Revenant

I’ve learned some rules in the afterlife, and I can’t wait to share them with those who killed me.

First up, Brad. Ringleader. A smug, arrogant, greedy, albeit handsome sonofabitch.

Second, Mark. Brad’s right hand. Human embodiment of a ferret with the smell to boot. A bit of OCD.

And lastly, Brian. Their fifth-tier friend easily coerced because of wanting to be accepted by the group. Any group.

I didn’t think we, the group, should be adding verbiage in our contracts that allowed us to sue a client for their assets if they missed a payment or did anything we didn’t care for. I signed off on many documents without reading it closely, so I have to include myself in it.

But, like I said, I’ve learned a few rules in the afterlife. For one, if you’re murdered, you get paired with a kind of demon mentor. Mine is Azrael. He even made a little “Sorry You Were Murdered” basket for me. Quite cute.

He gave me three options because I was murdered: revenge, forgetting, or a hybrid.

I opted for the hybrid. A warning comes with it. A forgetting will creep in, choosing what it takes when it feels like it.

Azrael went through the PowerPoint slide of the Dos and Don’ts of the hybrid path. Clock on the wall said it took ten years to get through. A blink for those still alive. I signed all the afterlife onboarding paperwork for him to submit.

It was exciting to begin, but daunting.

“But you must start small. It’s a slow courting,” Azreal’s language can be archaic, being from the beginning of time and all. “Small is like knocking things over, a breeze inside with closed windows, a reflection in their peripheral. Knock on their psyche before you really move in.”

Brian was easy to spook. Took two days to crack him and send him to Whispering Hills Asylum. I visit time to time; make sure he doesn’t become sane or anything silly like that.

Mark took some convincing. His mental state was frayed, but not bad for a ferret. He was a fan of horror movies, so I had my work cut out for me.

“What makes him tick?” Azrael advised me when I complained about slow progress. He licked his lips. His tell, I’ve discovered, to urge me to look deeper.

The sulfuric atmosphere in Azrael’s office had crawled in my head; I felt it uncover the tidbit about Mark’s verbal OCD tic. Something I could exploit now that I’m no longer the polite human I once was. Azrael snickered with delight at my plan and snapped his fingers.

Next thing I knew, I was in Mark’s home office. It was delicately organized. Even with my murder considered, it was a charming trait of Mark’s. No doubt Brad delegated the murder plan to him. There was a twinge of remorse. I saw a lot of myself in Mark. He was smart, clever, and constantly met sales quotas.

But.

He was the one who handed me my laced drink.

So, I picked up a few markers and went about my business writing a few things in strategic spots around his house. For added annoyance, I left the uncapped markers skewed about.

Sure enough, Mark couldn’t ignore the creaking floorboards or clattering caps and decided to investigate. I wailed a few times, but I think it sounded like muffled screaming to him. Another rule was the more fear they felt, the more power you had. Delicious once you taste it.

“Seriously? Uncapped? And…Bloody Mary?” Mark says from the hallway. I heard him cup his hand over his mouth. I felt what I could describe as a glow from within: his growing fear. He noticed I wrote it around his hallway mirror, a reflective surface. He knew her lore.

Mark took timid steps toward an open door in the hallway, the bathroom. I could smell his sweat, tasted my tangy sweet revenge.

“Candy Man. Candy Man. No!” He screamed. He fumbled for the marker cap underneath the sink and fled the bathroom. Another surge in me, like from what I remember when your leg falls asleep. But everywhere.

“Bloody Mary?” He found the other quicker than I thought.

Now I have to give credit where credit is due. Azrael, joining in my plan, decided to run at Mark from the end of the shadowy corridor, forcing Mark up the stairs to the attic where I lay in wait.

Mark had burst through the door with such tenacity, I thought I was going to lose my chance to sacrifice him.

His eyes bulged. “You’re… dead…” A treat from Azrael’s fear impact, I’d managed to physically manifest for him.

I laughed. Too long. He cringed, his body yearning to run downstairs but Azrael snarled from the shadows. I held up a piece of paper.

His eyes scanned it. He had yelped, then, knowing what came next. His eyes had searched the room. Feeling he was safe, he straightened his shoulders, jutted his chin high. He opened his mouth, but then slapped a hand over the knob of the door.

