Tea for Two

A closing car door and the soft crunch of gravel under a wistful blue sky as Allan King, carrying his briefcase, walks slowly, and with intention. He thinks of his boss, Mr. Langston, and how he had spoken that morning with almost maddening ambiguity: that he seemed ready for his own crack at a policy renewal, if he wanted it. This one’s a walk in the park. And what the hell was he supposed to say to that? 

Absolutely, sir, seemed like the only choice, and so he said it. And then he found out it was a funeral home.

 But it wasn’t like he could say it bothered him. Sure, he could still remember his father’s funeral as a boy and the gleam of light on the casket that nearly blinded him and how stiff the air was and how his father was lying there with his eyes closed and he thought that any second he would open them - but he wasn’t a kid anymore. 

~

The Byrne Family Funeral Home is a moderately-sized white building that looks as if it was caught between the past and the present: there was fresh-ish paint, and the roof may have been done in the last decade, but the cracks and chips were beginning to show like wrinkles on the face of a life well-lived. He rings the bell and waits, catches a subtle smell that he can’t quite put his finger on - it’s a little musty, mildew perhaps? His eyes scan the roof and he sees a hint of something dark in a corner and he makes a note to ask about mould. 

The door opens and he is greeted with a rush of warm air, the aromatic breath of freshly applied perfume and a woman who is - for lack of a better word - stunning. She has long red hair, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that hold his, though he can’t help but notice her elegant cardigan and dress combination. 

Allan realises that he has been standing silently and sticks out his hand: “Hi, I’m Allan King, from Langston Insurance.” 

She takes his hand and shakes it - her hands are surprisingly cold. 

“Well hello, Mr. King. I’m Darcy Byrne. Please come in.” 

Allan follows her into a foyer that is richly carpeted in red with white walls that are split by a mahogany panel. A chandelier sparkles above them and he can hear faint music - lush strings soaring. 

“May I take your coat?” she asks. 

“Sure, thanks,” says Allan. Darcy opens a door to a row of hangers - he notices that her posture is impeccable - and turns to situate the coat as Allan asks: “This music… is it Vivaldi?” 

Darcy turns to him with a smile, showing pearly white teeth: “Why, yes! Good ear, Mr. King. Autumn - I do love the first section. Follow me to the sitting room, it’s just this way.” 

Allan follows her along the hallway, her heels muffled against the carpet, the walls adorned with pastoral scenes and the floor loosely populated with comfortable furniture. They pass a few doors on either side that presumably lead into visitation rooms or smaller areas for more immediate family before Allan’s eyes are caught again and he pauses. This time, he sees an older man sitting in a room behind a computer. The monitor blocks most of his gaunt face except for a thin sheath of grey hair and dark eyes that stare unblinkingly at - or through - Allan. 

Darcy turns back: “I see you’ve met my father! Seamus Byrne. Founder of this establishment back in 1968.” She moves closer to him, almost like she is whispering in his ear and he can smell her perfume - something with roses. “His senses are going pretty fast, poor thing. Dementia.” Allan’s eyes soften and he nearly reaches for her hand. “We set him up on a computer, though I don’t think he even knows what it is. He’ll tap at a few keys, it’s all harmless enough.” She walks over towards the room and Allan sees the eyes again and they still haven’t blinked and the head hasn’t moved and then the door is closed. A heavy thud echoes through the building. 

“A bit spooky when it’s empty, isn’t it?” Darcy says over her shoulder as she continues walking down the hall. 

“Yea, sure is.” 

They walk along in silence and her pace quickens as they pass a mirror - he turns to his reflection, sees himself and for a split second sees a wavering outline of black shadow in front of him. He blinks and it is gone; she is as she should be. He tells himself to snap out of it, that he is nervous and his eyes are playing tricks on him.  

“Please, have a seat.” She beckons towards a couch with a floral pattern where Allan sits and she sits in an armchair. He feels a drop of sweat on his brow and wipes it away.

Allan clears his throat: “Well, Mrs. Byrne, thank you for having me. You have a beautiful business here - the wood, the paintings, everything is so ornate.” 

