A Grave Temptation

By Ryan Coull

'A Grave Temptation' is a collection of twenty-four dark and emotional fictional short stories which delve into everything from mystery to the supernatural, from tales of the sinister to tales of the heart. In them we meet a little girl who sees disaster on a tragic scale . . . the undertaker who keeps a terrible secret in his funeral home . . . a grief-stricken drunk driver who lives each day haunted by a terrible mistake . . . a young boy who stumbles on something terrible in the woods while walking his dog . . . a nurse returning home from her shift to find horror has come to visit . . . the doctor whose affair with a young woman leads to his demise ... and much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244004026

Book preview

A Grave Temptation

A GRAVE TEMPTATION

Ryan Coull

© Ryan Coull 2017

All rights reserved

A GRAVE TEMPTATION

Ryan Coull

ISBN 978-0-244-00402-6

Published by AudioArcadia.com 2017

Cover photos from www.shutterstock.com

Publisher’s note: This book contains adult language.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole

or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher can be emailed at [e-mail]

A GRAVE TEMPTATION

‘Where you want her, Max?’

Max watched as the two men from the medical examiner’s office wheeled in the corpse.

‘Far table, guys. Is that the Taylor woman?’

The taller of the two attendants nodded. ‘This is her. Bludgeoned to death in the park last month. Poor cow.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Max shook his head. ‘This is getting unbelievable.’

The attendants looked respectfully down at the body bag. ‘You said it,’ the shorter one agreed. ‘Anyhow, if you’ll sign on the line, my man, we’ll leave you to it.’ He handed Max the relevant paperwork and the undertaker scribbled his name.

Max accompanied the men out and shut the door before going back to work. There was plenty of it this month - almost more than he could cope with single-handedly. Right now he had four bodies under his roof, each awaiting burial preparation. Last month had been even busier, and it was a struggle to keep up. He was a small-town business, after all. He had help with funerals and transporting the bodies, but did the bulk of the embalming work alone.

Rain struck the funeral home’s tiled roof, a steady downpour from the thunderheads which had darkened the sky since early afternoon. He heard the wind whining around the building. Occasionally, when working with the bodies, such inclement weather made him feel a little like Dr Frankenstein, a notion enhanced by the movies he’d watched as a youngster (he’d never read the book). However, if any of the dead decided to sit up one day in front of him, Max’s reaction would not be cries of exultation, but more likely simple cardiac arrest.

The cadaver he was currently working on was Amanda Grey: her remains lay prone on the steel table before him. She had been pretty - still was, in truth - although Max didn’t want to think too much about this. He never touched the bodies in that way, but he did find some of the younger women enticing, and the temptation to caress a cold breast, to run his fingers over a lifeless thigh, was always there, something he had to keep in check. But he wasn’t prepared to indulge this urge, no. He had a wife at home, thank you very much, one with light in her eyes and warmth to the skin. She was very much alive - especially when let loose with a damned credit card.

Max washed Amanda’s corpse in insecticide-germicide mixture, endeavouring to keep his mind on the job. Her blonde hair had lost its lustre and was brittle and dry. The pale breasts were small hillocks with coin-sized centres. A faint triangular scar marred her right cheek, which Max guessed was caused by glass, perhaps a childhood accident. He often played this mental game: if scars or imperfections were evident around the limbs or torso, he imagined what may have caused them. He weighed everything he knew about the individual - occupation, age, hobbies - and made an educated guess. Sometimes he speculated what kind of temperament they’d had, whether they’d been quiet, sullen, or bright and brimming with joie de vivre. He was mostly wrong, probably, but in this line of work one’s mind tended to wander.

Done with the cleaning, he packed her nose with cotton filler and carefully fitted plastic eye-caps beneath the lids. Next he applied a modest amount of superglue to ensure the eyes didn’t open, giving some unsuspecting family member a coronary. Some glue to the lips served the same purpose and a little cream to prevent them from appearing dry.

