The Undertaker

A story about a grim errand.

This is my response to this week’s Sunday Scaries prompt by Labyrinthia Mythweaver, Mathew C. Bryant, and Conor MacCormack.

The black horse drew the black carriage down the mist-covered cobblestone street, clicking and clacking in the moonlight. There was no driver and no windows on the carriage; it appeared to be a solid cube on four wheels. The horse didn’t have blinders on, but didn’t appear to need them. The animal navigated the streets with little effort, taking curves and turns with ease. The few people out on the streets took notice of the strange sight, but did not let their attention linger, as if forgetting what they saw as soon as they saw it.

The horse came to a stop at a sprawling mansion that took up half a city block. There was a wreath on the door with a man standing on either side of it. They were dressed for business, with crisp suits and finely polished shoes. The two men stiffened at the sight of the horse and carriage, ready to receive the next visitor who came to the house to pay their respects.

A door opened on the side of the carriage and a tall, slender man wearing a long coat and wide hat stepped out. He was dressed all in black from head to toe; there wasn’t a single article of clothing on his person that was any other color. He shut the door to the carriage and strode with patience and purpose to the steps to the mansion’s porch.

“Good evenin’,” one of the doormen said. “Are you a friend of the deceased?”

The man dressed in black lifted his hand ever so slightly. “I’m the undertaker,” he replied.

The two men looked at each other. “I’m sorry, but the family has already secured funeral services,” the same man said.

“I’m not here for the body,” the undertaker said. “I’m here for the soul.”

The two men looked at each other and then back to the undertaker. The second man spoke this time. “Sir, this is not the time for jests. A man has died.”

The undertaker made hard eye contact with each man in turn. His eyes were cold and hollow but had a sincerity about them. “I’m not joking, my friends. I have come to collect the soul of the departed.”

The men looked at each other once more. The first man to speak nodded and they both stepped aside. The undertaker walked past them and into the house, letting the door shut silently behind him.

The parlor inside the house was occupied by people of varying ages, all dressed in mourning colors. The women had veils over their faces and the men stood with handkerchiefs at the ready. Many of the women were crying at various levels of severity, comforted by their husbands and brothers. Everybody in the room turned their attention to the undertaker when he stepped inside, despite him not doing anything to call attention to himself.

The undertaker walked across the room. Every eye tracked him as he approached the coffin open in the middle of the large, lavishly furnished room. In the coffin was an old man with white hair and wearing the finest suit money can buy. Sitting by the coffin was a woman of comparable age, a man of twenty-nine years, and a woman who had just reached marrying age. The older woman stood as the undertaker approached.

“Sir, are you a business partner of my husband’s?” she asked.

The undertaker did not respond. He reached forward and put a hand over the dead man’s heart. When he removed his hand, the spectral form of the corpse stood by the coffin. Everyone in the room gasped. Many women and one man of particularly delicate constitution fainted. The young man—who was indeed the deceased man’s son—stood and took a step in the undertaker’s direction. “What are you doing?” the young man said through gritted teeth. “What devilry is this that you practice?”

The undertaker turned his attention to the young man. “No devilry. I’m just doing my job.” The undertaker turned to the ghost standing by his side. “It’s time,” he said to the specter.

The ghost of the old man looked around with urgency, opening and closing his mouth several times as if trying to remember how to speak. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ve come to claim you,” the undertaker said to him. “You’re coming with me now.”

The ghost shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. I think I’ll be going back to where I was this instant. I demand it.”

“I don’t answer to you,” the undertaker said. “You have no control over me. Now, come.” The undertaker turned back to the door and started walking toward it. Without touching the floor, the ghost started floating behind him.

“This is preposterous!” the ghost argued. “I command you to release me at once!”

The undertaker said nothing in reply. He opened the door and walked through it, the ghost close behind.

“Release me, sir!” the ghost shouted as he moved past the doormen outside, who turned pale at the sight of the spectral form. “I’ll not tell you again!”

The undertaker opened the door to his carriage. He stepped aside as the ghost floated into it. He climbed up behind him and shut the door. The black horse started trotting down the street, moving away from the house at the same steady, even pace at which it arrived.

Inside the carriage, there were no lights. The ghost looked around and pressed against the wall in every direction. He found that the walls were solid and he could not open the door. “Where are we going?” the ghost asked the undertaker, who sat facing him on the other side of the carriage.

“Hell.”

The ghost dropped his jaw. “What? Did you just say we were going to Hell?”

“Yes. That is your destination and it’s my job to get you there.”

“I demand an explanation! I was a good Christian man in life. I do not deserve an eternity of torment.”

“Judgment isn’t my job.”

“Well, you must certainly have been given some justification for your errand! I again demand an explanation at once.”

The undertaker shifted in his seat. “I told you. Judgment isn’t my job. I come to collect the souls they tell me to get and I take them to their destination. I do nothing more, nothing less.”

“Well, this is highly irregular. Are you being paid for this errand sir? I can double your wage if you see to it that I am taken to my rightful place of rest.”

“I’m not paid. I don’t need to be. Money is worthless to me.”

“Perhaps some other compensation then? You want a woman, I can get you one. Your own business? A fine home? Surely there’s something I can tempt you with?”

“I’m beyond temptation. I’m beyond all earthly delights. I exist only to do my assigned task.”

“Well, I will most certainly have a word with your superior before I submit myself to any devil or demon, I can assure you that!”

“It won’t do you any good.”

The ghost’s face turned from angry to downcast. His eyes had a weight to them they had never shown in life. His lip quivered. “Please,” he said, his voice less forceful and more pleading. “There’s certainly something you can do.”

“There’s not.”

“But there’s been a mistake! I’m going to Heaven, I’m sure of it.”

The undertaker took off his hat to reveal a pale face framed by hair the color of a moonless night. “Sir, I can assure you, the only mistakes that have been made are the ones you made in life. Whatever eternity awaits you, you have built brick by brick.”

The ghost turned silent. The black horse exited the city and kept trotting down the dirt road that wound through the countryside, not hurrying and not slowing down.

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