“Why, thank you, we do pride ourselves on creating the very best experience for people who are going through the very worst.” 

Allan nods, setting his briefcase down softly: “So, on the matter of renewal, there are just a few things to discuss before we can get to dotting t’s and crossing i’s-”

“Oh, forgive me, Mr. King. I’ve been an awful host. I haven’t even offered you a drink.” 

“Oh, not to worry. I’m-” 

“Please Mr. King, I insist.” Her eyes narrow and her chin raises. “I want you to experience what a customer would experience - minus the death, of course.” She laughs and it is a thin, airy laugh that could have easily been mistaken for the shrill call of a small bird. “I can offer you water, coffee or my personal favourite, a house blend of herbal tea.” 

“That’s far too kind of you, Ms. Byrne. I’ll have some water, please.” 

“Are you sure? The tea is simply delightful. Fragrant, aromatic - some would even say evocative. We always serve it to our clients. They say it truly calms the nerves.” 

“Well, you sure have a way with words. You convinced me. I’ll try the tea.” 

“Excellent. I’ll be right back. In the meantime, do have a look around. The room over there is where we show our caskets. Please have a look.”

Allan stands and smiles at his host, then makes his way to the other room. He doesn’t turn back but is sure that there are eyes that are watching him walk and he shudders - it wouldn’t be a funeral home if the people there weren’t at least a little spooky. He enters a room that is softly lit and contains at least a dozen caskets of every kind of wood and metal. The polished wood stings his nostrils and for a second he is aware of the musty smell at the door, but he pushes it away.

He walks around the room and feels the air, how it is heavy with the emotional energy spent, the grief that has accumulated, dissipated, and he wonders where it goes. Maybe, he thinks, it stays here in the room and seeps into the wood or metal until it is time for another person to go on their final journey, their- 

“There are so many choices, aren’t there?” 

Allan jumps and nearly hits his head on the ceiling. 

“Oops,” she says from behind him with a sharp giggle. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

She holds a serving tray with a teapot and two cups and her hands don’t tremble. “Choice is fascinating, isn’t it? How a person’s family has to choose the vessel for their final journey. How existential.”

Allan nods but recoils internally. A strange coincidence, surely, is all.

 “What would you choose, Mr. King?” 

Allan’s eyes dart around and he stammers: “Um, well, I haven’t really-“ 

“I’d choose birch. It’s stylish, and when the end comes and everything is fire, it will burn the fastest.”

A few beats of near silence - Vivaldi stills plays quietly - as she holds the tray unwavering and the room seems to get hotter. Then she laughs and it echoes even when she stops. 

“I do apologise, Mr. King. Gallows humour is an occupational hazard. Please join me in the sitting room.” 

They sit and she leans over and pours a dark brown tea into china tea cups. Her sleeve hitches slightly and he sees her wrist and there is a streak of black that looks like a tattoo. As his eyes focus, he notices slight raised bumps in the dark streak and he gets a whiff of the mildew smell that he has been becoming nose blind to. She catches his eye, smirks, and he looks away. She slides the cup towards him and leans back, her shoulders perfectly erect. Allan brings the cup to his lips, smells a herbal infusion and sips it, scalding his tongue. 

“How is your tea, Mr. King?” 

“Lovely,” he says, “just a little hot.” 

She nods slowly and sips her tea, nearly draining it. 

“So, I noticed some mould coming in, that could-” 

“Are you married, Mr. King?” 

Allan stops, baffled, and stammers: “Uhm, no. I’m not.” 

Her eyes - they seem darker now, but Allan convinces himself it’s just the lighting - are the only part of her face visible and they don’t leave him as she finishes her tea and places it back on the table. 

“Well, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone soon. There is no greater joy than when two families are united for eternity. Come, you must see one of our visitation rooms.” 

Allan almost mentions the mould again, but defers, feeling like he should just go along for the ride at this point. He follows her back the way they came and sees a thick door opposite them with a padlock he missed on the way in. The smell is thick, a pungent dampness that bites at his throat and he is sure that he hears movement, feels something nearby. 

