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corpse-a-diem · 4 months

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The Fun in Funeral Homes | Max & Erin

TIMING: Before the banshees returned to Ireland PARTIES: Max ( @screadqueens ) & Erin (ft. Jack Nichols) LOCATION: Nichols' Funeral Home SUMMARY: Max visits the funeral home to decide if any loose ends need tying up. CONTENT WARNINGS: parental death tw (ghost dad)

Celebrations of the dead were among the few things Max respected about human society. There was something uncharacteristically admirable in the way humans honored their dead, something Max enjoyed even if humanity as a whole made her feel a little nauseous. The cemeteries she and Tina had explored were the only places in town that didn’t find the young banshee rolling her eyes at every turn. So the idea of visiting a funeral home was one that struck her as appealing. So much so, in fact, that she’d cut her sister out of the job entirely. This would be for Max, and Max alone. She wanted it that way.

Of all the people Regan and Siobhan had become entangled with, Max thought that this one was the only one that made sense. Sealgairí who targeted the undead were fine for upholding Fate, but still not humans Max would have fallen in with as deeply as the two older banshees seemed to have done in Wicked’s Rest. But this? This Erin Nichols, with her home dedicated so wholly to death? At least she was intriguing.

Max walked into the funeral home, pleased to find it open. Businesses did that, didn’t they? Open door policies, as if nothing and no one could touch them. It was a funny thing. She spotted a woman behind a desk, and she fitted herself with her most convincing grin. It was an unnerving thing, too wide and showing off too many teeth. “Hi,” she said, knocking on the wood as she approached. “Are you Erin?”

—

The morning had gone quickly, as mornings usually did around funeral homes. Erin had just returned home from a service at the cemetery, readying up for front desk duties while her mother took a break. She didn’t take enough of them, even though she chastised Erin for the exact same thing. It was quiet though, which was more than fine for the older woman. After a morning of supporting a grieving family, some silence was more than welcome. Up until she heard the door open, a young woman entering the funeral home. That wasn’t totally strange in itself–though younger clients calling on behalf of deceased loved ones typically communicated through email or phone. Very rarely in person. There was something unnerving about their chipperness to boot. This was a funeral home. No one smiled that way–unless they had a beefy inheritance waiting for them after this.

Erin stood from the desk chair, pulling her usual welcoming smile. “Hi–yes. I am,” she nodded, taking note of the specificity of their question, bathed in an Irish accent. She briefly thought of Regan as she tilted her head. Weird coincidence. “Is there something I can help you with?”

—

As she surveyed the lobby of the funeral home, Max found herself hoping, in a way she usually didn’t, that Siobhan and Regan hadn’t told this woman anything about Saol Eile. It wasn’t often that she found herself hoping for the chance not to kill someone. For Max, it was usually the opposite. She reveled in things like that far more than she ought to, longed for her blades to taste flesh in a way some banshees might find a little distasteful. She never did it without reason, of course, never did anything other than upholding Fate the way a banshee should, but she still longed for it. Except… not right now. Instead, she found herself longing to know more about what was done here. Did Erin Nichols have a room full of bones? She could feel corpses nearby. Would she be allowed to see them if she asked nicely? If she threatened?

The woman confirmed her identity, and Max’s smile widened. It was almost uncomfortable, but she leaned over the desk anyway, glancing down at the contents. No bones on her desk, which was a little disappointing. “Maybe there is. I think you know an old acquaintance of mine. Dr. Regan Kavanagh? I heard about your business because of her.” Not a lie, though it had to be carefully avoided to ensure such. Max detested lying, but she knew how to stretch the truth when she needed to. “I was hoping for a tour of your facility. I have a lot of interest in what you do here.”

—

There was a sharp curiosity in the eyes of the young woman in Erin’s lobby right now. Curiosity wasn’t unusual. Society had drawn a dark, mysterious veil over what they did here and many first-time guests were usually expecting something more macabre or closer to what they’ve seen in movies when they visit. But this curiosity was something different. Something Erin couldn’t discern just yet. Still, she smiled politely and appropriately, despite the unnerving way the other woman held herself. When she mentioned Regan, her face lit up and softened considerably. “Regan? Really?” The accent–duh. Of course. “Do you guys know each other from Ireland? Have you–have you spoken to her?” She realized how excited she was and tried to stifle it a bit. Regan was in Ireland. She wasn’t coming back.

