Part one: A seven fingered Mormon.
I’ve been hesitant to post this story. Part of me still hopes that my experiences are not real, that what I’ve seen was a gross distortion of my fears and imagination. But as time progresses, and instances continue to occur, I fear that it is real. I fear it is hunting me.
***
I started working at the funeral home on December 27th, 2021. It was my first job since I dropped out of college, my first “adult” job. I walked in on my first day, a very eager 19-year-old trying to prove myself; trying to hide my fear of the future; trying to hide my uncomfortability of death.
I saw my first body the day of my interview, two weeks prior. Correction, I saw my first three bodies the day of my interview. One in our chapel, one being put into the fridge, and one the embalming table. Each reminded me of a mannequin, marked with uncanny stillness. I had handled this pinnacle test of the job, braved a still face, and ignored the leaking feeling of chemicals that permeated the office.
So, on my first day it wasn’t the dead that made me uncomfortable, but instead the stillness of the funeral home. The dust that caked every surface, outdated technology, broken Christmas lights. The funeral home was lost in time, and constantly collecting evidence of those who had followed its path.
I had originally been hired to answer phones, make prayer cards, and organize the front desk. I was the pretty face to greet the mourning. I was not expected to do the gritty work of the funeral home. I wore dresses and heels. I kept my nails and face painted.
In the beginning, during my 1950s secretary era, I saw very few signs of what was to come. Shadows moving strangely on the walls. My staplers inexplicably disappeared and reappeared in random places. Id finds them in bathrooms, the chapel, and one fatal time in the hearse. I would place the blame on my short memory, or on my coworkers joking around. But parts of me grew in fear. The whispers I’d hear in a perfectly still office could not be explained.
“Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
I’d always turn around. Cold would rip through my body. Goosebumps rise. I laugh at myself for falling into stereotypes, into superstition. I mentioned my initial fears to a coworker, Elijah. He told me to not work myself into such hysteria. Stating the general aura of the funeral home was starting to affect me.
Elijah’s solution was “exposure therapy.” The first installment was to help wash a decedent before a religious ceremony. The decedent was a 60-year-old man, with three fingers on his left hand and an alarmingly large nose. His mouth stood agape, the front teeth cracked and partially missing. Markers of a failed intubation. He had streams of dried blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were shrunk, milky swirls of white and blue. He was a direct contrast to the meticulously prepared bodies I had seen the day of the interview. He was not a mannequin wrapped in chemicals and artificial death. He was marked with violent, unexpected death. A heart attack stealing him away from his wife, children, and expectant grandchildren.
I felt the familiar whisper. “Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
I didn’t this time, as I felt the cold long fingertips wrap and dig into my shoulders. I tried to turn around, and tried to ignore the voice. I felt as though my fear of death was so loud that it personified itself. I made it into something it could not be. But I didn’t turn around. My stomach was dropping, breaking, and twisting in on itself. My body was fighting itself in the attempt to be still, to stay forward. To not show my fear outwardly.
The decedent’s unexpectant ride to the ER was marked not just by his cracked teeth, but also 6 EKG stickers, 2 leads on his upper extremities, and 2 on his lower. He had AED pads strapped to his chest. He was marked by the excruciating attempts to beat death. And he had lost. I watched as Elijah carefully removed each one, avoiding the previously loose and thin skin. He cut away the soiled clothing. I watched as the decedent turned from a red mass of medical mishap to something akin to a human. Death was starting to be stripped, as it was replaced with uncanny attempts of life.
“Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
My shoulders ached. I just stared at my decedent, forgetting that I was supposed to be assisting Elijah.
“You okay kid, you look green?”
“Ya know you’re only three years older than me.”
He rolled his eyes, “Are you going to help or not?”
I approached the embalming table in answer. I gripped the towel in my hand, as Elijah started pouring water over the decedent. He added green dish soap to mine and his towel. The water was warm through my gloves. I hesitated as the temperature changed to cold. I don’t know why I expected him to still be warm. We washed away the blood, the death, and his reality.
I washed his arm. “Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
I washed his chest, removing the left-over stickiness of the AED pads. “Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
I washed the blood from his ears. “Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
I washed his legs, toes, stomach, and fingers. I made him new. “Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
“Want to learn how to close a mouth?” A part of me nods.
“Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around…Don’t turn around.”
Cold, around my shoulders. Sharp pain in my bones. Nails in my spine? Sharp, unkempt nails.
A ligature cut; needle chosen. One stab through the bottom lip. Pull, pull, pull. Loop the ligature through the bridge of the nose. Pull, pull, pull. Through the top lip, back through the bottom. One big bow to seal the deal. A vile of glue.
“Glue?” I whisper.
“Yeah, crazy night.”
Push the lips closed. Pull the corners of his lips, make him smile. But don’t force it.
“Want to learn how to put in eye caps?”
Elijah is pushing it. The nails in my spine are sharper. It’s going to leave bruises.
“Do…Not…Turn…Around.”
Lift the lid. Slide the plastic over the shrunken milky way. Glue over the plastic. Eyelid back down. Leave the eyelashes out.
Elijah takes off his gloves, throws them across the room. They land in the trash. He smiles. I don’t turn around to see.
“Well, that’s it kiddo, the family is Mormon, so they have to dress him.”
“We’re practically the same age.”
“Yeah, okay kid.”
***
That is it for today. Writing, and remembering this is hard. To think I was so scared in the beginning, the whispers and the bruises seem so…. calm now. A part of me misses that point in my life. When bruises were the scariest part of my day. I will add more the coming days.