Aubrey now drew himself up to his full height, pushed out his pigeon chest, flinging back his spindly arms and feeling the satisfying pop of stiff muscles and the occasional complaining joint. The joy of such a movement stirred him internally to cry out with a funny little noise, but he refrained and kept that part controlled and measured.

Wringing out the last iota of pleasure from the action, he returned to his regular shallow chested slouch and straightened his jacket and tie. Mother always told him to keep things nice. He’d always felt a little over dressed for hovering and sweeping in full mourning suit, but the rules were rules, so he negotiated his way into the various jobs with the less amount of fuss or creasing.

Then she flashed to his mind again, Mother. Her words were always gospel to him, but the last few days had taught Aubrey that there was another side to this coin that he had never seen.

His brisk work this morning had partly been due to efficiency, but partly to get it all over with so he could indulge his new desire, to learn more than he did before. So it was now he took his leave.

The work room was icy and cold, the color of icebergs or perfect summer clouds, but somehow comforting. If you had told Aubrey three months ago that he would enjoy this place, he would have snorted riley at your logic. But it’s true, this place had become an insatiable draw to him, born out of his want for a little more pay packet and a little more skill to his work, he now clocked in the hours happily.

Taking in the vista of conformity, his eyes caressed each discretely curved door that masked the cold steel draws, neat rows, neat, precise, uniform. His hand made contact with the frosty door clasp . He thought back to that first time a month ago, the crackle of excitement shuddered up his spine.

“Keep your area tidy young Aubrey,” he heard Mr. Greens words as he had practiced always, but it was this observation that had brought him to his first contact.

Miss. Graham, a seventy six year old spinster, three cats and a herculean appetite for Turkish delight, had eventually lead to a massive stroke which had taken her early one Sunday evening. The postman discovered her the next morning. She was shipped down here that day.

He’d begun the cleaning and inspection of the body, readying her for final interment. It was then he’d noticed a small circle of blood beginning to pool by her left shoulder.

Funny, he thought. It should have all coagulated by this time, but there it was.

Dutifully he went with hose and cloth to wash it down the table drain. Forgetting absently his gloves, he’d contacted the shiny crimson mill pond, the thick liquid gripping under his finger nails, staining his fingertips, a rush stemming from it, up his arm and across his chest.

That’s when he’d heard it, faintly but definitely there.

“I hope Mr. Tiddles is ok.” He ignored it initially, but then he heard it again. Not in his ears, but…but in his head. I’m sure he will be, he’d thought back. Then the voice responded, “Who’s that? What did you say?” frail like a radio over static.

During the next hour he’d talked to the voice in his head and built up a rapport. By the time the voice was all but silent, he’d agreed to make sure Mr. Tiddles, the favorite of Miss Graham’s cats, would go to her sister in Leicester and that she knew he would have tuna at least once a fortnight.

It had been surreal and liberating all at once. Aubrey had believed it to be a once off, but then it happened again… and again. Nice chatty little talks, obviously whilst Mr. Green wasn’t there, souls on their final journey. They said it was like waiting for a late bus and it gave them the time to settle their business. Aubrey took pleasure in his little deeds of kindness on their behalf.

Well he did, until Monday. That’s when Mrs. Arkright had come in. This was different. He knew Mrs. Arkright, his mum’s friend from bingo. She’d always been an odd fish and in death still smelled of cough drops and cheap French cigs.

Aubrey had never been the biggest fan, but he thought he owed her the same courtesy as the others, so he made a small nick and placed his bare white palm in the slowly ebbing blood.

“Aubrey lad! Well I never,” she’d said immediately. “There’s something I need to tell you my boy. It’s about your dad.”

He’d recoiled initially and lost the contact. His Dad had left mum when he were a nipper. “The no good deadbeat,” she’d always said. “Hope he’s in a ditch somewhere,” she’d cursed when too many Christmas sherry’s took her.

But he’d gone back and Mrs. Arkright had laid out all she could about Bill and what kind of a man his father was, what he’d looked like, how he laughed and how he’d loved his boy. A special couple of days he had spent, reliving these episodes, making excuses to Mr. Green.

But ending their conversation last night, the soul had grown thin and hard to hear, the last audible words she said was something about being wary of Mum. He’d gone home and been aloof all last night, even refusing his tea.

So now he found himself, a last chance for information. The blood failed to pool now frustratingly. So for the first time he made a deeper cut and pushed his index finger in, cold and slimy, like cat food from the fridge.

Mrs. Arkright? he thought and waited for a couple of minutes. Nothing. He was about to remove his finger and seal the wound the best he could, when it came.

“It was ‘er lad, you know that, don’t you?” She was tired now, he guessed they only had a certain time.

“She made me promise you know, but you deserve to know.” She sounded breathless and sad.

What Mrs. Arkright? What? Aubrey thought over and over.

“He never left ye, lad. Well, not in that sense. Be careful. She’s a mean one.” Then all fell silent.

Mrs. Arkright? he thought, and again like shouting, Mrs. Arkright!

But the voice had gone, her last message sent.

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About the Author

D. is a writer based in Leeds, England, who writes a number of different topics but all are based around the horrific and macabre.