You shouldn't speak to the dead Follow story

C
C Clark Carbonera


You shoudn't speak to the dead...but what if they speak to you?


Short Story All public. © Todos os direitos reservados

#paranormal #horror #macabre #500wordsstory
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English is not my mother language so I already apologize for any misspell. Hope you understand and enjoy the story :)




Vargas had finally figured it out, but he took a long time to understand it.


This was another day of the calendar, another day of work, another day of life. Vargas sometimes tried to push away this kind of thought, thought about Time, but it was useless. It always came back.


Opening the closet, he pulled out of a hanger his casual clothes that he preferred to wear to do his cold work. He drank a thin cup of coffee and ate a tasteless 2-days pancake. Walked down the stairs into the chilly room with a characteristic scent, removed the white cloth that covered his first body of September.


The blank and pale face of the corpse was waiting for him. Vargas did one last cleaning (he preferred to clean the bodies at least two times, otherwise he couldn't sleep). His father entered the room and analyzed with surgical eyes his son's labor.


- The family said they preferred the light pink enamel than the red one, Varguitas.


The son gave a half smile, without looking at his father, took the enamel that the dead's family had left the day before and shook the small glass.


- We could put on a light makeup too, very respectful. But take extra care with the mark on the neck - his father pursed his lips in a reprehensible tone.


Vargas looked at the purplish, brown mark that surrounded the neck of the late 28-year-old Miss Felicia. He swerved his eyes quickly, with a heavy feeling in the stomach, then turned his attention on passing the enamel on the former lady's fingernails.


After the preparations with Felicia's body were over, Vargas led it to the sleek mahogany coffin that was patiently waiting for his everlasting company to curl up.


He pushed up again the part of the collar of the black dress that hung around the body's neck and brushed a few strands of black hair behind her ear. His father stood beside him, looking proudly at the work his son had done on 28-year-old Miss Felicia's neck.


- You can't see anything that shouldn't be seen. I'm glad I taught you well, my son.


Vargas lowered his face, touching the shiny wood of the coffin, speaking in a whisper to the lady.


- I don't understand why would you do that...


- Varguitas, my son, you know that one should not speak to the dead.


Vargas lowered his hand from the coffin, his gentle fingers touching the velvety fabric of the table. His face was sad, very tired, the eyes dry and distant, exhausted of asking the same question everyday when working at the funerary.


He turned to where his father was.


- Then why do I keep talking to you, dad?


Aug. 29, 2018, 9:03 p.m. 2 Report Embed 0
The End

Meet the author

C Clark Carbonera “A utopia está lá no horizonte. Me aproximo dois passos, ela se afasta dois passos. Caminho dez passos e o horizonte corre dez passos. Por mais que eu caminhe, jamais alcançarei. Para que serve a utopia? Serve para isso: para que eu não deixe de caminhar.”

Comment something

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Daisy  Rowley Daisy Rowley
interesting story!
Oct. 10, 2018, 10:51 a.m.

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