Seven graves, p.1
Seven Graves, page 1
SEVEN GRAVES
H.B. ELLIOTT
“For every black sheep that sat next to me at the reject table…
Black’s my favorite color too. Sorry, we’re not sorry.”
…And for Jaimi. Because, you already know why…
…and I hope it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of…
DISCLAIMER:
This ridiculous literature is heavily based on death, but with the sugar of nonchalance. The FMC is a mortician, therefore, elements of mortality, detailed descriptions of anatomy and the mortuary profession, including tools, procedure and establishment are included in this narrative. Furthermore, your MMC is a hit man. Graphic violence, murder, gore, torture, stalking, and body disposal are also part of this story, and heavily detailed.
In addition to that, the plot contains mention of suicide, self-harm, depression, and substance use. If you or anyone you know, suffers from mental distress...call or text the suicide prevention hotline listed below. You matter. So does your precious life.
988 - Suicide and Crisis Lifeline
And finally…on to the kink…
Explicit sexual situations include: oral sex, BDSM, sexual encounters with a corpse present, breath play, knife play, bondage, sex toy play, anal play, play with…candy (you heard me right), spitting, slight degradation, strip truth or dare, sex in a coffin, and lastly…sex in a cemetery. If you’re still with me…saddle up.
PLAYLIST:
“Bitches Love Me” - Mindless Self Indulgence - (Ch. 1)
“Living Dead Girl” - Rob Zombie - (Ch. 3)
“Spit It Out” - Slipknot - (Ch. 5)
“Determined” - Mudvayne - (Ch. 7)
“Jaded” - Aerosmith - (Ch. 9)
“Right Here In My Arms” - H.I.M. - (Ch. 10)
“Bodies” - Drowning Pool - (Ch. 13)
“Shook Me All Night Long” - AC/DC - (Ch. 14)
“Broken Heart Collector” - Ekoh & Arankai - (Ch. 17)
“Sugar” - Sleep Token - (Ch. 20)
“Snuff” - Miguel Owls - (Ch. 22)
“Sweet Emotion” - Aerosmith - (Ch. 24)
“Hey Daddy” - Korn - (Ch. 26)
“Bury Me Deep Inside Your Heart” - H.I.M. - (Ch. 27)
“Join Me” - H.I.M. - (Epilogue)
“Dogs chase cats for fun. Boys chase cats for pleasure.
Men don’t chase cats...
...they eat them like a five-star plate without silverware.”
...Spread those pages like a good lass...
PROLOGUE
My name is Seven Grey…and I hang out with dead people.
Yes, Seven like the number. And yes…literal dead people. You know those fun childhood moments when the teacher goes around and asks those precious little kids with the pigtails and the pink ribbons what they wanna be when they grow up, and they say things like: “I wanna be a ballerina! I wanna be a doctor!”
An astronaut. A fucking lunch lady?
Yeah, my childhood wasn’t like that. When it came around to speak my turn, it was quite literally a full-circle moment. A circle on a colorful mat in the kindergarten classroom with a wide-eyed teacher that had coke bottle glasses and a handful of other little kids trying to figure out what the hell just came out of my mouth when I said…
“I wanna be a mortician!”
It’s the family business. And this is a small town. How death, and my aversion to the emotional part of it became the complete opposite of what it’s like for everyone else…that probably started in the second grade when that same teacher came through our basement door in a body bag and I realized at too young an age that—it didn’t bother me as much as it should. Instead of crying on the floor like the child I was, I found myself wanting to take care of her for that last close-up. I guess that’s what happens when you’re raised in a funeral parlor. Sounds sweet, right?
So, how did that sweet little girl end up stuck in the middle of a mob war, facing accessory to murder charges at the ripe old age of twenty-four?
…now, that’s a story with just enough drama for a small town.
