Another day, another death. Another soul crowds the halls. They say this place is cursed, that the recent string of murders are so grisly and violent that no mortician lasts for more than a month or two. In any case, someone still has to fill the position, and who better than me?

"Trish Ballard. Age... thirty-two. Cause of death..."

I trail off again, keeping my finger held on the button of the dictation recorder. I reach across the desk and turn off the small fan, letting the silence wash over me and thinking about the body. The police say they apprehended a suspect this time, but something doesn't sit right with their report. I can't really blame them, they don't have the resources to deal with these cases. I know they're connected, they have to be, but I can't present what I know as evidence, regardless of how right I might be. Even they can tell this one struggled.
Getting up from the office chair, I feel my migraine slice through the painkillers. How much longer can I keep this up? If only I could think clearly. I walk over to the body again, passing the hallway mirror, noting how yellow my skin is in the old lighting of the mortuary. It feels clammier every day.

It's now or never.

I retrieve the embalming fluid from the shelf and place it on the rack. It smells like... chemicals. Who the hell concocted this shit anyways? Trocar in. Feed the tube. I look at the pump on the top of the rack, and can't help but see the glass next to it. I could do this tomorrow, couldn't I? It might give me a couple more days...
No. I couldn't. She'll have passed on by then. I should be thankful the family wants ashes, I've already stalled for long enough. I pour the fluid into the machine, leaving some for the glass. It smells foul, the slight odor of decomposition completely overtaken by the pungent vapors burning my nostrils. It feels like someone's stabbing me in the eye, but...
I bolt the door shut. It should keep them out for a couple of minutes longer. Hopefully, all I need. I've only got one shot at this, stopped too soon and I won't get what I need, left too long and I won't be able to bring it back. I fill the glass and start the machine.

"Steven Robinson. Age... fifty-six. Cause of death: poisoning. Subject mistook spilled embalming fluid for alcohol."

Dammit, overshot again. Well, it was a good run, twelve visits total, including Trish.

"Subject was likely an alcoholic, showing signs of chronic liver disease at the time of death."

To be fair, Steve did like his scotch, but his liver was fine a few months ago. The dictation recorder clicks off.

"...how the hell does a mortician mistake embalming fluid for booze...?"

I'm glad they always turn the recorder off before they add that note. I mean, six morticians in the same town, in the same year? Anyone would find that suspect. They say this place is cursed, but someone always fills the position. I make sure of it, and this one seems like he'll last me even longer. I hope he savors his dinner tonight, because tomorrow morning, I've got a cremation to finish.