Chapter 2: The Scent of Formaldehyde
809 Words
Maya’s breath hitched, dying in the back of her throat. The hand on her shoulder was heavy, solid, and didn’t let go. For a flickering second, she imagined it was Sam. That her brother had somehow sensed her presence through the mist and come to drag her back into the light.
But the smell was wrong. It wasn’t the familiar scent of Sam’s laundry detergent or the faint hint of woodsmoke that always clung to him. This was sterile and sharp. It smelled like bleach and old lilies.
"You’re trespassing, Miss."
The voice was thin, like parchment being torn. Maya spun around, her heels skidding in the slick mud.
Standing behind her was a man so gaunt he looked like he belonged under one of the headstones. He wore a grease-stained jumpsuit with St. Jude’s grounds & Maintenance stitched over the heart. His eyes were milky, clouded by cataracts that made it impossible to tell where he was looking.
"I... I’m sorry," Maya stumbled, her hand fisting hard at the lapel of her coat. "I was just... leaving."
The old man didn’t move. He leaned on a shovel, his knuckles knobby and grey. He looked past her, toward the fresh grave where the crowd was beginning to disperse, their umbrellas bobbing away like black balloons.
"Family?" he asked.
"A friend," Maya lied. The word felt like a stone in her mouth.
"A shame," the groundskeeper muttered. He spat a dark glob of tobacco juice into the grass, inches from the headstone Maya had just seen. "The mother, she’s a wreck. But the sister? She’s been a rock and handled all the arrangements. Paid in cash."
Maya’s heart did a slow, painful contraction. The sister? "I didn't know she had a sister," Maya said, her voice barely a whisper.
"Twin, I reckon," the man shrugged, turning away to drag his shovel toward a pile of fresh earth. "Looked just like her. Same eyes. Same way of walking. She’s the one who insisted on the mahogany. Said her 'other half' deserved the best."
Maya felt the world tilt. She didn't have a twin. She was an only child; her mother had reminded her of that every birthday, calling her their "one and only miracle.""
She looked back toward the funeral plot. The crowd had thinned to almost nothing. Her mother and Sam were being led toward a waiting black car. And there, standing by the open door of the vehicle, was the woman in the hat.
The woman looked back. Even through the rain and the distance, the eye contact was intentional. She didn't wave nor scream. She simply climbed into the car next to Maya’s grieving mother and closed the door.
Maya’s burner phone buzzed again.
"Mom likes the new me, Maya. She says I’m much more 'attentive.' Run along now. You’re starting to look like a ghost."
The car pulled away, tires crunching on the gravel path.
Maya stood frozen until the taillights vanished into the grey fog. She was a ghost. On paper, in that mahogany box, and now, in her own mother’s heart. Her identity wasn't just stolen; it was being improved upon.
She looked down at the granite stone at her feet again and the one with her name and the 4:30 timestamp, but it was 4:32 PM . With a sudden, strong energy, Maya dropped to her knees. She didn't care about the mud ruining her coat or the grit under her fingernails. She began to claw at the dirt around the base of the small granite marker. It wasn't set deep. It felt loose, as if it had been placed there only minutes before.
She hauled the stone upward, lighter than it looked but hollowed out. Inside the cavity beneath the stone sat a small, velvet-lined box. Maya flipped the lid open.
Resting on the red fabric was a single, severed finger. It was pale, preserved, and wearing a ring Maya recognized instantly. It was the gold band her grandmother had given her, the one she had been wearing the night of the fire. But then, the finger wasn't hers. She looked at her own hands, shaking but intact.
But the ring... the ring was real. And as she tilted the box, she saw a small slip of paper tucked underneath the velvet.
“Proof of death is easy. Proof of life is expensive. How much are you willing to pay to be Maya Reed again?” A twig snapped behind her. Not the groundskeeper this time. This sound was closer and heavier. Maya didn’t look back. She shoved the box into her pocket and bolted toward the woods, the thorns tearing at her skin as she disappeared into the dark.
- Writer
