Mr. Black and The Resurrectionist

The BMW pulls through the gate and parks next to my car. A man steps out of the vehicle and walks towards me with a blank expression on his face.

“Mr. Black, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I greeted. I extended my hand but he didn’t take it. He was distracted, looking over his shoulder.

“There’s no need to worry. I came alone, unarmed, and ready to serve,” I comforted with a smile.

“How can I be sure this will work? How do I know that as soon as I pay you, you won’t put a bullet in me?” Mr. Black asked.

“You can pay me after you finish. If you are left unsatisfied, you pay me for this session only and you’ll never see me again,” I explained while signaling him to follow me into funeral home.

“Is this it?” I asked opening the undertaker’s refrigerator.

“Yes…” Mr. Black answered with eyes wide open.

I made the arcane symbols on the body using rose water and whispered words long forgotten in an extinct language.

“I’ll be outside,” I told Mr. Black as I left the room. There were two gasps, one from Mr. Black and the other from Mrs. Black’s corpse before I shut the door.

People often seek closure, forgiveness, and information from the dead. The shock of seeing a loved one come back is often too much for some people to bear. It can drive them insane if they aren’t careful.
But never in my years had I heard the corpse be the one to scream.

My body went cold as Mr. Black’s laughter boomed through the funeral home.

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