He intended to finish up with Amanda and go home. He was already working late, but he didn’t mind. Matters between him and his wife, Lisa, had been strained lately. She’d been made redundant at the hospital due to cutbacks, and their bills seemed to swell a bit every month. Their twin daughters outgrew their clothes with alarming speed and constantly demanded the latest fads, whether it was mobile phones or the newest computer games. Furthermore, Max also required a new hearse, as his current model had become increasingly unreliable. It didn’t create a favourable impression when the town undertaker’s conveyance spewed fumes like something ready for the junkyard. So, keen or not, the work had to be done.

Max made an incision into Amanda’s carotid artery and inserted a tube, its opposite end attaching to the embalming machine. A second tube went to the artery’s corresponding vein; its other end he placed in the drain. He switched it on and the machine began pumping embalming fluid into her system. The discarded blood went into the sewer and Max switched the pump off when the blood’s colour finally changed to the light pink of embalming fluid.

After this, he stored away the latest body - the one the two attendants had brought in - sliding it into the cold storage. Gina Taylor, twenty-eight years old. Beaten about the head and left to die in the park. Her body bag remained sealed and Max decided he’d work on her tomorrow. Before he did, though, he had to embalm the little Brannan boy, who’d been run down on his way home from a friend’s house.

Max heard the rain really coming down now, drumming heavily on the rooftop. He commenced suturing Amanda’s incisions to prevent leakage. He then injected chemical preservative into the abdomen and gave the corpse another clean, absently moistening his lips as he worked around her private areas.

Lastly, he began massaging her stiffened muscles; he had to do this in order to make them more pliable - which meant there was nothing inappropriate about the action. Nothing inappropriate.

Max swallowed, his eyes roaming the length of her body. He ignored the unsightly Y-shaped incision left from the autopsy. Instead, he concentrated on the tight stomach, the firm thighs, the ...

Stop it.

But this was his occupation. He had to look at the bodies, didn’t he? Nothing wrong with that, was there? Max took a step back from the corpse and drew a hand over his face. His heartbeat was a little quick, a touch fluttery. He felt a ticking pulse in the artery of his neck. It shamed him that he was aroused by her, and he wondered if any other undertakers viewed the dead in this way. Had others experienced stirrings of desire as they worked on cold, naked flesh?

Yesterday, Amanda Grey’s father had come to the funeral home and Max had greeted him with deference in the reception area. He was a hulk with huge hands and leathery skin, and Max inferred the man did some manner of outdoor work. Manual work, more than likely. The poor blighter had looked bewildered, lost on another planet altogether. He had brought a dress for his daughter’s remains to be buried in, a light flowing gown decorated with the tiniest of flowers.

‘Have you given any thought to the casket, Mr Grey?’ Max enquired as delicately as possible, once they were seated in his little office.

The big man proudly pushed back his shoulders and settled two spade-like hands on his knees. ‘The best,’ he replied. ‘I want the best you got for my lassie. Nothing less.’

Max had struggled to keep from smiling as he proceeded to sell Mr Grey the finest - and most expensive - coffin on the premises: a deluxe stainless steel number, powder blue with a brush finish and soft, white interior. What would the man think if he knew what was going through the undertaker’s mind right now? What would he do? Max wondered upon what might happen if his sordid interests became public knowledge.

Well, his wife would leave him, for starters.

Lisa hated what he did for a living, although she pretended otherwise. Max understood this, although he couldn’t always accept it. After all, what was there to like about the job? It paid fairly well, some of the time, but clearly the vocation wasn’t run-of-the-mill. More often than not there wasn’t enough work in such a provincial town. Sometimes, when he returned home late at night, Lisa would be cold with him, shunning his advances, refusing to be affectionate, as if her husband spending the day with dead bodies turned her romantic engines off. Or did she suspect that he enjoyed the time he spent with the deceased - especially the young women? Perhaps he wouldn’t be this way if Lisa paid him more attention.

Max knew if he and his wife could lay their hands on some more cash, everything would be sunny once more. Lisa’s amorous side had a tendency to resurface when there was ample shopping money, allowing her to traipse around the stores, arbitrarily purchasing expensive items without a second thought. Well, he doubted that particular trait was exclusive to his wife. Like many women, she was happiest frittering money on new hairstyles and shoes she might wear only once.

