The strange thing is, I don’t feel it, being dead, I mean. I don’t feel much, really, nothing at all. I thought, you know, bliss or hellfire or something. No. Nothing. I feel numb. Not sure I’d even notice if I were in Hell. Probably would.
The mortician was pretty chill about it. Said it happens more often than you’d think. When I asked her more, she asked me if I’d want her to tell others about me. It was a weird question, but I knew the answer.
I’ve run into one or two of us now. I don’t know what it is, but we all feel it, a dread. We don’t want others to know, not even each other. It’s not fear exactly. I haven’t felt a real emotion like fear since dying. But we all know it. An instinct.
Most of the dead, the regular dead, they get to be safely wrapped up in coffins. I think that’s it. We know we’re not supposed to be here. We’re supposed to be in the ground. We feel naked.
Underground, that’s where we go. Abandoned tunnels, disused shafts. We want to be buried, if want is the right word.
There is a place, underground, where we meet, if you want to meet. I keep saying want. I’m not sure we really can want anything, except, I do know one thing I want. I want to want. I want to want something, anything. Maybe you do too. We’re underground.
Tale Told 