“A tour?” She paused, well aware of the fact that for at least the next hour or so she was free but better judgment was starting to creep in. “Um–yeah. Sure. We could do a little tour. Though, unfortunately, the cooler parts of what I do are off limits, which I’m sure you understand. Are you looking into careers in the industry?” She stepped out from behind the desk, that polite smile still intact despite the bit of struggle that was growing, but she was always going to highly and enthusiastically endorse more females who wanted to enter the death industry. “What did you say your name was?”

—

Max didn’t miss the way the woman’s expression changed at the mention of Regan. Humans were so bad at this, weren’t they? They couldn’t school their expressions, couldn’t express anything resembling restraint. They were clumsy and reckless, they let everything show right there on the surface. How did they live this way? What was it like to exist and be read as easily as words on a page? It sounded exhausting. “Yes, we knew each other in Ireland. I’ve known her grandmother all my life. She’s a very respected individual in my hometown.” Which made Regan’s betrayal all the more disgusting. To bring such shame on your community was one thing, but on your family? Max felt for Regan’s grandmother… as much as she was capable of feeling for anyone.

She couldn’t deny the burst of excitement in her chest as Erin agreed to the tour, though she would have denied it as best she could if asked. Max was still young, still learning. Stifling everything she felt was more difficult for her than it would have been for an older banshee. She longed to get there someday, dreamed of being a hundred years old and numb, but for now, in the privacy of her own mind, she held that excitement. “I suppose you could say I have a vested interest in the work. I think what you do here is magnificent. And you have a lovely home, of course.” If she could get a thank you out of Erin, she could force her to show her the ‘cooler parts’ that were ‘off-limits.’ It shouldn’t be too terribly difficult; humans were bad about that, too. “Max. My name is Max.” It was no bother, offering only her nickname. After all, if Erin knew more than she ought to, she’d die here, anyway. And if she didn’t, there was little she could do with an abbreviated version of Max’s first name. Honesty was a good policy… especially because Max really did want that tour.

—

Erin recalled Regan mentioning at some point how rural her hometown was with implications that it was so far removed from everything that they didn’t even have some of the same phone applications as the rest of the world, apparently. But why was Max here while Regan was across the ocean? Max’s response was polite and slightly informative but… off. Just like the rest of her. Maybe they weren’t terribly close. But then why or how would she know about Erin? Questions only continue to pile up the more Max spoke. “I take it she made it to Ireland alright?” She pressed once more, curious about Regan of course, but more curious about Max’s response now. “I just haven’t heard from her since she left,” she added, shrugging casually and preemptively glossing over any weirdness with a small smile. “I mean, you guys at least have the internet all the way out there, right? I still haven’t been able to figure out how to download Scapchat.”

A vested interest didn’t tell Erin much. But she trusted Regan and knew if anything, she could trust Regan’s respect for the field and what she did here. She wouldn’t send just anyone Erin’s way. She was probably just misinterpreting Max’s mannerisms. It wasn’t like Regan was a beacon of social aptitude either. Maybe they were all homeschooled where they came from. “Oh, why thank you,” Erin answered, relaxing a little as she started to lead Max away from the front desk and to the showroom. The casket Regan had eyed still sat in the middle of the room surrounded by a few other models made from different materials and colors. Urns sat neatly along display shelves along the walls with Erin’s favorites sitting front and center.

“I don’t trust this one.”

Erin’s attention darted to the figure suddenly behind Max. Her father wasn’t looking at Erin, though. His gaze was stuck on the young woman for a long moment before he glanced up at his daughter. No explanation followed, just a look that screamed Be careful, though her quick look told him she agreed. “You picked a good time to pop in - we’re pretty quiet this afternoon.” She glanced back at Max, keeping an eye on her. “Was there something in particular you wanted to know? I love questions. Especially from a fellow death enthusiast.”

