Ghost Stories of textas written by jo Anne Christensen, published by Lone Pine Publishing
the Contract. Jeff sat nervously in the waiting room to his boss's office.
Even though the room was kept warm, His anxiety made him shiver. Normally,
such a situation would have sweating like a chicken on a rotisserie, but
for some reason, his skin felt only the slightest bit damp. It felt
as if he had been sitting there forever. He had trouble even remembering what
he had been doing before he had been summoned. Do you know what this
is about? He asked Lola, mister Friedmont's secretary, But just like the
previous four times he had asked this question, she appeared not to hear him.
Her telephone rang and she picked it up. Yes, Sir, Jeff
heard her say into the receiver. She then turned toward him and spoke to
him for the first time since he had sat down. You can go in
now, she told him. Her words teemed with inexplicitly icy dish stand that
made him worry even more about what he must have done wrong. Mister Freedmont
was on the phone when Jeff walked into his office. Don't give me some
sob story about your mother's medical bills. The large man shouted at the other
person on the line. If you don't pay me back what you owe me
by the end of the week, then I'm taking your car, your house,
and that pathetic excuse of a restaurant you have the nerve to call a
business with that, He slammed down his phone. Damn relatives, he swore
under his breath before he noticed the cowering employee standing in front of him.
Sit down, Dixon, he ordered, Jeff, using his last name.
I was just finishing up some business with my sister. Jeff sat down in
a small, uncomfortable chair in front of mister Freedmont's desk. It was so
low to the ground that he had to look up to see his boss's face.
There, among a yellowing mustache, a newly sprouted pimple, and a
large, unambiguous nose, he found the one thing no one ever wanted to
see on George Fremont's flushy visage, a big toothy grin. Everyone knew that,
like a shark, mister Fremont's smile only when he smelled blood in the
water and was about to go in for the kill. Do you know why
I called you in here? He asked Jeff, his disturbingly cheerful smile still
apparent on his face. No, Sir Jeff admitted. Hearing this, mister
Freedmont interlaced his fingers and sat back in his chair, striking the pose of
an armchair philosopher. I am certain that you are aware that I am a
very rich man, he said. Yes, Sir Jeff nodded. Do you
know how I am able to earn all my wealth? No, Sir Jeff
shook his head. I was able to do so because I believe in following
the rules. When I sign a contract to someone, I make sure I
follow every clause that contract contains, and I make sure that the other person
does the same with that. Mister Freedmont uncollapsed his hands and leaned forward in
his chair, readying himself for the kill. Have you ever read the contract
you signed when he became an employee at this company, yes, Jeff,
Even though he knew the answer, No, Sir Jeff admitted. The truth
was that the day he was hired, the director of personnel had him signed
so many documents he wasn't even sure which contract. Mister Freedmont was referring to.
Then I suppose you think that that absolves you, don't you, asked
mister Freedmont. Jeff called absolves me of what, sir, of breaking the
rules and trying to get out of our agree Mister Freedmont roared at him,
his face turning into a burning hot scarlet mask of anger. I don't know
what you're talking about, Jeff said, trying to defend himself. Oh you
don't, do you You don't know what I'm talking about. Mister Freedmont reached
into his desk and pulled out a file folder. This is what I'm talking
about, he shouted as he threw the folder at Jeff. Papers and photographs
spilled out of the folder and fell on to the floor as Jeff fumbled to
catch them. Take just one look and you'll understand why you're in breach of
contract. Jeff picked up the papers and photographs that were on the ground and
tried to tidy them up before he looked at them. Mister Fremont grew impatient
at this and roared at him to get on with it. Jeff looked down
at the first page in front of him. It looked like a police report.
What it said, left him confused. A final paragraph at the bottom
of the page summed up the report's findings. Mister Dixon's body was found hanging
from an electrical chord in his basement. All the available evidence, including the
note he left behind, led us to conclude that his death was a suicide.
What does this have to do with me, Jeff asked, uneasily.
