Page 1 of Grave Love
Chapter1
Blaze
The whisperof a moan escapes down the corridor, sneaking toward me like a spider hiding in the cracks of a wall. I step forward, then ease the door shut behind me, my boots inaudible against the tile. Moonlight creeps in through the curtained windows, illuminating the caskets like they’re trophies on display. Gilded urns. White flowers. Clean tile. As if this is a luxury store, and not a mortuary.
Another primal moan. It’s mournful, in a way. The base of my neck tingles. It’s a feminine moan, one that indicates pleasure. I raise my brow, keeping my ear aimed toward the sound, itching for more of it. She—whoever this stranger is—must have a key to the funeral home like I do. A coworker of mine, perhaps.
And she’s getting off.
This time, the sound is deeper, demanding more. I step in time with her cries. As I draw closer to her, my fingers skim against the wall, and I pretend like I’m touching her bare skin.
The storage room’s entrance is open. I stop. One of the refrigeration units is ajar, exposing a naked corpse. A woman. Mid-twenties. Its eyes vacant.
Earlier today, this same body was wearing black pants and a stained white shirt. The difference sticks with me; I don’t give a shit about a corpse’s modesty, but the fact that the body is now naked intrigues me.
Must have to do with our little trespasser.
I glance around. This whole situation has distracted me. Supposedly, the owner leaves the funeral home unguarded after hours, which would have given me a prime opportunity to dispose of bodies here. But that noise—that sorrowful, pleasure-filled noise—grows louder, chaotic in its lack of structure. The compulsion builds in me, parting my lips. The need to know. The impulse to hunt.
Who is she?
Why is she here?
The door of the crematory is left open, the sporadic groans of the conveyor belt adding to the orchestra of desire. The scent of musk and ash fills the air. A body twists on the conveyor belt, writhing like a demon conquering a body, dominating its final host. A canvas bag covers the face, and black hair streams out from under the edges of the haphazard mask. The buttons on the black pants of the twitching body are undone, a hand inside, between the legs. The white shirt crumpled over the stomach, blood dotting the fabric like a constellation of violence.
This woman stole the clothes from the corpse back in the refrigeration unit.
Her breathing grows frantic. Her writhing unpredictable. She’s a womanpossessed.I gleam at her with sudden focus, my pulse increasing. The need for proximity. The desire to know more. I can’t see much of her body; the clothing covers it. Blood swells in my bulge anyway. My hand clutches my length, urging my natural response to cool. This arousal is not about the physical attraction—I can’t even see her face—it’s about herhelplessness.She doesn’t know I’m standing right above her.
I finger the switchblade in my pocket, licking my lips as the blade clicks open. She practically screams in lust this time, so unaware of the knife. Her body bucks, her back arching, the shirt stretched across her frame. My bulge twitches, and I lean down, holding the knife an inch above her neck, so close it’s practically breathing on her skin. All it would take is a slice across her throat, and she’d be humiliated in her final moments, left pleasureless and alone. Anyone who found her would think that it was a political statement—finding a disheveled corpse with bodily secretions strewn across a funeral home—but I would know the truth.
She did this to herself.
The stranger jerks in bliss, reaching that ultimate peak, and I pull back instinctively. I angle my head to the side, my tongue skating over my teeth. She’s not myusualtype. Skin tinted with golden-yellow hues. Black hair. Not pale like me. Not blond like them.
I’m not one to jump to conclusions, but I know a good opportunity when I see one. For fuck’s sake, she’s lying on the conveyor belt leading to the crematory.
She could be practice for me.
She reaches up, a flash of a tattoo on the top of her hand. A rope, maybe? I can’t quite see. Frantically, she pinches the canvas bag over her nose as the other hand vigorously circles her sensitive flesh. Going for multiple, I suppose. In this position, her hands stay in place long enough to give me a clear view.
A noose on one hand. On the other hand, a gun. As if she’s carving her own desires into her flesh.
Finally, a sigh expels from her chest. Another peak reached. Her body deflates like a balloon, then she lies still, her uneven breaths filling the empty space. Exhaustion. Sleep overwhelming her.
Killing her would besomething.Perhaps it’s the change I need.
Even so, it’s not what Iwantright now.
I make my exit.
The next morning, I clock in before the funeral director arrives. I scan the area, searching for evidence of my fellow trespasser. The doors of the storage units are closed now; the metal gurney is folded against the wall of the crematory. No evidence of a break-in or of any uninvited presence. The black-haired woman has practice at this herself.
How long has she been breaking into the mortuary to masturbate?
Once I have my sunscreen and black clothing protecting my skin, I get to work, using the excavator to hull out another beachside grave. It’s a big machine; the arm scoops down into the earth, then pulls out as much as it can into the bucket. In the distance, a tourist walks across the white sand, glimpsing up at the gravestone-littered hill, then walks quicker across the beach, as if the dead will sense his presence marking the sand. As if the rotting meat buried in this hill will rise from the ground to cast their revenge.
The dead don’t give a shit.
