Wish You Were Dead

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Debbie talked to the dead. ‘Hello, boys and girls!’ she would greet them all at 10 p.m. every weekday, when she let herself into the silent mortuary, to clean. ‘Bet you wish you weren’t here!’ she would add. They never answered her back — well, at least no one had yet — and she was pretty glad about that.

Her friends asked her how she could stand to work here. Didn’t it spook her?

‘No,’ she would answer. ‘The dead don’t bother me. It’s the living that do. They’re much scarier!’

Although, in truth, with the flickering lights and the hum of the fridges, she was always just a little nervous in here. Which was why she liked to chat away, telling them all about her day and asking them about theirs. Most of them, she guessed, had had a pretty shitty day, which was why they were in this place.

She counted from the names on the fridge doors. Eighteen overnight guests. Two more than yesterday. They lay behind the doors on racks of shelves, wrapped in white plastic. Their names were on tags tied to their big toes — except for the occasional ones who arrived with no feet.

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