—

There was a tickle on the back of her neck. It was like hair standing up straight, like the feeling of someone watching you from behind. Max tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, though she didn’t turn around. There was a whisper of a voice behind her, but no one beyond herself and Erin in the room. But Max was smart. She had enough experience with ghosts to know when one was near, and wasn’t that interesting, too? A house of the dead, haunted by ghosts. Was this one a soul belonging to one of the corpses that Erin had not yet let her see? Or was it a more personal thing? And, perhaps more importantly, was Erin aware?

Max let her eyes go to the woman, studying her for a moment. Was her attention truly split between Max and this invisible force, or was Max’s knowledge on what else lurked in the room with them clouding her judgment? It was important, she thought, not to make any such assumptions. She couldn’t assume that Erin knew of the ghost. She couldn’t assume that Regan had told Erin anything that would require her eradication. Banshees ought to operate on proof. Otherwise, the risk of altering Fate was too prevalent.

“Oh, I’m sure she made it just fine.” She hadn’t seen Regan back home, but she’d heard whispers throughout the community of her return. It had made her feel a little stormier than she’d admit, made a bitterness she’d never cop to rise up in her throat. Why should the return of someone who’d left willingly be so celebrated? Why should everyone rejoice at someone who’d betrayed them changing her mind? As far as Max was concerned, Regan Kavanagh could rot. It was the only way Max could ever imagine thinking of her fondly.

Erin’s statement brought her back to the conversation, and she quirked a brow. “She told you about Scapchat, did she?” That wasn’t a good sign. She’d clearly been talking about their community to outsiders; the only question was, to what extent? “What else did she tell you?” She made no effort to answer Erin’s questions. Unlike Regan, Max had no intention of selling her people out.

Luckily, Regan hadn’t told Erin everything. She thanked Max, and Max’s smile was a predatory thing. “You’re welcome,” she replied, clearly pleased with herself. “Now, how about we repay that thanks, hm? You’re going to show me the cooler parts of what you do, the bits you were talking about earlier. It shouldn’t be a problem, since you’re quiet now.”

—

Erin simply nodded her head at Max, who was becoming more curt and unforthcoming the longer they spoke. So she… hadn’t spoken to Regan? But she knew about this funeral home specifically, and the fact that Erin knew Regan. This didn’t feel right anymore. The conversation she’d had with Regan in this very room crept back into her mind–her reasons for leaving, the reluctance, and the secrecy that shrouded the whole thing regarding her hometown. And now one of her “acquaintances” was here? Just because? It was starting to feel a little too cult-y and a lot more uncomfortable than she’d like. “Yeah. It sounded pretty cool,” Erin answered, though the enthusiasm she held before had vanished. The worried look on her father’s face caught her eyes again. Max had to go. Now.

Absolutely not.

…Was what Erin should have answered, angry and with a shuffle towards the front door. Her mind screamed the words until they rattled along her skull but all she got for it was silence. Painful, choking silence. Her legs were moving now and she reached into her suit pocket to grab her keys. “Seriously? You’re just going to let her down there?” Her father appeared at the door, like his spectral state could somehow stop what was going to happen. Confusion spilled into concern at the wide, terrified eyes staring back at him. They were practically begging him for help. “What’s wrong with you? Erin–Erin, answer me.” He practically shouted when she ignored him and then did shout for her attention until her hand reached through him to the doorknob.

The metal of the key clicked into place and the old, hardwood door that separated the basement mortuary from the rest of the home creaked quietly open. This wasn’t real. Right? This couldn’t be real. This was a dream, or a hallucination, or something that she could snap herself out of if she tried hard enough. Her body continued to betray her and she moved aside, gesturing to the stairs. Max was free to roam to her heart’s content.

—

No one had ever really taught Max the best ways to navigate conversation. Why would they need to? Banshees were agents of Fate, and not necessarily meant for anything else. She knew how to talk to people back home — Tina most of all — but humans? She’d never even tried. Humans in Saol Eile were good for exactly one thing, and Max hadn’t needed a sacrifice in years now. She had no idea that she was saying anything at all that might make the funeral home director suspicious or uneasy.

