Horror Stories

Funeral Flowers

((ANOTHER HORROR STORY BY ME))

The taxi driver knew where to go.

The man paid him and then watched as the cab drove away. The driver had not spoken during the journey. The man had sat in the back, looking out but not seeing.

He was going to bury his father.

The building he stood in front of did not look like an undertaker’s office. Plate glass windows held him in reflection but he did not look as he remembered.

He couldn’t see a door. He looked around, but there did not seem to be any other way in so he stepped closer to the building and stopped. A section of the glass slid open. The reception was glass and marble and steel and the receptionist was their human equivalent: clear, calm and cool. And, of course, beautiful.

He went in, and the glass slid closed behind him. He could not see out through it. Instead he saw himself, repeated again and again, disappearing into infinity.

He sniffed. The air was perfumed, a distant hint of summer meadows sleeping in the sun. Not what he had expected of an undertaker. But even death was corporate now.

“How can I help you?” the receptionist asked. Her tongue flicked, dampening her lips. Saliva glittered like diamonds on the lip gloss.

“I have an appointment,” he said. “About my... my father.”

“Oh, of course. Mr Evans. We’ve been expecting you. If you would like to go through, Mr Singer will see you right away.” She nodded towards the corridor that disappeared behind her into a haze of fluorescent light.

“Right. Thank you.”

“Mr Evans, we’re all very sorry, but we are here to ensure that your father will never be lost to you.”

“Pardon?”

“If you go through, Mr Singer will explain everything.” She turned back to her desk.

Mr Evans walked past the receptionist and down the corridor. There was a door at the end. It was closed, but as he neared it the door opened and he saw a man standing there.

“Mr Evans?”

“Yes, that’s right. I have an appointment.”

“Of course. Please, come in. Sit down.” Mr Evans made the first movement towards shaking hands, but Mr Singer had already retreated to his side of the desk. No other option left, Mr Evans sat down. Mr Singer leaned forward with his fingers interlaced.

They were beautiful fingers. Long, but not thin. Perfect nails too, pink to their tips and their quicks.

“You’re not married?” Mr Evans asked, then wondered why.