The Obituary

Dana Miller prided herself on never publishing anything with an error. Her hand cramped as she marked off comma splices, crossed out words, and wrote in the margins of her tablet. She stretched out before making one more pass before midnight. She reached the obituaries. Nothing unusual. Then she saw her name.

“Dana Miller, 39, Copy Editor,” she read aloud. She read on. She verified the information. Her hometown, university, professional and personal achievements. Her parents’ and sister’s names were correct. She scanned to the bottom and read, “Dana Miller died unexpectedly Saturday. Cause of death has not yet been released. Funeral arrangements pending.”

She checked the clock. 11:58 p.m. Saturday. 

She laughed, thinking it was some kind of dark joke played on her by her staff as her fortieth birthday approached. She wanted to know, though, who had submitted it. She looked at the article metadata. No name came up, and an error message popped up. Then she checked the article’s scheduled publication time. 6:00 a.m. Sunday. The author and source fields were blank.

She refreshed the page. Nothing changed. It must have been a corrupted template, she told herself. Before leaving the newsroom, she checked it one more time. Still there, with nothing changed. She concluded she would get to the bottom of it the next day.

She got into her car and checked the page again. It was 12:17 a.m. Dana thought about who made the obituary in the first place. Maybe someone hacked the system and auto-populated an employee’s name and records. Could there be another Dana Miller? Miller was a common enough surname, she thought, but the other details were unlikely to be the same. It could be an angry reporter whose copy she had sent back for too many inaccuracies.

At the red light, she checked the obituary, and it was still there, unchanged. She decided to call the night shift editor. “Hey, Rick. Do me a favor and check if my name's in the obituaries, would you?”

“What?” he said. 

“I know. It must be some kind of prank. Just check for me, will you?” she asked.

A few seconds later, he said, “There’s nothing under your name.”

She paused, and her heart sank as she checked it again. Still there. She took a screenshot and put the phone on the passenger seat. “Thanks anyway; must be a bug of some kind.”

“Is everything okay? Did you check it three times like you always do?” Rick said with a chuckle.

“Ha ha, very funny. Yeah, just been a long day is all. Thanks anyway. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up. 

The roads were empty as she came home. The dashboard clock read 12:33 a.m. She longed for her bed, so she gathered her things and headed toward her front door. She felt uneasy walking inside. She shut the door behind her, double-checked that she had locked it, and turned on the security system. 

Dana checked the door again. Locked. Good, she thought. She made sure the door brace was properly hinged so no one could force their way in without meeting heavy resistance. She went around and checked every window. All were firmly locked and in place. She checked the stove. Off. She pressed each burner with her fingertips just to be sure. She went on to double-check the smoke detectors and replaced all the batteries so they would be fresh. She listened for the beeps. She then moved on to the carbon monoxide detector and replaced its batteries. She checked her pulse and did an ECG with her smartwatch. All normal. She looked at her watch. 1:11 a.m. I have to go to bed, she thought.

She got undressed and put on her pajamas. The thoughts plagued her. She hadn’t checked her phone since arriving home. Dana climbed into bed, plugged in her phone, made sure her alarm was set, and tried to fall asleep.

After tossing and turning for a half hour, she finally relented and checked her phone. Something changed. The last sentence now read, “Funeral arrangements are being handled by Serenity Gardens Funeral Home.” She knew that place. She buried her father there only five years ago. She checked her screenshot, and it did not contain the funeral home name. She screenshotted the new development.

She picked up her phone and dialed Serenity Gardens. An overnight answering service answered her call. She asked if they had any arrangements under the name Dana Miller. The representative replied that they had no one under that name. She hung up. She refreshed the page, and it was still the same.

She put her phone down to try to sleep, to no avail. So she got up and checked again. Nothing new. She felt a little relieved.

Dana went downstairs to make a hot cup of tea to calm her nerves. She checked it again as the kettle heated up. No change. She made her tea and sat down at the kitchen bar, constantly glancing at her phone, but she didn’t pick it up until she was done.

No change again. She checked her pulse again. Slightly elevated but normal. She searched the web for her symptoms, and it could be anything under the sun. She checked the door, stove, detectors, and the security system. Everything was in working order.

An obituary can’t kill you, she thought. She went back upstairs and to bed, hoping to catch a few hours of shut-eye.