CHAPTER 1
The Mortician
Leviticus House is nestled on the outskirts of our little harbor town and blends right in with the dated, historic homes in sleepy Castine, Maine. From the outside looking in, our house seems about as quaint as the scenic gems dotted around the harbor…until you find out that we share it with dead bodies. That being said, though…we’re the most sought-after funeral parlor in five counties. My parents inherited Leviticus from Dad’s side of the family, and it’s been handled with the utmost care and molded into one of the most renowned places to go for family farewell services for almost eighty years. My family is dedicated to keeping it that way, and that includes me—even if the little apartment I moved into after college isn’t that much brighter on the inside.
I live alone.
I graduated top of my class with a masters in biology, chemistry, and for no particular reason other than it fascinates me…English literature. I once thought about getting a pet to add to my fuzzy personality, but I’d have about as much time for an animal as I would for any possible love interest…which is why I’m single. It’s probably also because there really isn’t anything that kills a date quicker than finding out that I use sharp tools on stiffs for a living…or if they get past that part enough to come home with me, they see the very expensive, very out of place coffin I own in my…apartment. And not because I take my work home with me, but because I genuinely love it. Would I have a taste for the macabre had I not been raised in a funeral home? Honestly…who the fuck knows. But I don’t see death like other people do, and I likely never will. I don’t dislike the way I was raised; I adore my colorless wardrobe, my scary witch makeup and my ‘offensive’ tattoos. I do believe in God, and I’m a thousand percent happy with the way He made me.
Anybody that doesn’t can respectfully eat a bag.
The way I see it, I’m happy. Life is too short, and death is just a part of it. It’s kind of a shitty part, yes…but death isn’t that much different than life. It’s all in what you make of it. What I do in the public eye is a respectable thing that not many are called to do. Which is why the name of our funeral home resonates so much more with me. Leviticus translates into “God has called…” He’s called them home, and He’s called me to do what I do. Whether or not He called me to do the…other thing…I haven’t really figured out yet.
I racked up some debt when I racked up those degrees. My parents compensate me well, and honestly…if I asked them for help, they’d be more than willing to give it. But there’s that issue of my fucking pride. I’d wait tables, but…those in this town that don’t already know me, don’t exactly warm up to my appearance. I’m also not a very social person. That’s also the joy of being locked into a small town. I might live a good ways away from it, but the majority of my time is spent here, and aside from the basement of our humble abode…there isn’t much around a tourist-attracting place like this that isn’t straight up customer service. I couldn’t tell you how I ended up landing the perfect side gig, but the money is hard to pass up. It’s also right up my dark alley.
They call me ‘The Cleaning Lady’.
On a really sketchy ad that can be found in an equally sketchy corner of the Dark Web, there’s a number to a burner phone that occasionally gets a call to come…clean house. Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. I don’t ask questions. I’m used to death. The how and why, I usually block out of my mind. I arrive, wrap the bodies, rid all traces of any biological material, and then…relieve them of the rest of the um…biological material. I do it in plenty of different ways that would never lead back to my clients. We have a crematorium on deck that’s handy if I’m in a pinch. Occasionally, I’ve been known to deliver a body to an already scheduled burial plot, dug the hole a little deeper and covered it before one of our caskets gets lowered into a double grave, unbeknownst to anyone else. The especially messy cases take a bit more work, but if the money’s good enough I have the know-how to completely dissolve a human body with a special concoction of my own design, which can get rid of two corpses at once in the span of a good hour.
Sounds terrible, I know. But in the grand scheme of things, they’re just bodies. I like to believe that whoever they were…these aren’t the kind of people that I meticulously care for at Leviticus. They’re probably just as bad as the people that call me to clean them up and get them outta sight and outta mind. Not to mention, this isn’t one of those side hustles that you’re a slave to every weekend. I might get one call every couple of months, but the money is almost a year’s salary at times. I’m not about to say no. And I haven’t once been called to some white picket fence home with a family of five or had to incinerate a blood-spattered teddy bear.
I’m not a monster.
I’ve also gone nearly two months now with no cleaning jobs.
