MY FUNERAL IS EVERY TUESDAY

Chapter 1: The Obituary* My name is Mara Quinn. I prepare dead people for a living. I'm 29. I'm a forensic mortician. I don't believe in ghosts, I don't believe in fate, and I definitely don't believe in Monday morning surprises. Until this Monday morning. I was drinking cold coffee in the morgue at 7:13 AM. The fluorescent light was buzzing. The air smelled like formaldehyde and lemon cleaner. My boss, Dr. Hana, slid the local newspaper across the steel table toward me like it was evidence. "Explain this," she said. On page seven, under OBITUARIES, was my face. Not a similar face. My face. My driver's license photo from three years ago, when I still had bangs and tried to smile for the camera. Same mole under my left eye. Same crooked eyebrow. MARA QUINN 1997 - 2026 Died unexpectedly Tuesday, October 22nd, 9:00 AM. Service to be held at Greenfield Cemetery. She is survived by her mother. I laughed. I actually laughed because what else do you do? "Very funny," I told Hana. "Did Dave from reception do this? He thinks he's so funny since his divorce." Hana didn't laugh. Hana never laughs before nine. "Mara, your mother called. She saw it too. She was crying." My stomach dropped. My mother doesn't cry about pranks. My mother cries about bills. I pulled out my phone. Three missed calls from Mom. One voicemail. I played it on speaker. "Mara? Mara, sweetheart, what is this? Why is your photo in the paper? The paper says... the paper says you die tomorrow? Call me! Call me now!" Her voice cracked. This was not a prank. The Herald charges $200 for an obituary. You have to show a death certificate. "Maybe it's a mistake," I said, but my hands were cold. "Someone with the same name." Hana pointed at the last line. "It says you worked at St. Agatha's Morgue. How many Mara Quinns work at St. Agatha's Morgue?" One. Me. I grabbed the newspaper and ran to the office phone and called the Herald. The obituary desk lady was bored until I said my name. "Oh, the Quinn notice? Yes, it was submitted Friday by email. Paid in full. From... let me see... E. Vance." E. Vance. I don't know any E. Vance. "Can you pull it?" I begged. "It's me. I'm alive." "Ma'am, we can't pull an obituary without a police report. But... that's weird, the system says the service is already scheduled. Greenfield, plot 9B, tomorrow 11 AM." Plot 9B. I knew that plot. It was empty. Right next to the old oak tree. I hung up. Hana was staring at me like I was already a ghost. "Go home, Mara. Take the day off. Tomorrow... just stay home tomorrow." I didn't. I am not the stay-home type. I finished prepping Mrs. Albright, who was 87 and died peacefully. I washed my hands for ten minutes. I tried to forget about the newspaper. At 5 PM, I left the morgue. The October sky was already dark. The parking lot light was flickering, as usual. And a man was sitting on the low wall next to my old Honda, smoking, but not really smoking. Just holding the cigarette. He was the new gravedigger. We hired him last week. Elias. He was maybe thirty, tall, black jacket, black gloves even though it wasn't that cold. Dark hair. Eyes that looked like he hadn't slept in years. "You're still here," he said. He didn't sound surprised. He sounded... relieved. "You waiting for me?" I asked. No one waits for the mortician. He looked at my face for a long time, like he was memorizing it. "You shouldn't have come today." "Yeah, I saw my own funeral announcement, thanks for the reminder." He flinched. Actually flinched. "You saw it?" he whispered. "Everyone saw it! It's in the paper!" He stood up quickly, dropping the cigarette. "Mara, listen to me. Whatever you do, tomorrow, Tuesday, at 9 AM, do NOT be in the morgue. Do not be at Greenfield. Do not be alone. Do you understand me?" My heart started beating fast, not because he was scary, but because he said it like he knew. "Who are you?" I said. He stepped closer. He smelled like rain and earth. "My name is Elias. I bury people. And I have buried you four times already." I stepped back and laughed again, but this time it was nervous. "Okay, that's... that's not funny. Are you part of this prank?" "I'm not joking." His voice was low and broken. "Your hair is shorter this time. Last Tuesday it was longer. You had a cut on your left hand. I remember because..." He grabbed my left hand before I could pull away. His gloves were cold. "Because I held your hand when they lowered you." I yanked my hand away. "Stay away from me! I'm calling security!" I got in my car and locked the doors. He didn't follow me. He just stood there in the flickering light, watching me drive away, with an expression so sad I almost felt guilty. I drove home. I live on the second floor above a laundry. One bedroom, too many plants, fridge full of leftovers. I locked my door twice. I put the newspaper in the trash. I called my mom. "Mom, I'm alive. It's a weird mistake. I'm fine." She cried for twenty minutes. I took a shower so hot my skin turned red. I tried to scrub off the feeling of his cold gloves. At 11 PM, I was in bed, scrolling my phone, trying to be normal. Then my apartment buzzer rang. I froze. Nobody buzzes at 11 PM. I went to the window. Downstairs, in the rain, was Elias. Soaked. No umbrella. He was looking right up at my window. He shouted, "CHECK YOUR POCKET!" What pocket? I was in pajamas. He shouted again, "YOUR COAT! YESTERDAY'S COAT!" Yesterday I wore my black wool coat to work. It was hanging by the door. I grabbed it. My heart was pounding. In the left pocket, something crinkled. It was a folded piece of paper. Old, yellowed, like it had been in there for years. But I had washed that coat last week. There was nothing in it. I unfolded it with shaking fingers. It was handwritten, in my handwriting. But messier. Older. It said: _My name is Mara. This is the 4th time. If you are reading this, you don't remember me yet. He works where we work. He kept my pink suitcase. Don't trust him. And don't trust Elias at first, but you will. - Mara_ The 4th time. He works where we work. Pink suitcase? I don't own a pink suitcase. And: Don't trust Elias. I looked down at the street. Elias was still there, rain running down his face. He mouthed, "Do you believe me now?" I didn't. I couldn't. I closed the curtains. I didn't sleep. At 8:55 AM on Tuesday, October 22nd, I was supposed to be at home. I was supposed to stay in bed, like Hana said. But I am a mortician. I don't stay in bed when there's a body. At 8:55 AM, my phone rang. Morgue line. Hana: "Mara, we have an intake. Female, 30s, no ID yet. Police just brought her in. I need you." I should have said no. Every instinct screamed no. But I said, "I'm coming." I arrived at 9:02 AM. The rain had stopped. The morgue was quiet. On the steel table in Room 1, under the white sheet, was a body. Hana pulled back the sheet. I stopped breathing. The woman on the table had my face. Exactly my face. Same mole. Same crooked eyebrow. But older. Maybe 34. Lines around her eyes I don't have. Hair a little longer. And a small scar on her left hand, fresh. She was wearing my black wool coat. And in her left pocket, something was crinkling. Hana whispered, "Do you... do you know her?" I reached forward with a gloved hand that wouldn't stop shaking and pulled the paper from her pocket. It was another note. Same handwriting. Same messier, older handwriting. It said: _It's too late for me. It's Tuesday again. Check the suitcase. - Mara, 34_ Behind me, the morgue door opened. Elias walked in, in his gravedigger boots, muddy. He saw the body. He saw my face. He closed his eyes like he was in pain. "You came," he said. "You always come." *End of Chapter 1