The new mortician they’d hired was smokin’ hot. Everyone agreed. Samantha. Divine angel from above. Kirk and Horace talked about her through most of their lunch breaks. What was she wearing today? Was that a new skirt peeking out from under her lab coat? Didn’t you ever think about finding her alone in the morgue and bending her over one of the tables, nothing on her body but her blue nitrile gloves and an O-face that would have to be seen to be believed?

Kirk would positively die to know what Samantha looked like when she came.

He talked to her, too. Not too often, just a couple times a day outside of hellos and goodbyes when she came or went. He passed the prep room every time he came or went from his office, so he’d usually swing by to offer her a coffee. She could never chat too long, but in those early days, the spark was undeniable.

About a month in Samantha got colder, and Kirk had no idea why. Nothing he’d done had changed. If anything, he was dropping by more as the days passed by. Now, he no longer bothered to ask if she wanted coffee. He knew how she took it. Sure, she didn’t always drink it right away, but it’s easy to get absorbed with your work sometimes. He got it.

And boy, did he love watching her work. Samantha’s hands, even in those blue gloves, were beautiful and sure. She handled the corpses with certainty that would have been right at home in a brothel. No shame at all. Man, woman, it didn’t matter. She’d touch them anywhere, and she knew just how to do it.

It was a Tuesday when he decided to shoot his shot. More like a warning shot, maybe. Indicate interest without committing too hard. He wanted to give her less room for a “no” that was too unequivocal.

“So,” he said. “How’s work?”

Her shoulders briefly stopped their motion before she looked back at him. She was preparing some sort of fluid for injection into the corpse in front of her. The guy wasn’t too old—probably somewhere between Kirk’s age and his dad’s, and his dick was miniature.

Kirk snorted. “That’s too bad, isn’t it?”

Samantha nodded. “Left behind a wife and three kids.”

“No,” Kirk said. “I mean…three kids? Damn, with that?”

She didn’t respond. Her hands were busy again, gently placing needles and taping tubes. This must have been the embalming part. Kirk couldn’t be bothered to know the intricacies. His dad owned the place, not him.

“Guess you don’t care,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. “As long as they’re stiff.”

“Mr. Figs,” Samantha said. “I need to ask that you step out of here while I’m working. I don’t want to make any mistakes due to distraction.”

Kirk smiled and gestured a zipped lip, then walked out with a grin on his face.

She thought she was distracted now, wait til he showed her what he was really made of.

It had been months and still no dice. He’d tried everything he could think of, and he still couldn’t figure out how to get Samantha to realize he was perfect for her. What was her problem? Was she a dyke? And today she had the nerve to tell him she wasn’t interested in dating anyone. Ever, not just at the moment. He’d tried to leave her a temporary out, so he could show her how patient he could be, but for fuck’s sake it had been almost four months since she started working here, and he was still spending his nights with no company but his right hand.

She said she wasn’t going to touch anyone at work except the corpses. Said it was for the sake of professionalism.

Professionalism Kirk’s sweaty, white ass. There was something else going on, and they both knew it.

It was a Thursday night when Kirk realized what it was. Of course it fucking was. There was no other answer that made sense.

So on Friday, he went into the lab again. Samantha was cleaning up. Scrubbing tables, putting things away, whatever she needed to do before she went home for the weekend.

Kirk stepped through the doorway and closed it behind him.

“Would you want to fuck me if I was dead?” he asked.

Samantha froze. “Excuse me?” The shock in her voice told him everything he needed to know.

“Oh my god, I fucking called it. You’re a necromancer or whatever!”

“Necrophiliac,” she snapped. “And no, I’m not.”

Kirk hooted with laughter. “You are, and I’ll prove it.”

“How are you going to prove it,” she asked, “when it’s not fucking true?”

They were closer together now. Actually, she was standing closer to him than she ever had.

Kirk was already at half-mast.

“Listen,” he said. “I know things are getting a bit…heated right now. But I promise, I am not judging you, and I swear I won’t tell a soul if you wanna…”

Kirk winked.

Samantha sighed and sat on one of the tables. She was chewing her lip. Mulling it over. “Are you saying you won’t tell Dr. Figs if…” she trailed off.

“I have no reason to tell Dad anything,” he said. “And if you want, I’d be more than happy to play dead any time you like. Dunno if you can catch VD from a corpse, but you won’t catch a thing from me. I’m clean.”

The silence that followed was long. So long, it took everything Kirk had not to check his watch, or let his eyes trail too far down the front of Samantha’s blouse. She was thinking about it. Probably trying to decide if it was safe to let her guard down. He wouldn’t let anyone find out, she had to know that. It would be embarrassing for him too, probably worse than for her. That was why he waited to approach until the end of the day. Everyone but them had left for the day, and they both knew it. What did she have to worry about?

