Page 14 of Mortis

My torch swept across reception to find . . . nothing. The viewing rooms looked untouched too, and every urn and casket on display sat exactly where we’d left them. I was already trying to work out what I was supposed to tell the police and the alarm company when I noticed the marks on the floor.

Scuffs.

Mud.

An absurd amount of mud.

It looked as though whoever had broken in had deliberately dragged half of Barrowfell Woods in with them.

“Lo’s going to be pissed,” I muttered.

For all his complaints about hard work, and despite the fact I’d caught him napping inside the mortuary refrigeration units more than once, Arlo took cleaning very seriously. The floors had to shine, the windows had to sparkle. The man vacuumed in perfectly straight lines.

I squatted down and brushed some of the dirt aside, then frowned. The prints weren’t boot marks, or trainers, or anything I might’ve expected. No, they looked suspiciously like hoofprints. I stared at them for a moment, then sighed. It was something I’d done a lot tonight, and I’d been awake for less than an hour.

“Did someone ride a bloody horse through my funeral home?”

A crash from somewhere in the back sent my phone tumbling from my hand. I winced as it clattered against the tiles, the sound impossibly loud in the silence.

My eyes snapped to the door marked Staff Only.

One breath.

Then another.

I waited to see if the culprit would come storming through and tackle me.

At five foot seven, with twiglike limbs and approximately zero fighting ability, I wasn’t exactly built for confrontation. If a burglar wandered through that door, I’d have no choice but to back away slowly and wish them luck with their new business venture.

If things turned violent . . . well. I’d have to accept my death with grace and decorum.

Possibly while crying.

Neither option was ideal, but beggars, weaklings, and mortuary technicians named Teddy couldn’t be choosers.

When nobody appeared, I finally exhaled. The rational part of my brain immediately suggested I stop what I was doing and call the police.

A sensible idea.

A mature idea.

An idea any normal person would have followed.

Unfortunately, the louder part of my brain had already spotted the trail of muddy scuff marks leading towards the staff door. Like a horror-themed version of Hansel and Gretel.

Curiosity won, again, and I was fully aware that if this were a slasher film, I’d be dead within five minutes of opening that door. The audience would spend the entire scene screaming at the screen while I wandered directly towards the danger.

But I needed to know what had caused the marks and where they led.

The only things beyond the staff door were storage, the kitchen, and the embalming room. None of which should have been the source of mysterious crashing noises at two in the bloody morning.

The dead were generally pretty considerate like that.

I crept towards the door and wrapped my fingers around the handle, silently praying to every god, spirit, and even the Real Housewives Arlo worshipped that it wouldn’t squeak.

Thankfully, the higher powers seemed to be listening, because the door swung open without a sound, and I padded quietly down the corridor. The kitchen door stood open, and a quick glance inside confirmed it was empty.

It also confirmed that somebody had declared war on the cupboards.