My shoulders slumped. Even ferrets have bouts of intelligence. With such confidence, he spat at me: “Candy Man. Bloody Mary.” He paused, the air pregnant with anticipation. “Three times, but the knob didn’t work, no reflection. How dare you exploit my vocal tic.” His last words carried a pain I’d sympathized with.

At one point.

I stopped pretending to be upset about the covered knob. “Big words. But…” He followed my finger to the shard of mirror on top of the attic doorframe.

Mark shrieked.

A buzzing drowned out his screams. Bees swirl out of the mirror as a girl’s bloody arm reaches out of it. Mark was paralyzed. He peed himself. I felt invigorated and literally alive again. He backed up into me and I pushed him forward.

The Candy Man’s hook sank into his left shoulder blade and Bloody Mary’s saber sliced through his stomach. She played with his entrails as The Candy Man lacerated his eyes and skin.

The attic door opened, Azrael’s claw reached through and snapped.

We’re back at his office. The power surging through me dissipates as quickly as it came. Another rule, fear for fear is one to one.

“How do you feel?” Azrael steeples his fingers, then quickly unlaces them.

“Great! Thank you for holding off the two, what a grand entrance for both.”

Azrael blushes and playfully swats the air. “It took some convincing. Ms. Mary is not one to contend with. I reminded her, ’tis but poetry to arrive fashionably late. Plus, they get to regenerate him. Part of their stipend for their cameo in your little revenge arc.” He waggles his fingers at me.

“You’re enjoying this.” I joke.

“And why not? Brad is next. Your final pillar before full retribution. I’m granting you an arcana: telepathy. Take your time with your prey.” Azrael winks and snaps his claw.

I’m standing in the breakroom.

A flash of memories: all of us guys hanging out, laughing, planning outings and vacations, all the bad (fun) ways to spend our hard-earned commissions. Then those were replaced with memories where I confronted Brad and the team, asking them to reconsider the depth of the contracts.

Then sipping what I thought was our usual Friday O’Clock beer. Their eyes gave everything away and I was too blind and arrogant to see it. I considered them friends. Moral dumpsters more like it.

I focus. Brad is here, working, being sleezy. Telepathy feels like rusty radar. Azrael said to take my time. Maybe I can hone it. I’ll take this as slow as fast as I can. I used Mark’s tic, but anyone knew that about him. Brad is a handsome mystery.

I lurk in the breakroom. Something inside me tells me I need to wait. The rusty feeling grates more, so he must be coming closer.

I’ll admit that being dead has its drawbacks. I’m always hungry, but nothing satiates. Their fear helps. Little snack. But it leaves me feeling void. Cold. Everything you associate with death. Being a hybrid of revenge and forgetting, I wonder what Azrael has in store for the forgetting. He seems nice enough, for a demon. The best snakes are your closest friends, though.

Inside my head feels like a cheese grater on my skull. He’s close. I notice I can’t smell anything here, unlike in Azrael’s office. For the best, though. The breakroom is nothing but stale coffee, body odor, and abandoned dreams.

In strides Brad. The perpetual cocky smile on his face, showcasing his too white teeth. His (fake) tan is awful, you can see the white outline by his hair. How did I not see all that before? He’s cheap. Charisma has a way of blinding us. His mind was screaming through the static of my own.

He pauses, angles his head. He senses something amiss. Me. Perfect. I want him to sense me, to feel me. I want to be the pit in his stomach, the nag in the back of his mind, the chill down his spine (barring he even has one). He goes to the coffee machine, disappointed at its poor state. I step closer.

Wrinkles. So many wrinkles. His face looks like the Sahara sand dunes compressed together. How did I manage to be swindled by him? He grabs a mug. I do a little test: I try to touch his hand. As expected, I pass through it.

But he felt it. I know he did because he paused, mouth agape, looking at his hand. In a moment of bizarre fate, his eyes meet mine. I hiss in breath. Does he see me? Is he spiritually attuned? I’m not supposed to be the anxious one, here. I stand firm and realize he’s looking through me, not at me. Even though I’m a ghost, sometimes humans are the scarier ones. Brad’s eyes are like Venus fly traps.

Which reminds me why I’m here. I watch Brad make his coffee. He sips it. The creeping static is difficult to curb, to find words among the noise. It’s like tuning an old transistor radio without a tower.