“Maybe you ought to come visit sometime.” The words were innocent enough; someone who didn’t know Saol Eile or what they did to humans there might not know how predatory the suggestion was. It was also insincere. There was no place for Erin Nichols back home, though Max wouldn’t mind parading her through the streets just to make Regan uncomfortable. For now, though, she would settled for this. For seeing the funeral home in all its glory, for learning more about death as was her birthright. She followed Erin to the door, hyperaware of the sensation of the ghost in the room. She wouldn’t look for it now, though maybe later. Only if she determined Erin needed to be killed, of course; otherwise, she risked exposing too much.

The basement door opened, and Max let out a pleased exhale as she stepped inside. She could feel the death all around her, the rot. “Tell me about it,” she said, looking back to Erin. “Tell me all the things you do here.”

—

Erin led her downstairs, despite her brain fighting uselessly against each step. She wanted to show Max. Better yet, she needed to show her exactly what she wanted. Down another corridor, the temperature dropped before they stood in front of a wall of metal, square doors that lined the refrigeration units like a checkerboard. They’d just received a new intake that morning, untouched and ready. Perfect for Max. “This is where I fix them,” she spoke mindlessly, her hands already reaching for the unit door.

“Erin,” her father warned, following close behind her. Something was wrong in the way that Wicked’s Rest was wrong. Wrong in all the ways he’d tried to hide from her for most of her life. But it didn’t work. It had never really worked. The wrongness still managed to touch her.

Erin pulled the slab out from its confines, delicately pulling the zipper that encased the fresh corpse. The smell wasn’t so bad yet. Her eyes jumped to Max, a sudden urge to please her overwhelming her senses. “Would it be better if I showed you?”

—

Max followed along behind Erin eagerly, the feeling of death calling to her the closer they got to the door. “Fix them?” She repeated the word, sounding half offended. What was there to fix? It was more fun to watch them decay, to take in the beauty of it. It shouldn’t have surprised her that even Regan Kavanagh’s human friends would have made terrible banshees; Regan herself was a bad one, never doing enough to earn her birthright.

She could still feel the ghost trailing along, and she wondered if there were more. Did they stay with their bodies? Did they follow Erin around as she did her work, did they haunt her? Maybe if Max did end up needing to kill the woman, she could allow herself to see. Maybe it would be fun.

“Yes,” she said, trying not to let her voice show just how much she wanted to see the corpse within the bag. “I’d love to see it. You’ll show me.”

—

Usually Erin wouldn’t dream of touching a decedent without the proper gear on–head to toe, full body PPE was required. It simply wasn’t safe. But this was for Max, and she needed to impress her. Needed to show her exactly what she’d asked for. Erin would do it gladly. “Fixed, yes,” Erin repeated with a nod. Max was from Ireland, and knowing what she did about Regan, she wondered how different the customs were there–or how their small town of people viewed death. It was obviously different than most. She’d have to ask Regan one day, if she ever spoke to her again. “When a person dies, they’re sent to me to be fixed, if I can. Their families want to see them as they were. A final memory.” Erin paused, turning to Max with a firm but gentle look. “It’s important. It’s how we grieve,” she assured her, remembering briefly only moving to grab a table of medical tools. The metal pieces rattled against the sterilized tray as it moved, squeaky wheels echoing against painted cement walls.

Jack was beyond recognizing that his words were falling on deaf ears. He needed to do something. This needed to stop. Max needed to be stopped. He didn’t know what she was or what she was doing to control his daughter but a protective fury built in him. He’d never done this before–didn’t even know if he could do it–but what else was he going to do? Stand there and watch while his daughter was mind controlled by some Irish brat? “Stop!” He yelled, charging towards the table. The items clattered to the floor and still, he flew past it. Erin tumbled to the floor but it was Jack who felt the shock of her back hitting the cement.

“Shit, that hurt–” Erin’s voice came out of his mouth. Or, her mouth. He looked down to find his daughter’s physical form and not the corporeal one he’d been roaming around in for the last few months. This wasn’t exactly what he’d had planned. The idea was to knock over the table and her if he could muster the strength but–shit. This would do, he supposed. Glancing up at Max, he reached for the closest tool near him and stood up. The medical buzz saw sprung to life as he jutted it in her direction. “Take one step anywhere but to the door right now or so help me–” he started, Erin’s voice shaky but firm. And pissed.

