The Envelopes

They gave me a watch before they gave me the keys.

"No digital," the day attendant said, digging through the cluttered office drawer. "Here." She dropped a weight into my palm; a worn, old-fashioned wristwatch with a domed glass and a second hand that ticked like a heartbeat.

"If you brought your own, you can use that. Otherwise, this. Gear-based only."

"Why?" I asked.

She had already slung her bag over her shoulder, checking her watch. "Tradition. You'll need it for the envelopes."

"Envelopes?"

She nodded to a tray on the desk with twelve heavy paper envelopes stacked neatly in a pile. They looked aged and worn by fingers and time. Oil had darkened the corners, while some seams had been torn and taped. The topmost said 11:00 PM in neat black ink.

"They're special procedures," she said. "Open them at the time listed. Not before, not after. Do what they say, and you'll do just fine."

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then grimaced. "I'm late for the daycare. Front door is a deadbolt, back door is a slider. Lights are in the hall panel, prep room stays closed. Sweep if you're bored. If anybody knocks after hours, you... well, you'll see."

I opened my mouth to speak, but she was already opening the front door.

"Welcome to Martin & Sons Mortuary!"

The door swung shut. I strapped on the watch. It fit a little too perfectly.

-

The checklist was comfortingly normal: Turn out the chapel lamps except one, straighten the hymnals, check that the viewing room drapes lay in even folds, run the vacuum in the lobby if tracks showed on the carpet. I took my job seriously, so I worked diligently through it all, even the dusting. I didn't think about the envelopes except to note where they sat, centered beneath the desk lamp.

By 10:58, I'd completed the loop of the building and returned to the office. The lobby lamp threw a tired circle of light over the guest book and a bowl of complimentary mints. Outside the frosted glass door, the night had pressed into the parking lot. The old watch on my wrist ticked, patient and mechanical.

At 11 pm, I picked up the first envelope, carefully opening it and slipping the page out.

The paper rasped like an ancient breath.

Do not open the front door after this hour, no matter who knocks or calls your name. Turn on the lobby lamp. Pull the chain twice. Count to forty and return to your desk.

"Someone has OCD," I muttered. The lamp was already on, but I approached and pulled the chain twice anyway. The bulb flickered, then steadied. I counted, feeling silly, feeling watched, hearing only the tick of the watch and the settling sounds that come with old buildings. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.

I returned to my desk.

Someone knocked.

It was such an ordinary sound, just three gentle raps on the glass, that my body moved before my mind registered anything. I stood, my hand rested on the door handle, and the watch ticked once like a finger tapping my wrist. Do not open the front door after this hour, no matter who knocks or calls your name.

I froze.

The knock came again, firmer this time. A blur of a shape stood outside the door. I took a step closer, maybe out of reflex or curiosity, then stopped. I heard my name mumbled through the door. I did not open the door.

After a moment, the shape leaned close, close enough to see their breath through the frosted glass. They shouted my name once, and I startled, stepping back. The shape stood, unmoving, waiting. After a long minute, the shape drifted away, swallowed by the parking lot.

I returned to my desk. I picked up the paper, returned it to the envelope, and placed it face down next to the stack. My hands shook, almost in time with my racing heart, as I looked at the time on the next envelope: 12:30 am. I busied myself with my book, trying to keep my mind off the unsettling experience.

At 12:29, I opened the second envelope, my body surging with adrenaline.

Walk the viewing rooms. If any chair is turned slightly askew, leave it. Do not straighten it. If you find fresh fingerprints on the glass, wipe them once with your sleeve, and keep your eyes down.

The viewing rooms were empty, the plastic flowers freshly dusted, the caskets closed and quiet. The chairs were perfectly aligned, except for one chair at the end of the aisle in Room B. It tilted just a hair off true center, like a tooth that had grown slightly crooked. I left it.

On the far wall, the framed portrait glass held prints: small, precious ovals, as if a child had pressed a hand to the glass. I tugged my sleeve over my hand, then wiped the prints. The fabric squeaked against the glass. I didn't look up.

I returned to my desk. The watch ticked, and I focused on the sound as I walked quickly past my reflection in the memorial frames. Not running, but certainly anxious.

At 1 am:

Go to the preparation room. If the steel table is damp, blot it with the blue towel and do not ask why. If the toe tags no longer match your ledger, close the ledger. Write nothing until dawn.

Opening the door to the prep room was like walking into a fog of steel and rot. It was a scent like pears that had been left to go off on the counter. A smear of water spread over a steel table. I gathered the blue towel from the counter, blotting it over the water. The damp soaked through to my palm. I didn't look around for the source of the water. I didn't ask why.