She tried listening to rain sounds to fall asleep, but racing thoughts kept her from falling asleep. She looked at the clock. 2:24 a.m. She checked the page again.

She gasped as she read the first line. “Dana Miller, 39, died unexpectedly early Sunday morning.” Sunday, not Saturday, she thought as fear bubbled up.

She shot up out of bed, sweat beading on her brow as she began to shake. Adrenaline kicked in and she was suddenly hyper-aware of her surroundings. She can’t stay here if it’s predicting that she would die that morning in a place it knew where she lived. She had to go someplace safe. Whoever created it, she thought, maybe wanted to do her mortal harm. She wasn’t going to stick around to find out, so she packed a light bag and quickly dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, with sneakers in case she needed to run. There was only one place she would trust that was near enough to her.

She took her phone and dialed her older sister. “Hey, Sam, yeah, sorry to bother you so late, but do you mind if I come over and stay the night? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“Sure, you can. But what’s going on?” Sam asked.

“I’ll explain it when I get there,” Dana said.

She got in her car and drove to her sister's house, which was about fifteen minutes away. The roads were empty save for a few stray cars and police officers patrolling. She minded the speed limit, double-checking before crossing. Driving like a grandma, she thought.

She arrived at her sister's. She checked the dashboard clock. 2:52 a.m. She sighed and headed toward the door. Her sister was waiting for her at the front door, in a coat over her pajamas. Sam walked over to her and embraced her tightly. “The kids are sleeping well, so let’s go to the kitchen to talk.”

“Thanks for this. I know Mark is a pain in the ass when there’s no plan,” Dana said.

“Mark can shove it. You’re my baby sister. Of course, you can come over at any time.”

“Thanks,” she said.

They went to the kitchen, and they sat down at the breakfast table tucked in the corner. Dana put her bag down and took a swig from her tumbler of water. 

“So, what’s going on?” Sam asked.

Dana exhaled and told her what had happened and what had been happening to her since reading the obituary. Sam just listened and tilted her head at some of the more bizarre moments. 

“I know it sounds like I’m going crazy, but look at the page,” Dana said. She handed Sam the phone after refreshing the page. 

Sam stared at it and handed it back. “It says error, page not found.”

Dana shook her head and refreshed the page. There it was. The obituary. She handed the phone back to her sister. “Check now.”

Sam just shrugged and said, “Error again. Maybe it’s just hacked.”

Dana clenched her fists underneath the table, then took the phone back. “Okay, then check out these screenshots.” She handed the phone to Sam again.

Sam blinked and said, “Are you playing an elaborate trick on me or something?”

“What are you talking about?” Dana said.

“It’s blank. These screenshots are all blank. I don’t see anything. Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam said with concern etched on her face. She raised her hand to Dana’s forehead to check for a fever, then retracted it as Dana batted it away. 

“I’m not sick,” Dana said. “I can’t believe you don’t see the screenshots.”

“You’ve been up almost twenty-four hours. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Sam said, beckoning Dana to follow her to the guest bedroom.

Dana sat still. “I just need to do something.” She looked at the door and saw it was locked. The stove was off, and she saw the blinking red lights of the smoke detectors working above them.

“Look, just stay here tonight. Someone must be playing a prank on you, sis. I wouldn’t look into it too much.” Sam grabbed her hand. “And we’ll flay the bitch alive who did this. Deal?”

Dana chuckled at that and then took a deep breath and said, “Maybe you’re right. I do need rest.” She followed her sister up the stairs and into the spare bedroom.

She pulled the covers back slightly, took off her shoes and socks, changed into her pajamas, and slipped under the covers. She closed her eyes and felt her heart thumping. She checked her pulse. Elevated above her baseline. She flipped to her side and buried her head into the pillow. She thought of the obituary and how her sister couldn’t see it, not even the screenshots. Maybe she had gone mad since reading it. Or was it a clever game someone played? These questions caused her frustration to build. She tossed to the other side, facing the clock. 3:37 a.m. Her phone was right there, rain sounds on. She took it and refreshed the page. She read, and then she stopped. Her hands shook, and she dropped the phone.

“Dana Miller, 39, died early Sunday morning while visiting family in the Fayetteville suburb.”

She jumped out of bed and quickly changed. She knocked on her sister's door, and her sister answered and stepped outside. She heard Mark snoring in the background.