In any case, Max still loved her. She was a good mother to the girls and he’d be lost without her. Therefore, if keeping Lisa by his side meant spending a few more hours here in the evening, then so be it.

His gaze toured the topography of Amanda’s naked corpse again, from her faint eyebrows down to her size four feet. She had been wearing sparkly open-toed sandals the night she died. A fractured skull had caused her death, just like Gina Taylor over there. It was a terrible way to go, being attacked with an iron bar. Terrible action to perpetrate as well.

None of it was easy. Not the hit-and-runs. Not the beatings. None of it. It was hard work - dangerous work - but at least the money was coming in. He had to earn a living, after all. It was simply a case of not drawing attention to himself, of making sure he didn’t get greedy.

Max washed his hands in the sink, preparing to go home and see his family. He’d done enough for one evening. ‘Night night, my beauties,’ he said, snapping off the lights. ‘See you in the morning.’ 

POND LIFE

Dr Eric Hanson consulted his Rolex, finding he had fifteen minutes before his noontime appointment - a woman called Louisa Marsh, who’d already begun to stir mild curiosity in him, for this wouldn’t be her first time in his office.

Early last year, as the snows conceded to springtime, she had sought counsel concerning an unusual affair, the likes of which Hanson had not encountered in nine years of clinical psychology. But it was because of such peculiarities that the psyche continued to fascinate and intrigue him: the human mind, its entirety of complexities, provided an ongoing wealth of interest, especially to those toiling to understand them.

Initially, Hanson had found Louisa attractive. An enticing lady in her forties - a few years younger than he - she had fine physical shape, although her bearing exposed a downtrodden aspect, suggesting her life was in some way problematic. Indeed, every patient had a problem, for they, after all, were his stock-in-trade.

Dr Hanson vividly remembered the afternoon they’d sat opposite one another. He’d occupied the same leather swivel chair he sat in today. Louisa had arrived, attired in a summer dress, a lightweight mauve affair brightened by the spring sunlight angling through the office window. She’d been enticing, for sure, but he also saw tiredness in her, as if she were encumbered by some form of duress. As it transpired, that form of duress was guilt.

‘I understand you lost your husband not long ago,’ Hanson had ventured, neutrally.

Louisa Marsh wrung her slender fingers together. ‘My husband, Zach, was a fisherman. His trawler sank in the North Sea a couple of weeks ago.’

Hanson straightened. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I think I remember learning of the incident on television.’

‘Five trawlermen died when the Reel Lady went down.’

‘Yes, I recall. A terrible tragedy. Weren’t the men from …’ Hanson tapped the desk, struggling to remember the name of the coastal village.

‘A little place called Porthaven,’ she told him.

‘Porthaven, yes. Do you live there too?’

‘Not far away. A few miles outside.’

‘Tell me about your husband, Mrs Marsh,’ Hanson said, inferring her late spouse was the source of her trouble.

‘Zachariah was always a solitary man. He disliked having people around him, his workers apart. He even bought a home where he wouldn’t be bothered by neighbours. Oh, he was a hard-working skipper, you understand, and completely fair to his men.’ She shook her head. ‘But he was incredibly tough to live with. He could be cruel and mocking, often insulting. It was all very difficult.’

Louisa crossed her legs, adjusting the hem of her skirt.

‘The Reel Lady commandeered most of his time. Just a steel-hulled trawler, about sixty feet long, but Zack adored the boat, and had a strange attachment to it. It certainly received more attention than I ever did.’

‘What caused the sinking?’ Hanson asked, making some brief notes.

‘The investigators aren’t sure, though they suspect it capsized in turbulent seas, overturning while the men were winching in the net. They think it may have caught on something under the water.’

‘It’s a dangerous job,’ Hanson offered. ‘Highly skilled.’

‘My marriage to Zach was not a happy experience,’ she continued, sounding as if she were approaching the crux of the issue. ‘He didn’t let me socialise with other people - especially other men. Male friends were forbidden. He’d constantly check my phone, look at my messages. He had a terribly jealous streak.’

‘I find jealously often goes hand in hand with personal insecurity,’ Hanson said.