So…it’s just me today, the glorious shred of an electric guitar, a few gallons of embalming fluid, and that really hateful old battle axe of a professor I had in college with a hook nose and a personality as gray as my hair. I distinctly remember being so proud of this one assignment I couldn’t wait to turn in that earned me a B- that I never forgave. No ill will, though. This dude had such a brilliant mind and while he was an old tome enthusiast, he often took no credit for the downright incredible shit he could write. He should have been a famous author instead of wasting his talent on us ungrateful, beer-guzzling dreamers. I’m gonna make sure this job far surpasses a damn B-. Rest easy, Mr . Layton.
“Sev!”
A calloused set of fingers snapped a hair away from my nose and I squealed, popping one of my earbuds out and nearly jerking the hose out of my dear professor’s stiff body. I glared at my older brother with enough irritation to make him catch fire. He’s got a family of his own with two amazing little girls, yet he still lives to torture me.
“Dammit, Greg. You’re killin’ the vibe here. Nearly gave the poor professor a heart attack.”
“That’s dark, even for you.”
I shrugged and covered Mr. Layton’s lower half with the sheet. “He woulda liked it, even if he’d never say so. What are you doing down here, anyway? Emmy’s got gymnastics at four. Shouldn’t you be halfway to Brooksville?”
“She’s got the ick. I came to see if you wanted to go get lunch. I knocked. What the hell are you listening to?”
“The Baptist Hymnal. Did the Herschel service go okay last night? Mom didn’t blow my phone up. I was honestly disappointed.”
He gave me his signature shit-eating grin and his brown hair slunked over his brow when he hoisted himself up onto the metal table behind me. “I take it the hot date was about as sad as Mrs. Herschel’s funeral?”
I made myself busy, turning my back on him and shrugging again. “Eh…I’ve had worse. He split the check, at least.”
“Seriously?”
“Split on it. Went to the bathroom. Never came back to the table. Left me with a ninety-dollar tab.” I heard him sigh over my shoulder and it made me cringe. “I don’t need your pity, Greg. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
“You need to get off the dating apps.”
Call it a coping mechanism, but when I feel cornered…I almost always resort to dark humor. It’s like I can’t help myself. I’m not wired the way normal people are. Again…probably another reason I’ll die an old cat lady and not have the luxury of anyone giving me the full spa treatment before my big sleep. They’ll have to pick through whatever’s left of the kitty buffet two months after I’m well and truly rotten.
“Maybe I should start going for older men. Mr. Layton could have seriously made a lady happy. I can’t believe he wasn’t married.” I stepped to the side so Greg could see another stiff part of the good professor’s body perking up the white sheet. It happens sometimes. I usually don’t make it weird as I’m pretty much the only one that has to see them without clothes, but…I saw my opportunity and my brother is way too easy.
There was an audible gag, and I heard Greg scooch off of the table. “I’m gonna barf. This is why I stick to schedules and casket orders.”
“Still wanna go to lunch?”
“You did that on purpose.”
I totally did. I don’t wanna follow up my sad date bullshit with Greg filling the entire hour at the cafe with his list of single dad friends. I don’t fit in with that crowd.
I don’t fit in with any crowd.
“Just bring me back a sandwich. Miss Desiree has chicken salad on Tuesdays. And get one of those oatmeal mud pie things.”
He huffed and pressed a kiss to my cheek before turning to make haste up the stairs. I made him uncomfortable. Score one for me. Har-har. “Just so you know…there’s not a damn thing wrong with who you are. That’s not pity, Sev. That’s the truth. And somebody out there will be lucky to have you one of these days. You just gotta keep puttin’ yourself out there.”
I gnawed on my lower lip, realizing all too late that the only one more uncomfortable than the guy with formaldehyde pumping through his body…was me. “Put yourself up those stairs and in the car to get my sandwich, wretch.”