—

Grief wasn’t something Max fully understood. It was a feeling she’d cut herself off from with her first scream, when her mother’s blade tore through a boy she’d loved and her lungs had ripped and shattered with a feeling she refused to hold onto. Death was a beautiful thing. It wasn’t a problem to be fixed or a memory to be held. It was something to be revered, something to be admired. Where did some human get off on claiming otherwise? For a moment, something hot flashed in her chest, but Max discarded it. Humans were stupid, silly things. That was something she’d known all her life. One could hardly blame a dog for not learning to write, and the same reasons made it pointless to feel angry at a human for not understanding death. It just wasn’t something they were capable of.

Deciding to ignore Erin’s words — a kindness Max was sure made her something of a saint — she turned to the body on the table. Better to give this her full attention, to marvel at the silly human customs surrounding death. Why didn’t they allow the bodies to decay naturally? Why didn’t they sit and watch bone fall from flesh piece by piece? What was the purpose of preserving the memory of something long gone?

Max wanted to ask. But, before she could, Erin spoke in a way that was strange. Her voice, still, but the wrong tone. The wrong emotion behind it. Erin was bound; she ought to be malleable, the way she was before. But she wasn’t. Instead, she was picking up a saw? “This isn’t what we agreed upon,” Max said, tilting her head to the side. “You know there are consequences to going against an agreement, don’t you? Do yourself a favor and put it away.” How had she been able to lift it to begin with? How could she threaten Max? It didn’t compute.

—

Max seemed confused. Good. It meant that this was working against whatever magic was compelling Erin before. For now. Jack took another step forward, giving the air a small slash as if to beckon the younger woman backwards even more. He hadn’t decided if he was actually going to use it or not yet. Getting Erin arrested for attacking a young woman and then peacing out of her body seemed like something he’d get exorcised over. Probably rightfully so. Allowing this charade to play out until the little psychopath was content didn’t feel right either. He liked his odds a little better this way. “And there are consequences to disobeying the person holding the bonesaw.”

Another step forward echoed another screee from the saw in his hand. It felt odd in his grasp–Erin’s grasp. Different from his own, of course, but the strength behind it didn’t feel like it should. It felt like borrowed time. Like driving someone else’s car for the first time. The mechanics were familiar and he could get around fine but it just wasn’t right. Max wasn’t moving fast enough for his liking. He raised a brow, feigning interest in his next question. “Sorry, did you misunderstand? Do you still want me to show you what I do with this?”

—

The barely evolved ape had the audacity to slash at Max with her blade, and the banshee felt a frustrated scream building in her chest. She’d been so close to seeing something beautiful, something that might have made this whole wretched trip to America a little bit less irritating. It wasn’t fair that she’d lose it when it was right there within her grasp. Didn’t she deserve it? After everything, hadn’t she earned it? Wasn’t death hers to hold and to mold and to store behind her teeth and deep within her lungs? If she were less rigid in her training, if she were someone more like Regan Kavanagh (she shuddered at the thought), she might have let out a scream. She might have brought the whole building down on both their heads, a glorious repeat of the house where Regan’s friends had tried to hide out falling down brick by brick. But Max was better than that. Max was built for this, had spent her entire life honing her power in a way failures like Regan Kavanagh could only dream of.

In any case, she thought, Erin would have consequences for breaking her word here. Wasn’t that how it worked? Max had bound her and Erin had broken it, but it wouldn’t come without cost. It never did. Fate would have its way with her, Max suspected. And for a banshee, that had to be enough. She reminded herself of this, even as she yearned to take matters into her own hands. She was not Regan Kavanagh, and she wasn’t Siobhan Dolan, either. She was better than the both of him, an instrument of Fate through and through. She flashed Erin a smile sharper than the blade she was swinging around, tilted her head to the side. “I suspect you’ll regret this later,” she said, taking a step back towards the door. “I only wish I could stick around to see it.”

She made her way back, eyes on Erin all the while. She turned to walk back up the stairs.

(And if she let out the smallest ear-splitting screech on the way? Well… no one was perfect.)

#wickedswriting #para #para: max #the fun in funeral homes #parental death tw

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