‘Perhaps. I don’t know what made him that way. I needed the company of others, but he was so … stubborn. He wouldn’t allow me to wear make-up or dress in the clothes I liked. If I went against him, he’d assume I was on the lookout. That’s how he’d put it: ‘on the lookout.’ It became so … stifling to live with.’ She shrugged her exposed shoulders.

Indeed, Hanson had noticed she wore no make-up. Her almond hair looked lustrous, bright, but he couldn’t detect even the mildest blusher. Her fingernails were colourless.

‘How did you pass the time when he wasn’t there?’ he asked. ‘Do you work?’

‘No, but I’ve always loved to paint - landscapes mostly. Again, he refused to let me indulge an interest. He smashed my easel and threw it away in a rage. Any bond we had when we married, it died long before his accident. We lived together - existed - but in the end we were scarcely going through the motions.’

‘Didn’t you consider a separation?’

She hung her head. ‘I dreamed of little else. But he would never agree to a divorce, Zach wasn’t that kind of man. He lived by archaic values - I suppose this is partly what made him unbearable, that he’d rather keep me there miserable than let me go. A divorce would’ve been an affront.’

‘Was he violent?’

‘Sometimes.’ Louisa popped open her handbag and rootled for a Kleenex. ‘As the years passed, his moods darkened. He’d come home from being away at sea and … he’d act as if he hated me.’ She dabbed at her blue eyes.

‘How so?’

‘Nothing I cooked was ever right. He gave me the impression I was forever in his way. I know he loathed me but he wouldn’t let me go. It felt like some sort of sick Catch-22. When he left the house that morning for the last time, I was sitting at the kitchen table, and I knew I couldn’t live that way any longer.’

Hanson waited, allowing her time.

‘While I sat there at the table, I said: I wish he’d just die out there. I wish he wouldn’t come back.’ She met Hanson’s gaze with a curious expression, like resolution wrapped in regret. ‘I spoke those words out loud, and the following day … I heard the trawler had gone down.’

She looked at him expectantly.

‘You don’t assume there’s any connection between what you said and the Reel Lady sinking?’ Hanson asked.

Louisa appeared confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, let me see. Firstly, wishes don’t come true. If they did, I’d be off living inside a mansion somewhere with columns outside.’ He gave her a brief smile. ‘I’m not trying to be facetious. What I mean is that you needn’t feel you must shoulder any blame for what you did. Mrs Marsh, wishes are for children … the things of fairytales and fantasy. A child wishes for money when he slips a tooth under his pillow, or blows out birthday candles.’

‘Even if you mean it - really mean it?’

‘Even so.’

‘There were other men on the trawler,’ she went on. ‘Good men. I didn’t want anything to happen to them. I just said it …’

Hanson regarded her. Bereavement affected everybody differently, but never had he encountered someone so influenced by it that they credited it possible to wish someone to death. Guilt often begets such self-flagellation, true, but he had to make her see they were dealing with coincidence, nothing more.

‘The other men’s deaths - they should prove to you that you’ve done nothing wrong, Mrs Marsh. People always say regrettable things - it often happens in heated moments - but words and wishes cannot inflict harm on others. You’re experiencing guilt, and that’s perfectly natural, really, even if you no longer loved or cared for your husband. This guilt will be exacerbated because innocent fishermen were lost alongside him. But please understand: this tragedy would’ve happened whether you wished for anything that morning or not.’

‘Then why didn’t they find his body? Rescue ships, the coastguard, they searched and they found the others. But they never found Zach. You don’t think it could be down to what I said?’

‘Entirely impossible. A coincidence and nothing more. I know it’s hard to hear, but perhaps your husband simply never made it off the boat.’

‘But I wished he wouldn’t come back. You don’t think - ?’

‘No.’ Hanson raised a hand. ‘I don’t. It’s superstition and just isn’t possible. When you’ve had time to deal with this - to accept and understand it - you’ll see things more clearly.’

It had been a curious conversation, but the only one they’d had. He’d assured her any ongoing therapy would be inappropriate, as the matter was merely a case of her facing the obvious, and thus ultimately something that would come to pass of its own accord.

Now, a year and more later, fountain pen pinched