The ledger was open on a side shelf. As I cautiously approached, I could see the neat, square writing of the mortician. Three names were listed for the following day. I read them, just to prove I could. I compared the names from the ledger to the toe tags protruding from beneath the white sheet like white tongues over cold toes. Two tags matched the ledger. One did not. The last name had been replaced with a word in a language I didn't know, the shapes of the letters seeming to shift and change the harder I tried to read it.

I closed the ledger and left. My palm stung where the damp had touched it, as though I had a mild chemical burn. I returned to the desk, staring at the next envelope.

At 1:45:

If you meet a mourner, ask only: "For whom do you grieve?" If they answer with a full name, nod and step aside. If they do not answer, extinguish your lamp and wait where you stand until they pass. If they answer "Myself," escort them to the exit without touching them.

I looked up. She was standing in the hall between the chapel and Room A, hands folded, and hair braided down her back.

"For whom do you grieve?"

Her lips moved. No sound came out.

I turned off the lamp. The darkness was absolute. Something passed by me, close enough to feel the air moving against my cheek. I shook, but kept my face forward. When I turned the lamp back on, the hall was empty. The braid of hair lay coiled on the carpet. I left it there.

At 2:15:

In the chapel, light one candle. If the flame leans to the left, leave it. If it burns straight up, you may drink water. If it stutters and smokes, cover your mouth and do not breathe until you are outside.

I entered the chapel and lit a candle. The flame seemed stable for a moment before it seemed to hunch from a non-existent wind. I left it.

When I stepped into the corridor, a draft breathed gently over my ankles. I thought of animals under the floorboards. I thought of lungs.

At 2:40:

Open no caskets. If a lid is already cracked, press no fingers inside. If you hear the linen shift, say "Rest," and then back away without turning.

I told myself I was ridiculous for checking. I had already wiped the caskets, and they were all closed. I checked anyway. In Room B, the lid of the casket was propped on a tooth of brass. A hairline opening at best, then a sliver. I heard a light rustling sound through the sound of my heart racing in my ears.

"Rest," I said, my voice trembling. The linen treated the word like a secret. It fell back into stillness, but not quite silence. I retreated from the room, my eyes locked on the casket.

At 3:00:

Stand in the corridor between the viewing rooms. You will feel a draft at your ankles. If the air is cold and sweet, step into the light. If the air is warm and sweet, step into the shadow. If you smell iron, sit on the floor and close your eyes.

Standing in the corridor, the air at my ankles turned warm, then warmer, as if someone's mouth was an inch from my feet. It smelled faintly of sugar and meat, like a burnt caramel on the grill. I stepped into the shadow between the doors and held perfectly still. The watch ticked. Something brushed my shoelace.

At 3:15:

Check the office clock. If it shows any time but 3:15, do not correct it. Remove the phone receiver from it's cradle and set it face down on the desk. If the dial tone continues, you may keep working. If you hear breathing, say nothing at all.

The office clock read 11:37. I didn't touch it. I carefully lifted the receiver and set it face down on the desk. A dial tone steadily hummed. I exhaled, the shivers in my spine easing. The hum slipped into a soft wetness, like the sound of a throat not entirely empty. I said nothing. The sound paused, like someone was listening, before returning to the soft hum of the dial tone.

At 3:33:

Do not enter the embalming room. If the fluorescents flicker, stand beneath the darkest one. Count your fingers out loud. If you count ten, you are alone. If you count more, leave the building by any door that opens and do not return until sunrise.

I stood beneath the dark square in the ceiling where the fluorescent bulb had failed, but was never replaced. "One, two, three, four..." My voice sounded shaken. "Nine, ten." I stopped. Relief washed over me, fast and shameful. I wanted to laugh from the relief. I didn't.

At 3:50:

If the ledger writes itself, read only the first line and tear out the page. Fold it twice and tuck it into your left shoe. Walk with a limp until dawn. If the ink runs uphill, burn the page in the chapel candle and do not watch it blacken.

The ledger's pen lay crooked, it's cap lost who knows when. The page was blank. I left it.

The watch ticked away on my wrist. The night settled heavier. I was suddenly so tired that it felt like grief.

At 4:10:

You may feel someone keeping pace behind you. Do not turn. Do not greet them. If they whisper a favor, answer "Not my place," and continue forward. If they breathe your childhood name, stop walking and pray without words.

I set the paper down, pacing slightly in my anxiety. I felt the weight in the air, three paces behind me. I've never wanted to turn to look behind me more. The silence weighed down, an anticipation hanging in the air.

"Not my place," I said to nothing, to someone, to everyone, and walked on. No one breathed my childhood nickname. No one alive knew it.

