When the Deceased Breathed

I'm Sarah Miller, a highly-paid "Soul Weaver" specializing in unique and often unconventional final rituals to bring closure to grieving families.

My latest lucrative assignment, an $80,000 overnight "final companionship" at an isolated upstate New York estate, was meant to be purely symbolic for a wealthy young man named Ethan.

As I prepared for the intimate ritual, ensuring his body stayed suitably pliable with electric blankets, I noticed something profoundly unsettling.

My "deceased" client, Ethan, was alive, his chest rising with a faint, steady breath.

The truth unfurled in terrifying whispers: he was Marcus Thorne, the scion of a tech empire, kidnapped by the seemingly grief-stricken Jenkinses, who were now my captors.

Their monstrous plot was far beyond ransom; they intended for me to conceive a child with Marcus, then brutally murder us both to secure his family' s immense fortune.

Trapped and utterly isolated in the dimly lit viewing room, my cell phone mysteriously ruined and the heavy doors locked from the outside, I realized my professional expertise in the ceremonies of death had become a meticulously crafted trap for the living.

The sickening realization struck me: I, the pragmatic Soul Weaver who navigated grief for a fee, was now a pawn in a cold-blooded scheme, facing a fate far worse than any ritual I had ever performed.

I was no longer an impartial professional but a direct participant in a nightmare, facing murderous criminals rather than mourning loved ones.

But as terror threatened to paralyze me, a new resolve ignited, fueled by deception and an urgent need for survival.

With Marcus, my "client," by my horrified side, we formulated a desperate, insane plan to turn my unique skills against them.

We would harness the very superstitions that led them to hire a Soul Weaver, conjuring a terrifying 'ghostly' haunting within their own mansion to fight for our escape.

My name is Sarah Miller. I' m a Soul Weaver.

It' s a niche job, you could say.

Families hire me for unique final rituals. Personalized. Sometimes unconventional.

They seek closure, or want to fulfill unusual last wishes.

These rituals can involve symbolic companionship, a transference of "peace," or even "life essence."

I' ve been doing this for years. Death and grief are my daily bread.

It' s given me something they call a "Thanato-Charm." A subtle allure, a calming presence. Men find it captivating, unconsciously.

I' m professional. I take my duties seriously, even the strange ones.

But I' m also pragmatic. Money-driven. This job pays well.

This new client, he' d be my thirty-eighth.

The fee was substantial: $30,000.

The ritual involved a symbolic "final night" with the deceased. I' d done similar ones before.

My phone rang.

A woman' s voice, distressed. "Is this Sarah Miller, the Soul Weaver?"

"Yes, this is she."

"My son... Ethan... he just died." Her voice cracked. "We need you. Urgently."

She called herself Brenda Jenkins.

She requested an elaborate two-part ritual.

One at their remote countryside estate, in a "viewing room."

The other at a private family mausoleum.

Mausoleums are creepy, even for me.

But then she said the number: "$80,000."

The pay was too good. My reputation preceded me, she said. I agreed.

"Mrs. Jenkins," I said, my voice calm, professional. "To ensure... comfort during the ritual, for myself, you understand, it would be beneficial if Ethan' s body remains pliable. Electric blankets can help with this."

"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you," she sobbed.

I hung up. $80,000. That was a lot of comfort.

Next, I called Jake. My current boyfriend.

"Jake, it' s not working out," I said.

"What? Sarah, what are you talking about?" He sounded confused, hurt.

"You lack depth," I told him. It was a convenient excuse.

The truth was my professional ethic. Full focus on the deceased client.

The dead deserve undivided respect. No "juggling" energies between the living and my assignments.

My Thanato-Charm always made breakups dramatic. Men clung. Jake was no different.

"Depth? What does that even mean? Sarah, please!"

"Goodbye, Jake." I ended the call.

I texted my best friend, Chloe.

"Got another gig. Big one."

Chloe texted back almost immediately. "Another wedding, huh? How many congratulatory gifts have I sent you? My attic is full of them!"

I chuckled. She knew my work wasn' t actual weddings.

I sent her a picture of a knotted string. "New G-string design. For the discerning spirit."

Chloe replied with a string of laughing emojis.

I packed my ritual kit: special oils, incense, a white silk robe, a small ledger, parchment, and a few other specialized items.

Then, I headed out.

The cab ride to Upstate New York was long. The estate was remote.

In the back of the cab, I changed into my ritual attire – a custom, flowing white gown. It was part of the process, part of the persona.

The cab driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Wow, ma'am. You look like you're going to a wedding. A very fancy one."

"Something like that," I said, smiling faintly. "My groom just isn't alive."

His eyes widened in the mirror. He didn't say another word, just sped up.

He practically skidded to a halt at the gates of the old estate and couldn't get my bags out fast enough.