Chapter 1: The Funeral Bill
The silence in the funeral director’s office was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of a pen against a mahogany desk. Martha Jenkins sat on the edge of her chair, clutching her worn leather purse. Her knuckles were white. Across the room, her sister, Karen, was busy checking notifications on her latest iPhone, the light from the screen illuminating her bored expression.
"As we discussed," the director said softly, sliding a piece of paper across the desk, "the total comes to eight thousand, four hundred dollars. We require a fifty percent deposit to proceed with the service on Thursday."
Martha stared at the number. It might as well have been a million dollars. She looked at Karen. "Karen? We need to split this."
Karen didn't even look up. "Split what? You’re the one who lived with her, Martha. You lived rent-free in her house for ten years. Consider this your back rent."
"I didn't live rent-free," Martha’s voice trembled. "I was her caregiver. I changed her diapers. I fed her. I worked double shifts at the diner just to pay for her insulin. She had no money, Karen. You know that."
"Exactly. She had no money because she was terrible with it. And I’m not throwing my hard-earned cash into a hole in the ground for a woman who didn't even leave a will." Karen stood up, smoothing her expensive skirt. "It’s on you, Martha. Figure it out."
Karen walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. Martha was left alone with the bill and a burning sensation in her throat. She wrote a check that would drain her entire savings account, leaving her with exactly forty dollars to her name.
An hour later, Martha unlocked the front door of her mother’s small, diligent house. It smelled of old paper and lavender. The silence here was different—it was lonely. She walked down the hallway, exhausted, intending to collapse onto the sofa.
She stopped.
The house was supposed to be empty. But from the back of the hallway, coming directly from her mother’s bedroom, she heard a sound. It wasn’t the wind. It was a distinct, rhythmic scratching, like fingernails dragging against fabric.
Martha froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She held her breath, listening. The scratching stopped for a second, then started again—louder this time, and it was coming from inside the bed.
