The Wake

To those in attendance, the scene inside Viewing Room #3 appeared routine and unremarkable. Evenly spaced rows of chairs decorated the pristine carpet. Floral decorations of all size and color covered the walls like a radiant jungle. The small space was packed with mourners—a testament to the man who laid inside the casket at the front of the room. But despite its ordinary appearance, there was something amiss about this particular occasion. A man stood in the back of the room, keeping a close eye on the comings and goings. You would be forgiven for not noticing him. He could not be seen, nor could he be heard. Call him whatever you like—a poltergeist, a revenant, a lost spirit—it didn’t matter much to the man. Two things were for certain.

He was dead. And this was his funeral.

The man in question was Francis Marshall, a widower and retired high school English teacher. On the morning of what would be the final day of his life, Francis woke promptly at 6:30am, consumed two scrambled eggs with black coffee, and took his Irish Setter, Winston, on his daily walk.

Their preferred route took them several streets away to a small neighborhood pond, which offered Francis a chance to rest his aching legs and Winston a chance to bark at the geese.

Francis watched as the dog took off in pursuit of one of the birds and as he opened his mouth to voice his displeasure, he found he could not find a steady breath. A cold sweat trickled down his back as if an ice cube had been dropped down his shirt. A pressure inside his chest grew, unfurling like a flower in the sun. The last feeling Francis experienced, as he dropped to his knees, was neither panic nor desperation, but rather peace.

It was his time.

Francis had once heard it said, perhaps in a film or a book, that those who do not pass on to the afterlife remain in limbo because of unfinished business. As he strolled around the Viewing Room, eavesdropping on the conversations of oblivious mourners, he pondered what his unfinished business might be. He thought about the stack of unread books on his nightstand. The half-painted walls in his basement. The 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle unopened on his kitchen counter. Francis had a hard time believing that any of these tasks were important enough to register on the spectral plane.

“What a terrible way to go,” he heard a woman whisper behind him. She was speaking with a man, perhaps her husband, but Francis had trouble recognizing either of them. A former student, he guessed. There had been so many during his teaching career, which spanned several decades.

Francis moved to the wall of flowers, a dazzling display of every type of blossom imaginable. He read the small card attached to a bouquet of lavender lilies. “He is at rest and with God now,” it read in neat cursive. Francis let out a soft chuckle. Wrong on both counts, he thought.

Francis approached the casket, which was currently surrounded by a handful of people whispering in hushed tones. He considered the coffin, the copper box that held his physical form. He ran his fingers over the gold trim that accented the sides. He felt disappointed that he could not open the coffin and look at himself. Am I wearing a suit? A tie? What does my hair look like? With no living next of kin, Francis wondered who made such decisions.

Francis’ reverie was interrupted by a man passing by him, approaching the coffin. The man stopped in front of the display and placed his hand on the casket. A gold ring on the man’s pinky made a soft tap as it touched the metal.

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear,” said the stranger.

Francis immediately recognized the phrase. His dog-eared copy of C.S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed sat somewhere on his bookshelf at home.

Eighteen years ago, Francis found himself in a dark place after his beloved wife, Iris, passed away. Her cancer was aggressive, leaving little time between the diagnosis and her eventual passing. For Francis, the grief was so enormous he required a buffer. Something to dull the pain each morning he woke and every evening before he slept. That time in his life marked the worst of his drinking. Like all addicts, he eventually found his rock bottom—a dark moment he never allowed himself to relive. He buried it deep and resolved to climb out of the hole he had dug for himself.

Francis found comfort in many of his favorite writers’ works. He replaced bottles with books. He acknowledged his pain and let it wash over him. He sought guidance from the likes of Hemingway, Tolstoy, and Proust. He wondered what would become of his collection. He hoped the books would help someone as much as they had helped him.

“I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid,” whispered Francis, finishing Lewis’ prose. The man with the pinky ring removed his hand from the coffin and suddenly looked in Francis’ direction. He wore an immaculate black suit. The knot on his silk tie was perfect.

“Very good, Mr. Marshall,” said the man.

Francis took several unsteady steps backward. Had he been flesh and bone, he would have knocked over a display of carnations. “You can hear me?” asked Francis.

“Of course,” the stranger responded flatly, as if it were completely obvious.

“And you can see me?”

The man smiled warmly. His teeth shone like pearls. “I can see you and I can hear you,” he responded. “You are as real to me as the corpse in that casket.”

Francis was unsure how to process this information. Could others see and hear him as well? Was he not dead after all? He stared into the man’s soft face, searching for the answers. The man laughed softly. “I’m sure you have lots of questions and I’ll do my best to answer them.” He motioned toward the back of the room. “Why don’t we go sit down?”

