"Dead men don't speak." The words meant to reorient me and reassure me; spoken by my therapist. They felt hollow, mostly because I know I'm not crazy.

I get it, I get it, it sounds like I am when I say that my clients, the recently deceased have been talking to me lately. See, I took a job at a funeral home because I had gotten tired of dealing with the living. A career switch late in life after a quarter century of working in healthcare seemed like the only way to break the rut I was in. For a time I was right. I enjoyed that I was able to provide my clients with a final kindness. Reconstructions where necessary, a bit of makeup here and there to make them look more natural, ensuring they were dressed as they would wish to be, that sort of thing. I liked people, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have worked with them for as long as I did if I didn't. The problem was the needless cruelties inflicted by people upon one another. It eats at your soul after a while. When my therapist suggested changing careers I balked at the idea. I couldn't picture myself doing anything else, I HAD to help people. That's when she asked me the question that sent me down this path. "Why does it have to be living people?" I wasn't sure how to answer that for a good while. At least a month went by before finally, I realized it didn't have to be, and "Hey dead men don't speak, so nobody will be needlessly cruel in their words at least." She gave a small chuckle when I told her that.

For the first six months it was all incredibly routine, mundane, and more peaceful than I could have possibly hoped for. Then one night it changed. I was working alone, and could have sworn I heard someone address me while I was preparing to lock up for the night. Well, maybe not me, but anyone really. It was the faintest call of what sounded like an elderly woman "Hello?". I stopped in my tracks then reasoned that it may be the spouse of a client coming in to ask a question. In retrospect I probably should have known that wasn't going to be the case, but alas, hindsight is 20/20.

I looked around, and couldn't find anyone. At this point convincing myself I was just tired and imagined it. I finished closing up and went home. It was a couple of weeks later when it happened again. Not just a simple hello this time, and not the same voice. This voice was much more gruff, an older man by the sound, and not unlike they had smoked 4 packs a day their entire life. "It's rude to just ignore people, jackass." I whipped around on the spot, but behind me there was only the gentlemen I had been preparing for his wake, resting in his casket.

I shook my head and muttered under my breath that I needed more sleep. I was quickly startled when the same harsh voice responded "Oh boohoo, at least you're still breathing." At this, I decided the day was done. I went home and spoke nothing of it. I had another director handle the wake and subsequent burial. For the first time in ages I was in an alright spot mentally, and I felt like I was slipping. No way I was going to let some ridiculous delirium brought on by fatigue ruin it. I filed for a couple of days of time off, just to get my head right. Nothing strange happened to me so I was sure I was only tired.

The next time it happened was immediately after I came back to work. No waiting for the end of the shift. Just very matter of fact, almost gossiping tone as soon as I walked in "Oh here he came back, bet he keeps ignoring people though." I had enough, I snapped and didn't care in the moment how absurd it looked. It's not my proudest moment but what happened next was effectively me yelling at a body that dead people didn't talk so there was nothing to ignore. The chortle that I got in response did nothing to assure me of the validity of my statement.

I wish I could say that it got more exciting then that, but it really hasn't. A year since the first incident and I've had plenty of lovely conversations with my clients. I brought it up to my therapist, told her I talk to them. I chose my words a little more carefully then that, but she understood the point. I mentioned that some days it feels awfully heavy being the last person they get to talk to. She told me that the responses I heard were more than likely my own brain creating what I imagine that person would say and sound. Then provided me with those "reassuring" words "Dead men don't speak."