Death's Temporary Home For Lost Souls

Chapter Eleven: Dead Girls Don't Cry

    Reading about flipping houses and actually doing it are two entirely different undertakings, not to mention the fact that I have zero construction experience and zero money to my name. What if I let down Death, or Mem? It was one thing when I thought I'd have this house to myself, but now there were countless pairs of eyes narrowed on my progress – or lack thereof.

    Lisa takes no notice of my reservations, though, because she continues to drag me through the home at a pace that I find nearly impossible to keep up with. There are times when I swear that her feet leave the floor, hovering just inches above it.

    "Come on, let's go upstairs!" She says, and I follow her up to the second floor, the wooden steps creaking loudly under the weight of my feet. I recognize the hallway where I'd nearly impaled Death's skull after spending my first night here, and it stretches on far longer than I'd realized. Lisa stops outside of one of the solid doors on the left branch of the hallway, which otherwise looks nondescript. "This is Mr. Paul's room."

    "The man with the important presentation?" I ask, remembering his stilted demeanor and outdated newspaper from breakfast.

    Lisa nods and attempts to lower her voice, but children never really know how to whisper and I don't have to strain much to hear her. "He's always in there talking to no one, and he practices his presentation all day every day. It's weird."

    "Huh." I fold my arms and follow Lisa further through the labyrinthine halls, eager to change the subject from Paul's depressing existence. She shows me where several of the bathrooms are – "We don't really use them, but in case you might have to" – and even takes me through a massive study that overlooks the backyard. Judging by the piles of dust on the hand-carved desk, nobody's made use of it in a long time.

    "This place really is beautiful," I whisper, running my fingers along the rough edges of the wood. "A little neglected, but nothing that can't be tidied up."

    "Death always says that he's going to clean, but he never really does." Lisa blows on the windowsill, disrupting a pile of dirt and dead flies. "He's always so busy."

    Curiosity flickers in my mind like a lightbulb, and I choose my next question strategically. What is Death's role here, other than providing a home for his residents? "Really? What does he do? Chores? Cooking?"

    "No, silly." Lisa laughs. "He passes on souls in the garden." The words passes on souls ring in my head like the tolling of a bell. She points through the window, and my stomach clenches. The backyard is covered in leaves and flowers of all shades, and a dirt path winds its way through the woods before sharply bending to the right and disappearing deeper into the trees. It looks like the kind of magical place that would serve as the setting for a fantasy novel, not a final resting place.

Something suddenly occurs to me as I gaze outside. "But I was told that none of you are able to step past the walls of this house."

"The garden is different," Lisa says. Her voice takes on a solemn quality. "Death doesn't like anyone to follow him out there when he's working." Suddenly, she jumps up, full of her usual energy. "Come on, Cara! There's still more to see!"

I follow Lisa throughout more rooms, many of them empty bedrooms, but my head is still in that study, in that garden. Where I used to have a thousand questions, a million pop up to take their place. How does Death pass on souls, and why must it be done in the garden? Is he responsible for every single person on Earth that passes away? If so, why isn't the yard crowded with spirits? And why does Death refuse to let anyone watch? Why be so secretive?

"Did you hear me?" Lisa asks, butting through the fog in my brain. "We're going to visit Louis now."

"Who's Louis?" I ask, still distracted.