Between 4:10 and sunrise, there were no more envelopes. Only the last, labelled Sunrise. I set the stack of opened envelopes aside and wrapped my arms around myself. I watched the window turn from a mirror to a window as the sky slowly lightened.

That was when the panic set in.

It came like it always did, an old familiar foe with a knife and a grin. Every ordinary thing felt dangerous. The watch felt too loud; the candle in the chapel burned too straight; the crooked chair was a signal I'd missed; the braid on the carpet I'd left like a trap. The phone receiver was still laying face down, the dial tone screaming at me. Was I supposed to pick it up again? Was the rule finished? What if I misread something? What if I did something wrong? What if-

I grabbed the stack of envelopes, my shaking hands fumbling them. I picked up the final envelope, spotting a card, newer than the envelopes.

Under no circumstances read any envelope before the time listed. If you have broken a rule, call the head mortician immediately. Do not delay.

My mind flashed back to 12:29. I felt fear rising in my throat like bile.

I picked up the phone, dialing the listed number to the head mortician.

"Martin," a man's voice said, groggy and sleeping. "Who-"

"It's me," I said. "I'm sorry to call, I- There's a card, and it said to call if I've read ahead, but I only read the envelope a minute early, and I don't know if that cou-"

His voice cut me off, his tone darkening. "Okay," he said, suddenly calm. "Okay, take a breath. Listen to me carefully. What did Envelope Eight say tonight?"

I rifled through the letters, counting to the eighth. "Ummm... 3:15? Check the office clock. If it shows any time but 3:15, don’t correct it. Take the phone off the cradle, set it face down. If you hear breathing, say nothing.”

Silence. Then, "That's different."

"Different?"

He paused. "Sometimes they shift. It's... seasonal. Or it's not. It doesn't matter. It's fine. Next: what does Envelope Four say?"

I read it to him. He made a sound that could have been a laugh, might have been a prayer.

"Okay, I need you to stay in the office. Do not look out the window. Do not open the open the door. Do not answer any knock, no matter who is speaking. I'm on my way."

"How long-"

"Ten minutes if the lights stay green," he said, a lie meant to reassure both of us. "Do not open the next envelope until you see sunrise, but only out of the corner of your eye. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said.

I did not.

Down the hall, I heard the sound of a chair shifting, scraping the tile like someone had stood from the seat.

"Still there?"

"Yes."

"Good. If the phone line goes to breathing, put it down. If the office clock is the wrong time-"

"It says 11:37."

"Leave it," he said. "Don't correct anything. Don't add anything. Hold the rules like a fence. I'm driving."

He hung up.

I stood in the office with the lamp burning steady and the envelopes in a neat stack.

A minute crawled by. Two. Three.

The first knock came from inside the east wall.

It was soft, almost polite. I could almost pretend it was just the aging building settling if it hadn't been three in a row, evenly spaced. The second set of knocks came from inside the ceiling. Dust sifted down like flour.

I stared at the phone like I could make it ring. The knocking moved around me. It sounded like someone was looking for a way in.

The office door shivered. The handle turned, slow, as though someone stood outside, testing with care. The bolt held.

The phone rang. I stared at it stupidly before picking up the receiver from the desk, choking on an apology.

"I'm here," the head mortician said, breathless. “What did Envelope Ten say tonight?”

“If the ledger writes itself,” I said, “read only the first line, tear out the page, fold it twice, left shoe, walk with a limp. If the ink runs uphill, burn the page and don’t watch. The page was blank.”

“Good,” he said. “All right. That’s close to last night. Listen to me: whatever is in the walls is not in the building. It’s between the hours. The envelopes keep it from noticing you. You have to stay boring to it. Do not improvise.”

Something rubbed along the wall behind me. a sound like teeth through cloth. I pressed myself into my chair as though it could absorb me into safety. The phone hummed. My name breathed through the receiver in my own voice.

The knocking moved to the glass door. I could see the handle moving, but the bolt held like a prayer. A shadow leaned into the frosted pane. It rapped three times, patient. It called my name.

I did not answer.

Keys rattled outside. A hand slapped the glass in urgency. The knock at the door hammered once, enough to flex the pane. The wall behind me answered the knock. Somewhere deep in the building, a casket knocked back. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the glimmer of sunlight rising over the horizon. I cautiously picked up the final envelope.

If the rooms are quiet and the chairs still wrong, open the doors wide. If you smell roses before you see them, lock yourself in the chapel. Do not look back at the windows. Do not count the faces."

I stood, pretending that I couldn't hear the urgent knocking following me. I carefully locked myself into the chapel, sitting down at a pew, quiet tears streaming down my face.

Behind me, the wall kept knocking. Not polite this time. Not even desperate. A steady rhythm of someone with all the time in the world and meant to use it.