Madeleine Armstrong

Listen to Madeleine read her story

Most normals don’t know about The Morgue. It’s on the corner of Michigan and Eerie, but there’s no neon sign, no daily specials board, just a black opening and steps leading down into darkness.

I nod to the doorman and walk into the cavernous space, letting myself adjust: my eyes to the gloom, my nose to the stink of formaldehyde and cheap liquor, and my body to the deathly cold.

By candlelight, it’s hard to tell the difference between the ghosts sat at tables, waiting, and the living standing close to the walls, eyes searching for loved ones. At the bar, I order my usual, but I’m not here on a job. This is personal.

The whiskey claws its way down my throat as I scan the pale faces. The atmosphere tastes as rancid as my drink. There’s the regular crowd: old lushes, sad suicides, and spirits who can’t stop fighting, even here. Two swing at each other, fists flying through translucent skin as they fall through the tables.

I finally spot him, head bent over an empty glass, hair hanging in dark curtains. Even without the hole in his face I’d know him – he’s been all over the news. He’s probably hoping his mommy will come and give him a hug, tell him it was all her fault.

Well, fuck him and his unfinished business.

He looks up when I sit opposite him. I let my gaze linger on his wound, make him feel uncomfortable. Then I flip open my wallet to a photo of a young girl in a pink bathing suit, chestnut hair in bangs. A day out at the lake last summer, when I got mad about sand in the hot dogs. Breaks my heart to even think about it.

“Ring any bells, sunshine?” I ask.

“Look, mister, I don’t want no trouble.” He glances from me to the photo, his face as blank as a leper’s social calendar and even less pretty.

He really doesn’t have a clue. My Lily, and all those other girls, could’ve been anyone. All he gave a shit about, when he pulled the trigger on them and then on himself, was his so-called Tortured Men’s Club.

The recognition, the fear, the remorse I’d hoped for; I’m not going to get it.

I’d promised myself I’d make him suffer, but before I know what I’m doing I’ve pulled out my dagger, the special one with the bone handle, and shoved it between his ribs.

Shock passes across his mangled face, and I feel a grim satisfaction that I’ve hurt him – or maybe it’s just a reflex.

Either way, I’ve sent him straight to hell. All that’s left is a pile of dust on a chair. And no one in this shithole has even blinked.

I sip my drink, tears finally falling, looking at all these dead motherfuckers and wondering how to go back to the world of the living, when Lily isn’t in it.

Madeleine’s prompts were: In a Morgue/Funeral Home, a Ghost, Falling

Madeleine won the Hammond House international short story prize in 2023, and has been published by Flash Fiction Magazine, Fussub Mag, The Hooghly Review, LISP, Moonflake, National Flash Fiction Day, Trash Cat Lit, Underbelly Press, Waffle Fried and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in south-east London with her husband, son and two cats. Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social