She lay awake for a long time, kept sober by the pervasive chill as she waited for dreams to claim her. When they finally did, they were queasy and upsetting, full of memories of that morning, of approaching the caskets, of seeing what remained of Hugh and Maria Hull.

10

“It’s just this way.”

The funeral director walked only a few paces ahead of Margot, but his voice seemed to echo, as though it came to her down a long tunnel.

The scene was familiar. The funeral parlor: decorated in dark-stained woods and faded fabrics. Red carpet lined the halls but peeled up in patches, threadbare where thousands of feet had paced before.

A small bronze key came out of the funeral director’s pocket. Walter, Margot remembered belatedly. His name had been Walter. A disarmingly comforting name. His suit was old but kept pristinely clean. Thinning hair had been combed across the top of his head. He had a gentle face. Almost too meek and soft to belong to someone who tended the dead.

The key went into the lock in a tall, dark door at the end of the hall. Margot knew what would be on the other side. She wanted to pull away, to walk backward until she was out of the funeral parlor entirely, but her muscles wouldn’t move. Acidic fear burned in her veins as she realized she was trapped in the memory, unable to alter or escape what was about to happen.

The lock clicked and the door opened. Walter moved through first, then held the door as Margot stepped into the cool, dim viewing room at the back of the parlor.

Rows of coffins stood upright against the walls on either side, display units that, in the moment, had felt more like sentries. A physical manifestation of mortality, a promise: one day you will lay in us too.

Ahead, beneath a window set high in the wall, were two caskets. Walter approached them first, and his soft face sent Margot an uncertain glance. “The viewing is optional.”

He’d already warned her—what waited inside the caskets would not be a peaceful representation of death.

And Margot, trapped in her own body, was incapable of stopping herself from saying, “Please.”

The funeral director dipped his head in acknowledgment, then lifted the lids on both caskets. He stepped to one side, hands folded, to allow Margot access. She screamed inside her own mind as her feet dragged her closer and she craned her neck to see inside.

The funeral director was speaking again, though she barely heard him: “We did our best, but…”

A sharp alarm cut across the memory. Margot jolted upright, a gasped breath dragging through her choked throat, sweat-dampened blankets sliding off her and exposing her to the icy air.