Brad walks out of the breakroom. Inside me, Azrael’s tether urges me to follow.

It’s eerie to walk through the halls I was once so proud to be in, so happy, so excited. The faces are not what I remember. More tired, worn, haggard. It’s like the sheen of happiness is wiped away. No joy exists in anyone’s eyes. They’re about as dead on the inside as I am. I’d like to think it was because of my death, but I think I just finally see the job for what it is.

Brad shut his office door. He looks around, still feeling me. I felt a little surge in my toes: the seed of his fear. I lick my lips in anticipation. This will be fun. I glide right behind his chair. I lift my hands before the phone rings. Buzzkill.

“Go for Brad.”

That’s how he answers the phone? I rack my mind to see if I could recall conversations. Nothing. It was always one of us answering the phone. With Brian, Mark, and me gone, it seems Brad needs to finally do something.

“I… will get right on that, sir.” He hangs up the phone and buries his head in his hands. He stays like this for a few moments. I try to focus on his mind, but it’s still scratchy. He pops his head up, awakens his computer and pulls up the Google page. I peer over his shoulder to see his search.

What life isn’t in my face anymore drains. When I died, I thought it would be of old age. Or some robbery where I sacrifice myself to save the day. Or putting up a fight with a real capable serial killer.

No.

Brad Googled, “What does ‘Boilerplate’ mean?”

Never have I been so embarrassed to be murdered by someone so inept.

He didn’t know the basics of his entire career. My jaw dropped. Where was Bloody Mary’s machete when I need it. I could’ve decapitated Brad right here, turned it into a painting, and I’m sure Azrael would hang it up in his office like a proud parent.

Brad continues to Google simple concepts of a contract, how to run a business, how to secure clients. He was never capable of anything but manipulating his way into a position where he wasn’t qualified. Delegation was his superpower. That and taking credit for everyone’s hard work.

As if that was my riddle to reduce the static, Brad’s mind became crystal clear. I don’t know what the hell this is? Where’s Mark? What the hell happened to Brian? Who’s going to do this? To help me? Dad thinks I’ve been doing this all by myself. Fuck! I never should’ve killed him. But he was going to blow it all up. I would’ve lost everything. But now I have to work now? I don’t know any of this…

A lovely, familiar sensation through me. I almost feel corporal from his growing fear of responsibility he opened for himself. I reach for his shoulder, testing. I grip his shoulder.

Brad could have set a world record for pole vaulting with how high he jumped from his chair. He crashes to the ground, scrambling away, trying to blink me away.

“How the fu… what? You’re dead!” Brad stammers.

I smile, quiet, allowing my presence and his guilt cover him.

A knock on the door. His eyes dart to it. His voice falls out of his throat and into mine, “Hello, come in.” I say for him, his eyes widen. I hide my own surprise shock for the telepathic control. His fear must be astronomical with seeing a ghost coupled with having to do his job.

Belinda waddles in with a sheet of paper and a pen, “Are you okay? I heard shouting.” A sweet secretary, but years have worn on her.

“Do you see him?” Brad nods to me.

She barely casts her eye in my direction and tuts. “Oh, Brad. I know a co-worker’s death is really hard right now.” She helps him up to his chair, straightening his shirt. “We’re all dealing with the lost of those three. They all meant something to us.”

“Yes, they did.” I talk through Brad. His eyes bulge in confusion and fear. I drink it in.

“And I bet you’re just feeling a lot.” She sympathizes.

He nodded, on the verge of tears. “I am.” I made him say.

“Yes. Well. I need you to sign this and come to the shareholder meeting tomorrow. They have a lot of questions.” She slid the paper and pen in front of him.

Cold, Belinda. I love it. “I look forward to addressing every inquiry they have.” I made him say. He signed and she left without a worry.

Brad stares at me. I look into his eyes, into his mind. Nothing in there prepares him for tomorrow. Or anything his job truly entailed. I catalogue his childhood-born insecurities to exploit. Not to worry, I’ll get him in all the rooms where he was so desperate to take credit for our work, really let the true Brad shine.

I feel the forgetting stirring. Whatever it plans to steal from me, that’s a problem for later.

Somewhere I hear Azrael cackle with delight.