“Alright,” she said, starting toward the storage room. “Take your clothes off. I’ll be right back.”

Kirk had never stripped faster in his life.

She was back within five minutes, pushing a simple casket on a cart.

He watched as Samantha locked the wheels and lifted the lid. He’d seen this casket before. It was an old one. It arrived with some cosmetic damage on the lid, but they kept it around as a backup. As far as he knew, it had never had a body in it. Still, when she gestured for him to climb in he hesitated.

“I thought we would do it on the table,” he said uncertainly.

“That’s where I do the embalming,” Samantha said. “I didn’t think you wanted to be pumped full of formaldehyde as foreplay.”

Kirk peeked over the edge of the casket. The inside looked clean and soft. It would probably be even more comfortable than the tables would have been. He grinned.

“Whatever you say, Sam,” he said.

She didn’t offer an arm to help him in, but he managed. Before too long, he was lying on his back with his bare ass pressed against the cool satin lining. Samantha stared down at him for a long moment and he stared back, forgetting himself. She was gorgeous, and he couldn’t wait to see what she was going to do to him.

“Could you…close your eyes?” Her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. Maybe this was what passed for bedroom voice when your bedroom was a morgue. To him, she just sounded nervous and meek.

“Anything you want,” he said.

“And don’t talk?”

Kirk smiled, winked once, and closed his eyes. He tried to relax his body and slow his breathing. He tried to play as dead as he could. It wasn’t completely working, but at least part of him was stiff.

Then Samantha touched him. Her gloves were on. He could feel the dry texture of the nitrile they were made of as she lifted each of his arms in turn and crossed them over his chest. She smoothed his hair back off of his forehead. She completely avoided his cock.

Maybe she’s shy, he thought to himself. Or maybe she’s not used to dealing with a hard-on. I might have better luck if I spend some time thinking about baseball, or-

He was so deep in thought, he barely noticed her apology before she slammed the casket lid shut with a foreboding click.

“Sam?” Kirk tried to push the casket lid, but it didn’t budge. “Samantha, I think you accidentally locked the lid.”

The cart under him wobbled into motion, rolling in the direction his head was facing.

“Samantha!”

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Figs.” Her voice, still pretty, sounded hard and cold through the muffling of the wood. “If anyone thinks I’m desecrating remains, I could lose my license. This is my livelihood. I can’t…”

The table stopped rolling, clicking into place alongside another table.

“Samantha, I swear, let me out right now and I won’t breathe a word of any of this.” He waited, listening. It wasn’t quiet, exactly, but she wasn’t saying anything. There was an odd hum in the background. It didn’t feel cold, but maybe the refrigeration hadn’t penetrated the casket wood yet. “Samantha? Sam! I swear, no one will hear a peep. I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway!”

“If,” she said. There was a bitterness in her voice. “You wouldn’t tell anyone if. There is always a fucking if.”

The casket rocked where it lay, shifting sideways, and it was all Kirk could do not to scream. “What the fuck are you doing?”

There was a whir, a metallic slide, then a blast of hot air told Kirk exactly what Samantha was doing.

“I’m a professional, Mr. Figs,” Samantha said. “In my field we don’t fuck corpses, we burn them.”

He started screaming, then. He screeched his throat raw, frantic. There was hardly any room for him to move, but as the casket was conveyed into the maw of what he now knew was their crematory oven, he clawed at the casket walls. His nails tore the soft fabric and shattered on wood. None of that stopped the finish on the outside of the box from going up instantly.

Kirk screamed as long and loud as he could, but there would be no rescue. There was no one else here.

With a final hiss, the wooden casket around him caught. His screams choked and smothered in the thick woodsmoke. All he could see was plumes of ash and shocks of orange flame. His muscles snapped taut in the heat, knees cracking against the casket lid, elbows spearing against his sides. His skin was already charring after scant seconds. What was left of his body that could feel was in agony.

It’s true, he thought deliriously, as his eyes began to melt from their sockets. Fuck, it really does smell like bacon!

Ria Hill is a writer, librarian, and nonbinary horror. They spend their non-work hours maintaining their recreational spreadsheet collection and interrupting their spouse’s train of thought with deeply worrying story pitches. Their work has appeared in The Book of Queer Saints Volume II, Escalators to Hell: Shopping Mall Horrors, and A Coup of Owls (Spring 2024). Chances of them devouring you on sight are very low, but never zero. They can be found at riahill.weebly.com and on various social media platforms @riawritten.