Josh had everything back in his possession after leaving Syd's shop, going around the corner, and looking through his bag. With his face covered and focused back on his goal, Josh made for the funeral home finally. His time in the town felt like weeks just after a few days; spending the rest of his life there would not do. No more obstacles, he decided and watched for Cannon or anyone else who might be a problem.
He never felt alone as he walked street to street, always sensing eyes watching him. From windows or passing cars, the people of the town paid close attention to anyone walking out in the open. Josh did his best to put on an air of aloofness. No one called out or confronted him so by that, he believed himself successful. Something else watched him, though. Something without eyes--a presence.
He recognized a few buildings and streets but he saw none of the streets or landmarks he had made mental notes of when studying Sylvy's map. The library stood to his left surrounded by a dead grass lawn and several withered trees. At the top of the building were broken gargoyles and a clock that appeared frozen. The hour numbers had rubbed off some time ago, leaving nothing but unmoving hands. In a town run by a man like Anson, Josh wondered what kind of books were allowed to be checked out for people to read.
He stopped when he saw a street sign hanging askew on its post at an intersection. Sun Lake Blvd. He had no idea which way to turn: right or left and decided to go left based on something he had read once. Apparently, when faced with a one way or another decision, it was best to choose going to the left due to the right triggering something subconscious in the brain--a sense of rightness in turning right. Josh believed the notion to be off-based, not supported by anything of substance, but when forced to make the decision, he did just that, going left.
The funeral home was different compared to the other buildings. Multi-storied and wide, he thought it was Victorian architecture and converted to the final place where loved ones convened to mourn those who had passed. Josh had an affinity for avoiding such places. Too many funerals during his childhood left his skin itching whenever he came too close to one.
Josh walked slowly up the long, angling cement steps until he reached the door, looked for some kind of sign to welcome him, and eventually knocked on the door. A sliding sound could be heard inside and Josh braced himself for whoever he would encounter inside.
The door opened as an older man sat in some kind of contraption that attached to a railing system along the ceiling. Josh stared, set on figuring out how the apparatus worked.
"Name of the deceased," the man asked. He was round and older having a jet-black combover on a bald head of spots and crevices. Magnified eyes blinked behind thick-lensed glasses like that of an owl. "I'll take a picture of myself sitting in this crotch breaker later and get you a few copies. Name of the deceased?"
Josh straightened and shook his interest free. "Sorry. I've never seen anything like it." He could tell the funeral home director grew impatient. "I'm looking for Mavis. Yes, that's the name."
The funeral home director blinked a few times. "Then you're here about the kids."
Josh nodded. "I'm also here to find out what she can tell me about the shivering and why she lied to me."
"Ah, you're just another fly that flew into her trap, my boy. Don't take offense or anything personal. You're the fourth one so far."
"What? Fourth what?"
The funeral director stepped back, apparatus sliding along the rail system with his movement. "Come in, come in. You're the fourth one to come looking for the kids." He smiled bright and wide revealing crooked teeth. "But, you are the first to make it here to see Mavis. Shut the door behind you."
"Lucky me," Josh admitted, suddenly wondering who the other three were (by all likelihood, he knew at least one) and where they were.
The funeral director was able to swivel around without the cord twisting and "walked" with ease. The smell of formaldehyde hung thick as if from a scented candle while clean surfaces shone in the front room's ceiling lights. Fake green plants stood out strong against the light cream-colored walls. All in all, the inside of the funeral home was little more than acceptable if not boring.
There were no doors to connecting rooms as the rail system had to go unobstructed. The funeral director moved quite well despite his condition and Josh followed without having to slow his pace. As they left the front room and turned down a hallway, Josh felt the hairs on his neck raise. The hallway became dark with orange bulbs giving off unsettling light. Strips of thick white plastic hung from ceiling to floor as Josh braced himself to pass through the barrier.
A stronger cloud of formaldehyde hit his senses forcing him to cover his face. They passed darker rooms with less and less light before the funeral director stopped for the rail system ended in front of a room with an actual door.
"Go on through," the man said, voice dropping to a whisper. "Whatever you do, son, avoid the urge to scream."
Josh looked back the way he came but something tugged at his nerves. He needed to proceed. He must for the lives of the kids depended on him. He must move in faith.
He approached the door finding it had no doorknob and instead opened on hinges alone. Glancing back, he saw the funeral director just staring. "Grandfather," Josh said under his breath, gripping the walking stick tightly, "still my fears."
Upon entering, he found a better lit room and a grotesque woman standing over the body of an old man lying face up on a steel cart. She smiled at the sight of him while Josh could not blink or breathe realizing she had parts of a conjoined twin attached to her from the side.
I like the way you’re developing the growing stress in the reader. The idea of being followed without being followed, of being watched by a disembodied ‘something’ is a feeling we all experience and your story does a good job of tapping into that (fear? anxiety?).
I feel like you seem to be saying something about Ridgecrest, but haven’t put my finger on it yet.
I know you’re developing a story but it feels like an allegory, like it’s a cautionary tale against misbehaving children and the trials they face by falling off the edge of reality, somehow. The more I read, the more I’m interested in figuring it out.