Look at one of those damned photos he more on. His boss swore at
him. Jeff found one of the photographs and gasped aloud when he saw it
there in the picture, as clear as day. What is his body hanging
from an electrical chord from a beam in his small basement. Now more confused
than ever, he shuffled through the papers until he found the photocopy of a
handwritten letter. Looking at it, he could see the original had been written
on the personalized stationary his sister had given him last Christmas. The note read,
I can't take the pressure any more. I'm so lonely and this job
is killing me, so I've decided this is my only way out. I'm
sorry, Please forgive me, Jeff. Did you really think you could get
out of your contract so easily? Sneered mister Freedmont, I don't understand,
Jeff answered, fear and panic evident in his words. Your contract specifically states
that the only way you are legally able to leave this company is by serving
out the agreed upon term of ten years or by being fired. Mister Fremont
reached back into his desk and pulled out another folder. This one contained the
contract that Jeff had signed when he started at the company. Nowhere in this
document, he explained to Jeff, does it say that death is a legitimate
way to terminate your contract? Nowhere, you have another eight years to work
at this company, regardless of whether or not you're dead. What are you
talking about? Jeff stood up and shouted at his boss, Just look at
yourself, you fool. Mister Fremont pulled a small mirror out of his desk
and handed it to the quivering mask of nerves in front of him. Jeff
grabbed the mirror, looked into it, and nearly fainted. No doubt about
it, he was looking at a dead man, he summered as he stared
at his reflection. How it's all in your contract. That's how it says
clearly that if you die before the contract has been fulfilled, then I have
every right to use the power of darkness and evil my lawyers to resurrect you
and keep you alive as an animated corpse until the end of the agreed upon
term. Normally this would mean you'd have to work here another eight years,
but thanks to these suicide penalty clause, I have the right to add another
one hundred years to time left in the contract. One hundred years, but
you won't even be alive by then. You're assuming I'm alive right now,
answered mister Fremont. You're not the only one who assigned a contract. You
know I have three hundred years to go before I am eligible to pass on.
But Jeff attempted to speak before mister Freedmont interrupted him. How do I
manage to look so good for someone so dead? You'd be amazed by what
someone trained and the arts of plastic surgery, taxidermy and undertaking can do for
the deceased. I look better now than when I was alive, which can't
be said for some of the other dead folks working here. You can't tell
me you didn't notice them, Jeff, I'd seen some people in the building
who hadn't looked particularly healthy. But he had never once thought that they were
the walking dead. But but he tried to speak again, but he was
unable to think of anything to say. Don't act all surprised, mister Freedmont
scolded him. You knew what you were getting into. I mean, you
signed the contract with your own blood after all, No, iddn't, Jeff
protested, he would have remembered doing something as suspicious as that. Sure,
you did remember when we made you take that insurance physical well, Darren,
that we took some of your blood and placed it inside the ink cartridge that
was in the pen you used to sign everything with. It's standard procedure at
this company. It's not my fault that you people don't look out for yourselves.
Jeff slumped down the juck lee in his chair in front of mister Fremont's
desk. You said it was possible for me to get fired, he asked,
hopefully. Yes, in this case, it means we'd throw you into
the boiler room furnace. Mister Freedmont stood up and walked over to Jeff.
He grabbed his arm and lifted the stunned zombie out of his chair and led
him to his office door. I'd suggest you just do your best to do
a good job and the one hundred and eight years will fly by like nothing.
Now get back to work and tell him soon that if his work great
doesn't approve soon, then he's looking at a fast strip to the boiler room.
With that, he pushed Jeff out of his office and slam his door
shut. Jeff stood for a while as he tried to figure out what had
just happened. Finally, Lollan noticed his confusion and made the uncharacteristic attempt to
cheer him up. Don't worry about it, she said to him. Being
dead isn't as bad as people make it out to be. I've been dead
for five years now and I've never felt better. You'll have to get used
to it. To the constant craving for live human brains, but they have
a patch for that now, and in a pinch, you can always buy
fresh cow brains at the butcher shop around the corner. Thanks, Jeff mumbled
as he started to shuffle out of the waiting room and back to his cubicle.
As he slowly stumbled on his dead legs past his coworkers, he noticed
that he honestly couldn't tell the difference between the ones that were dead and who
were still alive. This didn't make him feel any better.