Page 21 of Eternal Ember
I hear him before I see it; dragging, thumping, and the unmistakable sound of something heavy being hauled across the floor. Dust drifts down from the ceiling, and the house groans as if annoyed at the person digging in its brain. Ember appears at the top of the stairs, victorious and filthy, a huge grin on his preteen face. Behind him, scraping its way down step by step, is a massive framed portrait.
“I found artistic gold,” he announces.
Also found in the attic were six taxidermy ducks, twenty-three copies of the same tacky 1980’s urn catalog, and a life-sized cutout of a man in a suit holding a sign that readsVote for Petey.
The attic also apparently contained six taxidermy ducks, a box of tacky 1980’s urn catalogs, along with the portrait.
Ember drags the portrait into the lobby and props it against the wall like he’s unveiling a masterpiece. The man in the painting looks like he lost a fight with something that had teeth, claws, and a vendetta. His expression is so intense that it gives me goosebumps, and his eyes follow me when I move.
“What is that?” I ask, tired.
“The house’s new face,” he says, hands on his hips and chest puffed out like a proud peacock.
“He looks haunted.”
“That’s the point,” Ember says. “Who doesn’t love a haunted funeral home?”
There’s no stopping him at this point, so I let him hang it front and centerand slightly crooked. I would fix it, but I’m scared of being possessed if I touch it.
“What’s his name?” I ask because clearly we’ve crossed into madness, and I might as well participate.
“…Richard,” Ember says after a long consideration.
Richard now greets every client as they walk through the front door. I think they assume that Richard is part of the history of this building, and it makes our business seem more established.
Obviously, we aren’t, but I don’t correct them.
Wednesday
I catch Ember answering the business phone.
“Thank you for calling Jeremiah Graves Mortuary and Funeral Home,” he says in a voice at least two octaves deeper than his current body should allow. “Press one for English. Oprima el número dos para español.”
I’m across the room before I realize I’m moving. I snatch the receiver out of his hand before he can continue his weird call directory.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I say into the phone, forcing my voice into something resembling professionalism. After I handle the call and book their services, I turn slowly to glare at the immortal pain in my ass. “For the last time, we are not installing a grief hotline menu.”
“You lack vision,” he says, tilting his chin up stubbornly.
“You lack frontal lobe development,” I mock.
His eyes flash in subtle anger, and a faint ripple of heat rolls through the room. A piece of paper on my desk bursts into flame, and I have to hurry to put it out, leaving ash covering the rest of my desk and a cloud of smoke drifting through the air.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
The smoke detector is loud, making my ears ring, and my head throb painfully with the oncoming headache.
The house hums, almost like it's laughing at us.
It takes a full thirty minutes, a damp towel, and a bunch of open windows to get the screaming alarm to die. When it’s finally quiet, I’m sweaty, annoyed, and tired of my new roommate.
Thursday
Ember wants a pet.
“Youarethe pet,” I tell him, not looking up from the notes for today’s service.