“On it, Satan.” I heard him snort and it echoed up the little staircase up to the door before it clicked shut and I was left by myself. About time, too…I saw the inside of my bag light up with the burner phone and Greg will never know that it was my real reason for not going to ravage Desiree’s vat of chickeny goodness.
I’ve got a cleanup.
Maybe this was the A+ Mr. Layton meant to give me years ago, and this is my reward for praising his cold dead chub. There’s even a ten grand bonus for the short notice.
Eat that, Mr. Shortnecksplitcheckneedledickbigbackfuckstick.
I’ll definitely be treating myself to some ink therapy this weekend. Who needs a date when I have me, myself and Death? He’s the only one that truly gets me, anyway. This is turning out to be a swell week.
Now if my precious big brother would just hurry up with that sandwich.
Well…I thought it was turning out to be a swell week.
I waited until after dark to borrow the old 80’s era hearse that doesn’t get used anymore. I don’t drive my personal vehicle to jobs, and what better way to transport bodies wrapped in dollar store shower curtains and cellophane than a shag wagon especially made for this kind of transport? But…I forgot to fill it back up the last time I used it, had to stop for gas, nearly broke my foot on the uneven pavement at the dodgy station on 166 and halfway to my destination, I realized I was wearing the wrong damn shoes.
No good deed, I suppose.
It took me forever to get to Belfast, and I realized pretty quickly that the clients I’m handling tonight were apparently staying true to their nature, because this extremely swanky, gated manor I just pulled up at…looks awfully Irish. I make it a point not to speak on these jobs, and if I’m left with no choice, I go for short responses and lower my tone to make sure my voice isn’t easily recognized anywhere else. My rules are…black jumpsuit gets put on before I walk through the door, shoes covered in cable-guy sockies, hair gets wrapped and pulled back in a black head scarf, no makeup, latex gloves and most importantly…no fucking eye contact. I’m hired for one thing. I don’t need a reason for anybody to consider me a liability and make me the next body someone else has to clean up. Get in, get high on ammonia, load up, move out. Quick and dirty.
I was specifically told to park at the west wing of the house and shut my car off and have my hands fully visible on the steering wheel until somebody comes out to allow me inside. All my gear has to be checked and approved before it’s brought in. Everything was detailed and…honestly a little intimidating…and texted to me a couple hours ago. It’s fine. I should expect some clients to be a little less sloppy every once in a while. If anything, it’s refreshing, because I’m anything but sloppy.
I didn’t wait too long. Barely two minutes. I counted.
A pretty lean dude, clad in nothing but black, helped himself without any warning to my driver’s side door and opened it. I kept my eyes low when he turned himself to the side in a gesture that I assumed meant I needed to get my ass outta the car. Two others went around to the back of the hearse, opened the hatch and started going through all my shit while Mr. Nightshade lifted my arms to the side and started patting me down without a word.
No drinks first? Geez.
“She’s clean. I’m takin’ her in. Hurry up.”
Damn right, I’m clean. That’s what I get paid to do. Did they honestly think I’d show up here after getting a nice fat wire transfer to Scarface the place? Alone?
Maybe the Scarface reference was more legit than I thought. He led me up a short flight of stone steps and into an entryway, and I swear to you…I’ve never been to a fancier establishment. These people have money. And not the kind you get for making an honest living. It screamed mob, right down to the black and white tile floors and dark red carpets. I said nothing as I trailed behind my escort and caught the scent of death as we neared the end of a long corridor. That’s a smell I’d know blind.
I, of course, made an effort not to take too much notice of the place, keeping my eyes focused on a happy middle as he finally opened a door at the end of the hall. I did notice the chess piece tattooed on the bend of his hand between his pointer and thumb. A pawn. It could just be a shitty ink choice he made when he was a teenager. That’s what I was gonna tell myself, anyway…but that notion went down tasting like curdled milk.
“Boss is in there. He’ll tell you what you need to do.”
Okay…cool. I guess that’s all the warning I’m gonna get since he all but shoved me through the doorway and slammed it behind me.
