Friends Down Low (ONC2022)

Chapter 2 - Whispers

In no rush to return to my solo vigil, I watched the taxi disappear into the distance. I'd half expected the vehicle to do a sudden U-turn with Weirdo McGavin leaning out the window attempting a visually impaired drive-by shooting, but they simply drove away. Eventually, the chilly March air permeated my suit and drove me back inside.

I took the seat farthest from both the casket and the door. After the unnerving encounter with McGavin and the odd revelations about the coffin, it just seemed like the safest place. Like an old-west gambler, I had nothing but walls behind me.

Someone whispered directly into my ear. "Finnigan."

I leaped from the chair, spun into a backward trot across the parlor, fully expecting a person to be standing there in the rear corner, my supposed safe zone. Nope. It was still unoccupied. I turned a quick circle to double-check the rest of the room. One thing I learned about a funeral parlor was if you weren't in the coffin, there were no other good hiding spots. I remained alone.

Although all evidence pointed at it, I couldn't accept that I'd just imagined the voice. It had been feminine and sort of raspy. I'd felt the breath on my ear. If I'd been sitting in a bar, I'd have been optimistic that I was being hit on by some sultry stranger. But, being alone in a funeral parlor, my already rattled nerves just edged closer to fraying.

I wandered into the lobby to see if someone had been speaking. Amelia stood outside, her coat draped over her shoulders, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Upon seeing my troubled expression, she dropped the smoke, ground it out with the toe of her shoe, and came inside. "Everything okay?"

The fact that Amelia hadn't even been inside the building pretty much answered my question, but I felt compelled to ask anyway. "Did you happen to say my name?"

She blinked but otherwise, her expression remained impassive. "Just now?"

"Well, yeah. I guess. I could have sworn someone whispered my name behind me."

"So, you're asking if I snuck into the viewing room, crept up on you, whispered your name, then rushed outside before you even got a glimpse of me?"

Having my inquiry repeated back to me out loud made me cringe at its ridiculousness. Not only was it implausible, I now worried she thought I just attempted a pick-up line. A laughably bad pick-up line. In a funeral home no less.

"Finnigan," she said gently. "The grieving process affects us all differently."

"Oh, I'm not grieving," I replied too abruptly and with too much honesty. "I mean, I'm sort of sad. I mean, really sad. For Simon. My uncle." The attempt at backtracking found no traction.

"Ah. I see. Well, no, I didn't say your name and no one else is here."

"Right. Okay. Sorry to bother you." I did a quick heel-turn to end the conversation and headed back into Simon's viewing.

When I returned to the parlor, I found a new mourner. A tall, thin blonde woman in a grey business suit stood next to the coffin. Motionless, she had a hand pressed to the wood and her head bowed respectfully. The normalcy of this was refreshingly soothing and I took a seat in the last row to avoid disturbing her. But as I sat an odd thought occurred to me.

When I'd heard the whispering voice, I'd been alone in this room. From there I'd gone straight to the building entrance and interacted with Amelia. No one had arrived in that time. Where had this woman come from? Curious now, I leaned forward in my seat.