Chapter 6: Turning Up the Heat

I circled the casket and yanked out the plug on the cooling unit.

The hum of the compressor faded, replaced by the thick, oppressive heat of a Midwest summer. I glanced out the window—the thermometer in the funeral home garden read 92°.

It was in the nineties outside now. Let’s see how long you can stay in there.

I almost smirked. If Ethan wanted to play dead, he was going to sweat for it.

I wasn’t finished yet. I opened the window and dragged the space heater right up next to his casket.

The thing creaked as I plugged it in. Warm air poured into the room, swirling the scent of lilies and sweat. I set the thermostat to max and watched the numbers climb.

The heater blasted hotter and hotter. A thin layer of condensation began to form on the glass lid of the casket.

Little droplets gathered and slid down, blurring the view of Ethan’s carefully painted face. It looked like a science experiment gone wrong.

My sharp-eyed Aunt Linda suddenly shrieked.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, her voice rising in alarm. The room froze, all eyes turning to her.

“Mom and Dad, look, Ethan’s face is changing color!”

She jabbed a finger at the casket, her voice high and quivering. My mother gasped, clutching her pearls.

“This is… corpse rot!”

She turned away in horror, as if the sight might make her sick. The room erupted in chaos.

Sweat began to bead on Ethan’s face. As the sweat grew, his makeup smeared more and more.

The white powder streaked, exposing patches of tan and angry red. His nose began to shine, his lips puckering in discomfort.

In the end, his face was black here, white there, and yellow somewhere else.

He looked like a botched Halloween costume—a real horror show. I struggled not to laugh.

The relatives crowded forward, peering closely, then gasped in shock.

They murmured and pointed, someone in the back making the sign of the cross. It was the most excitement they’d had all year.

“This—this is bad luck, definitely bad luck!”

Aunt Linda’s voice trembled as she retreated from the casket, her hands shaking. I heard someone mutter about calling a priest.

“Heavens, it must be because Ryan said those things just now and angered him!”

Someone else whispered it, and suddenly, the stares were back on me—blame and fear mingling in equal measure.

I put on an innocent face, pretending to be scared and swallowing hard: “What should we do? Hurry, call someone to take him away.”

I fumbled for my phone, making a show of my panic. My thumb hovered over the screen, ready to dial 911 or the local coroner—whatever would get the most reaction.

I pulled out my phone, but before I could dial, my father slammed his hand down on it.

His palm hit mine with a crack, his eyes wild and desperate. His voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear: “Not here. Not now.” But his eyes said everything—he was terrified.