“What is it?” asked Sam. “You look awfully pale.”

Dana hugged Sam and said, “I’ll explain it later, but I have to leave right now.”

Sam pulled back from the hug and said, “What’s going on? You’re acting very weird. Please stay.”

Dana shook her head. “It changed again. If I’m not here, I can’t die here. I have to go.” She turned and left Sam there, dumbfounded. Sam followed her out. She went to her car, backed out of the driveway, and sped off.

She intuitively took off-shoot roads and back alleys, ending up in downtown several times and the outskirts of town, deliberately avoiding her sister’s suburb. It can’t predict somewhere I haven’t decided to go, she thought.

The dashboard read 4:47 a.m. She refreshed the page, and nothing changed. The relief trickled down her spine, and she truly exhaled for the first time in hours. She beat it. Whatever it was. Now, she was on the other side of the county, on the outskirts and far from home. She had to get home, but that meant making a U-turn on the highway. She traveled a couple of miles until the sign read, “Welcome to Madison County!” She stopped when she found a suitable place to turn back. She waited at the red light when she refreshed the page. She screamed, but no one could hear her. She dropped the phone and put her hands to her mouth. Her palms became clammy, and she couldn’t process what she just read.

After a few moments to gather herself, she picked up her phone and stared at the sentence that deflated her. “Dana Miller, 39, died early Sunday morning in Madison County.”

It’s updating, she thought. She slammed the phone into the passenger seat and glanced at the back seat in the rearview mirror. No one was around as the dash clicked on her turn signal. She decided to put on her emergency lights and take a moment to think. Her phone buzzed, and she saw Sam was calling her. She ignored her for the first time in her life.

Where could she go to be safe? What if this is where it happens? She quickly turned off the emergency lights, made a U-turn, and sped back toward town. She got off the first exit. No one followed her.

Her eyes burned with dryness as she yawned. She made a wrong turn down a one-way street, then down the wrong side of the road, and quickly got off. She constantly thought of the updates.

She checked the clock. 5:13 a.m.

She couldn’t remember the time, so she looked at it again. 5:13 a.m.

Dana’s phone buzzed again; she saw it was Sam, and she sent her to voicemail. She needed to concentrate as she stopped at a red light at one of the busiest intersections of the day. It felt empty and lifeless during the night. I must remain vigilant, she thought. She gripped the steering wheel and glanced at her phone. She picked it up and refreshed the page. “Dana Miller died following a single motor vehicle accident early Sunday morning.” The light turned green, and she slowly lifted her foot off the brake and gently pressed the gas.

Dana’s phone buzzed again, and this time she answered.

“I’ve been trying to call you for an hour now. Where are you? Are you safe?” Sam bombarded her with questions.

“I’m fine. I just think I took this too far and you’re right; I haven’t had a good night’s rest in ages, and it’s got the best of me,” Dana said. She put the phone in the holder in front of her. She’s still taking off roads and hopped on the highway to head toward her home much faster, though it was longer and went through the county's wooded areas.

“Are you sure? You didn’t seem well at all when you were here. You’re in no state to drive. I can tell it in your voice. Turn on the camera; I want to see you,” Sam said.

She looked at the dashboard. 5:27 a.m. She tapped the phone and put it on face talk, but she kept her eyes on the road ahead. 

“You should really pull over,” Sam suggested.

Dana refreshed the page. Another detail added. “She was pronounced dead at 5:52 a.m.” Her mouth went dry. Twenty-five minutes left. “I think that’s a good idea. I’m going to do that at the next rest area stop.”

“Good, I just want you safe,” Sam said.

Dana refreshed it again. As she scanned, her sister said, “Stop looking at it! You’re sleep-deprived, driving around God knows where, and constantly looking at your phone. So, stop it. I mean it. I’m pulling the big sister card.”

“Fine,” Dana said. “I gotta go.”

She checked again and again. The car began to veer to the right as Dana read on. She looked back up, and the road had disappeared. Large trees were in front of her. She screamed and slammed on the brakes. Too late. There was a crash on the lonely road. The phone flew off and landed on the floor. 

It updated. The phone’s cracked screen flashed, “She was pronounced dead at 5:52 a.m. Sunday morning. She is survived by her elder sister, Samantha Miller-Rial.”

“Status: Ready for publication.”