Page 1 of Wicked Magik

Chapter 1

Vesper

Iam no stranger to death.

In fact, I see it every day.

You wouldn’t know by the outside appearance of the home where I live.

The front of this grand mansion evokes elegance. Towering white pillars stand proudly at the entrance, offering a regal welcome. The meticulously manicured hedges, trimmed to perfection, frame the facade with an air of sophistication.

Along the walkway, vibrant flowers bloom in neat rows, their petals burst with color and life. The path itself is a testament to careful maintenance, with its freshly power-washed, stampedstone surface gleaming under the sun, guiding visitors toward the majestic building.

Here is where the living bring their loved ones who have passed and where they will be buried. This is the last time families and friends will tell their loved one goodbye.

This mansion used to be an empty shell until the Marchant’s family bought it a century ago and turned it into what it is today, a funeral home.

It’s been theirs ever since. The name has grown quite famous among the rich. The reading of wills, celebration of life parties, and the viewing of the body all reside within these old walls. I just take care of the dead.

What I do doesn’t require me to leave the confinement of the basement.

I adjusted the snug mask over my nose and mouth. I felt the elastic bands press against my skin. With steady hands, I sealed the final incision on the lifeless body, the edges of the skin neatly aligned. The challenging task to inject the formaldehyde was now behind me. Its pungent scent still lingered. I placed my instruments on the tray, a sense of anticipation built within me.

The moment I relished drawing near…it was the opportunity to make this lifeless body appear more alive, transform it to make it appear more like a sleeping person with its soul still attached to its body. This was where I could truly appreciate the artistry of my work.

My life has been strange since birth, so if you had asked me when I was younger if I expected to be a mortician, I would have told you it was a possibility. Nothing was ever for certain, but my mother was a mortician, so I suppose these sorts of things run in the family.

I started out wanting to be a beautician and go to beauty school. I enjoyed the art of make up, how you can completely change one’s appearance to look like someone else.

I even thought about theater make-up.

Most of all I wanted to change my appearance, but my mother helped me love myself for who I was.

I still loved experimenting with make up and soon learned how to incorporate it into mom’s work. Once I had a phone of my own, I dove into the world of beauty trends online. I was hooked—watching influencers for hours and practicing every natural look I could.

My mom let me watch far too much, but I think it was because she wanted me out of this basement and see that there was more out there. To have a child raised around the dead wasn’t something she wanted for me, no mother would.

It is what it is. I don’t regret my life. It only made me appreciate it.

The pounding of footsteps from the planks above echoed through the wooden floorboard, but I remained focused as I carefully draped the crisp white sheet over Elaine Cartwright. Her once elegant hands, renowned for their grace on the piano keys, now lay motionless.

In her prime, she had captivated audiences with her music and shrewdly invested her earnings, amassing considerable wealth. Yet, her life had been tragically cut short at forty-five, her battle with cancer leaving her frail and emaciated, her once vibrant body reduced to mere skin and bone.

Her parents and children, who outlived her, wanted her to have an open casket, but worried about her appearance. They wanted people to see who she was, not what the cancer had done to her.

That was where I came in.

The door creaked and I pulled down my mask. When I looked up I saw the funeral home’s cat saunter in and push the door open wider. He was a thinner tabby that had a primordial pouchthat would sway when he walked. The thing was a menace and would cause trouble wherever he went.

Definitely orange cat energy.

“Nothing here for you, George. Might as well get out.” I made sure to keep the sheet securely attached to Elaine so George didn’t swat at it to expose her body.

I nudged the metal equipment tray across the tiled floor until it clinked against the counter beside the sink. With a quick tug, I peeled off the latex gloves. My back was turned to the door, lost in my thoughts, when George, the ever-friendly tabby cat, brushed his soft, warm body against my leg, purring contentedly.

“You want treats now, huh? After what you did yesterday, I’m not so inclined to.”

While I spoke with Elaine’s family about the preparation of her body in the formal sitting room, George slithered through the curtains, jumped onto tables and knocked over urns that broke into pieces.