Francis obediently followed the man toward an empty row of chairs near the back wall and took a seat. The room was more crowded now. Francis looked out over the throng of mourners. All these people were here for him—a final goodbye from those he knew and loved. But Francis could only focus on the man next to him. A man who was a complete mystery to him.

“I apologize if I startled you,” said the man. “There is no easy way to introduce myself to your kind.”

“My kind?” asked Francis.

“The inbetweeners,” said the man, deftly unbuttoning his suit jacket. “That’s what I call them. One foot in the afterlife. One foot in the living world. That’s you.”

Francis considered this for a moment. Perhaps there was some unfinished business he had to attend to before moving on to whatever awaited him. He was excited to finally have a lead to pursue. He resolved to learn everything possible from his new acquaintance, beginning with his name.

“The name’s Lou,” offered the man, as if reading Francis’ mind. “I’m the Undertaker here. Have been for over 40 years.”

“And you can just see dead people walking around?” asked Francis. “This is an every day occurrence for you?” Lou smiled politely.

“It’s a gift, I suppose.” Lou paused and flicked an infinitesimal piece of lint off of his lapel. Francis could sense a story was coming.

“The first time I saw one—an inbetweener that is—I was 19-years-old and it was my first week working here. I was learning the ropes and that day they had me preparing the Viewing Room—this one, in fact—for a funeral. I was bringing out the chairs, vacuuming the carpet, arranging the flowers, that sort of stuff, when I saw an elderly woman standing by the casket up front. I assumed she was early for the funeral and kindly told her that she was welcome to wait here until the service started. She didn’t turn around or even acknowledge me. She just pointed at the corpse inside the open coffin and said, ‘That’s me.’ She was the first. But there were plenty more after her.”

Francis did his best to digest what he had just heard. He was dead. That much was sure. But he was no longer alone and that fact buoyed him.

“Why am I here?” he asked. Lou ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed.

“I don’t have the why,” Lou said. “Only you know that. I’m just here as a friendly guide.”

“Is there something I should be doing?” Francis asked. His brain felt like it was close to an answer, but the thought was frustratingly out of reach.

“You are doing exactly what you should be doing.” Lou sat up straight in his seat and glanced toward the front of the room. “The service is about to begin.”

A serious looking man entered through a door marked “Staff Only” and walked toward the front of the room. The man reminded Francis of a stage actor, walking toward his mark to deliver his lines.

“The funeral service will begin shortly. Please take your seat.” And with that, the man left.

Those in attendance politely took their chairs as a soft hymn began to emit from the speakers in the ceiling. Francis considered the mass of mourners once more. He had to confess that this was more people than he had ever imagined would attend his funeral. He scanned the room to find familiar faces, but had difficulty identifying anyone. His mind felt foggy and a step too slow.

He looked over at Lou, who was sitting with his legs crossed and bouncing his foot up and down. It reminded Francis of the children he used to teach.

“Can’t you help me?” Francis asked. In response, the Undertaker put his finger to his lips and made a gentle shushing sound. Francis found this annoying, but did as he was told.

A young woman in the front row stood up from her chair and walked to a lectern that had been placed in front of the casket. The first thing he noticed about her was the red dress she was wearing—an odd color for a funeral. The second thing he noticed was that she was crying. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. “Please bear with me. This will be difficult.”

“Who is this woman?” said Francis. “Why is she speaking at my funeral?” Lou either did not hear the question or had chosen to ignore it.

Francis could feel the frustration rising. He was no closer to understanding why he was here and the one person who could help him was in no hurry to do so. “I need to know why am I here!” he snapped. “I demand answers!”

Lou turned his head and glared at Francis. His eyes narrowed. “You demand it?”

An uneasy feeling began to take hold over Francis. When the woman at the lectern spoke again it startled him.

“I want to extend my gratitude to everyone who is here today. We will do our best to honor a great man.”

Lou leaned in close and whispered into Francis’s ear. His breath was hot. “What’s wrong? You don’t know her?” Lou smiled, but it was now without warmth. Francis stared at he the woman’s face. He studied her features. He replayed her voice in his head.

“No,” Francis said. “I don’t know her.”

“Of course not,” smirked Lou. “Why the hell would you?” He laughed loudly. His cackle sounded like gunfire in the quiet room. Francis sunk in his chair, expecting irritated glances from the crowd, but no one turned around to look.

Francis jumped out of his chair and ran toward the aisle. He nearly tripped over Lou’s outstretched legs. The Undertaker was still chortling with delight. Francis walked up and down the aisle scanning the faces of everyone. He was desperate to find one person in the crowd he could recognize.

