sick days are only for dead people, i guess

Another day, another shift of working with the dead.

You’d think I’d get tired of it, but I don’t really. Once you get past the realization that

all your coworkers have been dead for decades, sometimes centuries… And that you talk

to more dead people than you do living… And that you have no friends besides the

temperamental redhead who sometimes yells at you, who is coincidentally also dead…

Once you get past all of that, it’s a cakewalk.

I’m joking, of course. It’s hell. But at least it’s not literal Hell. I can hear the screams at

work sometimes, and it’s then that I thank my lucky stars that I got stuck working in the

Waiting Room.

I’ve just finished up seven hours of checking people in and out and in and out and in

and out, because Moira’s gone today. Something about visiting a family member who’s

newly dead.

I didn’t think they allowed us to take time off for that, but I guess I’m not dead like the

rest of them. Sometimes I think I get treated unfairly because I’m still alive- I don’t even

get sick leave like others do, which makes no sense. They’re dead.

Either way, I’m stuck working the front desk all day. It’s tedious work, and as I sift

through online paperwork between checking in souls, something catches my eye.

On a list of the people who have died today, one name stands out to me.

Rowan Murphy.

I shake my head. Statistically speaking, it’s not likely that the Rowan in question is the

same one from my school. There’s so many people in the world with the same name, and

the sheet doesn’t provide any other information. Besides, my Rowan is healthy-

unfortunately. It would have taken a lot to get rid of him so quickly.

I shake my head and exit out of the document, but a lingering sense of unease comes

over me. Even if it was the Rowan I know, shouldn’t he have come through the Waiting

Room today? Maybe I clicked on the wrong document.

I log off the computer and grab my coat from the back of the chair, calling for Ginger

to come and man the station, slipping out the door before any more lost souls can show

up.

While I walk through the tunnel, I look for Rowan’s name, but see nothing. I take a

deep breath, convincing myself that I had worked myself into a panic for nothing.

Besides, why did I care if the kid was dead? He was annoying as hell. Death happens, and

there’s nothing I could do about it.

Trust me. I would know.

As soon as I walk into Psych, I know that something’s off.

The atmosphere is sullen, somber. People are going about their daily business, chatting

with their friends as usual, but I can just tell that there’s something terribly wrong.

I look to see if there are any spirits nearby that could be causing this, but surprisingly, I

see nothing.

After reassuring myself that there was no logical reason for me to be stressed, I pull out

my notebook and wait for the lecture to start.

The clock turns to 8:29, and I prepare myself for the usual ten minutes to pass before

the Professor will actually arrive. But something happens that never does.

At 8:30 sharp, Evans walks through the door.

His shoulders are slumped, and despite his normally dull exterior, I can tell that there’s

something else going on.

It’s at this point that I begin to panic.

I hear his voice speak as I look next to me, confirming my fear.

Rowan isn’t there.

With horror, I turn back to the professor, hoping the tone of grief in his voice is just a

figment of my imagination. But despite all the signs, there’s no way to prepare myself for

what comes next.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

No.

“I have some terrible news I just found out…”

No.

“We lost one of our students early this morning.”

No no no.

“Rowan Murphy was in a car accident. He did not survive.”

NONONONONONO...

“I know you are all likely in shock right now. I am as well.”

NO. NO. NO.

“Because of this, we are calling classes off today, and likely for the rest of the week.

There will be counselors in the main office if you would like to talk. I don’t have any

other details as of right now. Please go.”

No. No. This isn’t happening.

I just saw him on Thursday. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s not dead. I would have seen him

come through the Waiting Room. He’s fine.

The little dumbass is going to live another day. I know he will. Because he’s not dead.

He can’t be.

I don’t even remember getting home.

I don’t really remember going into the bathroom and splashing my face with water,

looking at the dark bags that hang underneath my eyes, taking note in how gaunt my face

is.

What I do remember, though, is what happened afterward.

I straighten, looking in the mirror at my own pale reflection, and notice a dark figure

looming over me, one finger reached out, as if to tap me on the shoulder.

My heart racing, I turn instinctively, a hand racing to my pocket and pulling out the

knife. I thrust it straight through the creature’s ribs.

Nothing.

I pull it out, noticing how the shadowy black sludge covers the blade, and stab it again.

And again. And again. Waiting for the figure to dissolve, for the chill in the room to go

away.

But it doesn’t.

It just stands there until I give up, taking a step back, cornered against the edge of the

vanity.

My eyes trace their way up its body until they land upon a face. Unlike the other

spirits, though, this one has fully defined features, and I immediately recognize who it is.

That telltale smirk-turned-confusion, that messy brown hair...

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”