Page 24 of Dark Rapture
A few people are filtering in and out as another end of life service finishes, and I manage to slip inside the somber, old building while a teary eyed mother and her two children leave.
The interior is lit by incandescent bulbs, casting a warm light that is easy on the eyes. The walls are beige, trimmed with white, and the ceramic floor tiles are a warm tan hue. For a funeral home, it is clean and cozy inside.
The part I hate the most is the abundance of flowers. I can’t get over the idea that all these flowers are meant to cover up the smell of the dead.
They are beautiful and the intention behind them is sweet, but the smell is something that does not remind me of peaceful summer gardens. Here, in the funeral home, the scents are an amalgamation of every variety of flower you can think of, concentrated and missing the sweet summer breeze.
The smell reminds me of death and mourning, and I can’t help it.
I sigh deeply, dreading what comes next, and make my way through the foyer. I glance briefly at each photo board that showcases which loved one is in which room. I stop when my uncle’s face comes into view, his full name written in cursive below a recent photo of him at a barbecue from this past summer.
As I stare at his face, my stomach does a little flip and a wave of nausea comes and goes. Squeezing my eyes shut, I talk myself through this quietly in my head.
He’s dead, he can’t hurt me, the only thing left are the memories.
I open my eyes and straighten my spine, stepping forward to gently push open the two doors leading into the room the service is being held in. I slip in quietly, and stand just inside the doors and off to the side.
The priest is up front next to the open casket, reciting a lengthy prayer to the people sitting scattered in groups around the room. My mom is sitting in the front pew next to my dad, my grandma and my brothers.
Mom and Grandma Rose are holding each other, listening to the priest as he shares verses from the well-loved bible in his hands.
I keep my eyes away from the casket, unwilling to look at him just yet. There are massive bouquets of flowers around the room, as well as small clusters of people. Extended family is scattered here and there, as well as Jake’s friends, and his coworkers.
I stay standing along the back wall, off to the side of the doors. I listen to the priest, his calming words intermingling with the soft cries and sniffles from the people gathered before him.
People loved my uncle, it seems. I imagine I’m the only one who ever had to face the evil he harbored secretly within him.
Evil people are good at hiding, good at manipulating the people around them. You often hear people who were friends with murderers, rapists and abusers talk about how they would have never known. The person in question seemed so gentle, so kind. They never acted like monsters before.
How can you tell that the beautiful fish you just caught in the crystal clear lake is full of deadly parasites until you cut it open and expose the corruption to the light of day?
The priest pauses, and a short Catholic hymn plays as he sets his book aside and prays over the casket. My eyes wander to Jake, his body laying among the off-white satin of the coffin’s interior.
He looks like Jake, but his face doesn’t look quite right. There is a heavy smattering of make up, likely to hide the bruising Mom mentioned he had all over his body. He doesn’t even really look peaceful, the way you imagine every dead person is supposed to look. It’s almost as though the muscles in his face froze in agony at his moment of death and never fully relaxed… like the mortician couldn’t make the muscles cooperate.
It’s strange and unsettling. I glance down at my hands, fidgeting in front of me. I pick at some dry skin around my nails, waiting for the hymn to finish and the priest to resume.
“Family and friends,” the priest begins, and I lift my gaze to watch him. “Our God has called Jake home to him.”
That’s when I hear it. Laughter, so low and deep and distant—as though it is coming from somewhere far away—that I don’t think I actually hear it at first. When I slowly turn my head towards the door, I startle when I see the man standing there, staring at the priest with an empty look on his face. His face contorts rapidly, like the man is in silent agony, before fully relaxing again.
“God doesn’t care about Jake, priest,” the man says, his voice distorted. The tone is totally wrong, his naturally deep voice laced with some unnatural higher pitches. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I instantly recognize that whoever this poor man is, there is a demonic entity possessing him right now. Right here in the funeral home, standing next to me in a room full of people.
I force my eyes to the front of the room, but the priest just continues with his service. He doesn’t seem to hear us, nor recognize we are even here. I look back to the man next to me, terrified to move or speak.
The stranger’s head turns slowly until his empty gaze meets mine. His pupils expand until his eyes are entirely consumed in black, like two unnatural voids set in his human face. “Jake is drowning in the fires of Hell, his screams so loud that his vocal cords keep breaking.”
The man shrugs as if that confession doesn’t bother him, like Jake’s suffering is just another day at the office.
I swallow back against the knot of fear that forms in my throat, and take two steps back, away from the possessed man. I want to scream, but it gets caught in my throat. No matter how much paranormal activity I’ve been exposed to lately, this hasn’t gotten easier to witness.
A dark wave of soothing energy hits me, settling along the surface of my skin. I know that power, I remember its influence like it was yesterday.
“Daemon,” I choke out, my voice a trembling whisper.
His hand lifts and reaches towards my face to trail softly down along my jawline. His mouth slowly spreads into a wicked grin, and he just watches me for a moment.
“My little witch,” he whispers to me, his voice so unsettling my brain just can’t recognize it as regular human speech.