There has to be someone, he thought.

“It’s difficult to speak eloquently about a person’s life,” continued the woman in the red dress. “Especially when it ends so suddenly…and so senselessly.”

Francis froze. Suddenly Lou was standing next to him. His face was bright with glee.

“Who are these people?” Francis asked.

“You heard the woman!” Lou erupted. “We’re here to honor a great man!” Francis now recognized a new feeling he was experiencing. Fear.

His eyes frantically searched the room for an exit, but he couldn’t locate one. Suddenly he remembered the door marked “Staff Only.” He took off as fast as he could toward the door and reached for the knob. A hand grabbed him from behind.

“It would be rude to leave so soon,” chided the Undertaker. “We haven’t heard the rest of the eulogy.”

Francis lowered his head. He did not want to hear any more.

“My husband was taken from me,” said the woman. “And this is as close as I’ll get to saying goodbye.” She looked at Francis and as if on command, everyone in the room did the same.

“This isn’t my funeral,” said Francis. He looked at Lou. The Undertaker’s eyes were now black as tar.

Lou snapped his fingers and a flash of light blinded Francis. He opened his eyes a moment later and found himself sitting at a bar—one he recognized—a cold beer in his hand and a shot of whiskey in front of him. The place was empty, except for Lou, who was sitting on the stool to Francis’s left. He tapped his gold ring on the wooden bar and whistled along to a song playing on the jukebox.

“What is this?” asked Francis frantically. “What is happening to me?”

“Me, me, me,” Lou responded mockingly. “It’s all about you, huh?” He pointed at the drink in Francis’s hand. “How many of those did you have that night?”

Francis dropped the glass of beer and it shattered on the floor. He watched the golden liquid pool beneath him. When he looked up again, another full glass was sitting in front of him.

“Drink up!” chided Lou. “We have places to be. But you already know that.” Lou smiled and his teeth were stained with dark grime. His breath was rotten.

“Please stop this!” pleaded Francis “I know what I did! I’d do anything to change it!”

Lou snapped his fingers again and the bar went white.

Francis awoke behind the wheel of his pickup truck. It was the middle of the night. Dark scenery flew by outside the windows. Lou was sitting in the passenger seat, his feet up on the dashboard. The instrument panel inside the cab lit his face in red.

“You’re going too fast,” he said casually. Francis looked down at the speedometer, which read 60mph—twice more than allowed by law on this quiet two lane highway. He slammed his foot down on the brake pedal but the car maintained its speed.

“I didn’t mean to!” he yelled frantically. “It was a terrible accident!”

Francis rounded a sharp corner and suddenly saw the stalled car ahead—the one he never saw all those years ago. Until it was too late. The car’s taillights called to Francis like a beacon. He could see a dark outline standing in front of the raised hood of the car. It was a man.

Lou cleared his throat dramatically.

“Jeffrey Harrington, age 29, of Hammond County, passed away Saturday, February 10, 2007, as the result of injuries sustained from an accident.”

“Stop it!” Francis yelled. The car was approaching quickly. Francis was powerless to stop the truck.

“He is survived by his wife of one year, Michelle—“

Francis squeezed his eyes shut and braced for the inevitable impact.

“—and their unborn daughter.”

The collision was a violent cacophony of screeching metal and broken glass. Francis opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He felt the truck jolt to the left and careen to a stop on the opposite side of the road. Just as it did that night.

Francis opened his eyes and saw blood on the windshield, filling the cracks like tiny crimson rivers. He looked outside and saw the body facedown on the highway. A tennis shoe lay several feet away.

Francis heard a snap and everything went white again.

He was back inside Viewing Room #3, now empty save for himself. He stood in front of the copper casket. The top on the coffin was ajar and Francis could see darkness inside. He heard Lou’s voice from somewhere behind him.

“He was still alive when you drove off,” he said. “All you had to do was call for help.”

Francis felt the tears welling inside his eyes.

“Please…no more,” he whispered. The coffin top began to creep open slowly. Lou’s voice bellowed from the blackness inside the casket

“More is all that is left, Francis. More. And more. And more. Forever. For eternity. This is what you get. This is what you deserve.”

A hand shot out of the coffin and grabbed Francis’ arm. It pulled him toward the box. Francis dug his heels into the carpet and tried with all his might to pull away. But the hand was too strong. Its bony fingers secured themselves firmly around Francis’ wrist and pulled him toward the dark aperture. Francis continued to struggle, but to no avail. The hand would not let go. It would never let go.

Call him a poltergeist, a revenant, or a lost spirit, it didn’t really matter much to Francis. Two things were for certain.

He was dead. And this was his hell.