She turns back: “That’s where we keep a lot of the chemicals. Can never be too safe, right?”  

He nods, convinces himself that his mind is playing tricks on him. They enter a room with oak chairs set out and a space for a casket at the front. 

“Lovely, but no surprise there. So, about that mould-” 

“You should have just had the tea.” 

Darcy Byrne reaches a hand behind Allan King’s head and kisses him. It is a deep, full kiss and for a second, Allan forgets how wrong it is and her comment about the tea and loses himself in it. After a few seconds, he starts to pull away when he realises that he can’t. That her hand is keeping him in place and she has an iron grip, almost inhuman. A movement in the shadows and behind Darcy’s head Allan sees the old man, Seamus, but his eyes are dark as pitch and the black streaks from Darcy’s arm are spreading across his body and he is licking his now reptilian lips and there is a sound from inside of Darcy’s mouth. It is like a rusty knife grating against a sheath and he cannot move his head and he can sense something opening up from her and moving into him. Whatever it is starts to thrum, and Darcy releases a low unghh and the thing from her throat releases something into him. His throat burns as it travels through him, filling him from crown to toe with a burning pestilence until black spots fill his vision and he begins to fade, her poison seeping into his brain as he slumps into her arms. Seamus steps forward as they each take an arm, and walk him like a drunk back down the hallway to the door with the lock where hell itself awaits him. 

~

Allan opens his eyes to a mixture of powerful heat and an odour of rotten fruit so pungent that he nearly retches. The room is dark and moist; he finds that he is sitting in a chair, unbound. He looks to his side and sees Darcy and Seamus sitting with shoulders straight and staring at him with eyes of ink. He looks ahead and sees a silhouette, though he can’t make out exactly what it is. 

A sound comes from inside of him, from his mind and his heart and it is many voices all at once. It is shrill and low and it blends and scrapes and cracks and it should be horrifying but he is amazed to find that he isn’t scared. 

He feels strangely calm. 

The room gets brighter, somehow, and his eyes adjust to whatever sits in front of him: from the floor up, it is a series of dark undulating masses a few feet wide, damp and shining in the darkness with mucous-like viscosity. His eyes find what might be its head, where there is a cavernous mouth of abyss and a single eye that fixates on him. Thin, wispy hairs spring from the top of it and move in the air, tasting and frantic and hungry. 

“What are you?” Allan whispers.

His eyes close and the sound continues within him and it isn’t a language or a voice but a frequency. It is the booming sound of the deepest part of a mountain, the stillness of outer space, every drop of rain that has ever fallen, every heartbeat that has ever beat, every thought that has ever been thought. His own thoughts crystallise now, and like the darkest water from the deepest part of an ancient well, images start to float into his inner vision: he seems himself as a child, from the eyes of his dead father in his casket, his grave, and his mother is beside him with tears in her eyes. He seems himself as an old man, alone, everything grey, and he feels fear for that first time that he might actually end up alone when he dies. 

The images fade and all he can see within himself is a pale eye that cuts through the opacity of his darkness. He feels comfort when he sees the eye; he feels like he is coming home. 

As Alan is lost in his mind, something has removed itself from the thing’s back with a squelch and started moving through the air. It is a thin, sword-like tentacle and it travels quickly, tasting the air like a snake hunting a mouse. 

The tentacle is at Alan’s feet now and it works its way up, loops behind him and threads its way down his shirt. Like a needle, its pointed tip enters his skin and travels upwards, beside the spine until it absorbs itself into the spine, moves through the brainstem and into the hippocampus. 

Allan King does not scream as bits of brain matter are suctioned into the tentacle. Rather, he stares ahead at the one eye that is now a part of him and feels a warm tranquillity that spreads like a shot of whiskey through his body and there is a buzzing as if a circuit is connected and he closes his eyes and welcomes the darkness that beckons him, embraces him, envelops him, until he is the darkness.

The voice, that grating utterance of some primaeval tongue is his voice now, and he laughs as his eyes turn black and a curved smile spreads across his face.