Read Online The Ferryman Institute by Colin Gigl - Free Book Online Page A

he’d appeared only moments ago. While Ferryman Institute employees were stuck in whatever physical form they happened to be in at the time they became said employees, the dead tended to arrive in whatever form they felt most comfortable in during their life. The newly emerged spirit looked around the room a bit, surveying it with a restrained curiosity that suggested he was really only seeing it for the first time. His eyes traced the windowless, concrete walls; the equipment arrayed around the space where his bed had been; the tiny TV that was silently boasting about the abs they could have for only a minute a day. Finally, they settled on Charlie.
    John Sanders studied the Ferryman with a furrowed brow.
    â€œIf it looks like a hospital, quacks like a hospital . . .” The spirit’s voice was deep and hardy, a bit slow and with just a touch of an accent but articulate enough. His eyes landed on the plate of food that had yet to be taken out of the room. “And has shitty food like a hospital . . .” With a distracted air, he finally turned to face Charlie. “You the nurse that’s supposed to give me that suppository? Son, I will tell you right now, I’m not having anything stuck up my ass and that’s final.”
    Charlie greeted John Sanders with a smile—not too broad, a little sly, but smooth, like a Coltrane saxophone solo. “Lucky for the both of us, I’m not here to do anything of the sort,” he replied, before folding his hands behind his back. His intuition was telling him to play this one slow and easy, and when Charlie’s intuition spoke, he listened. That was his trick, really. Other Ferrymen often asked what his secret was, and Charlie usually came up with something that sounded meaty enough. The simple truth, however, was that Charlie just trusted his instincts. Weird? Yes. Effective? Apparently, very much so. “How do you feel, Mr. Sanders?”
    The man raised an eyebrow at the mention of his name. “Jack’ll do . . . though I’m afraid I don’t quite remember your name,” he said, “Mr. . . . ?”
    â€œDawson, but Charlie is fine.”
    â€œCharlie, then.” He regarded himself for a moment, inspecting his freshly revitalized appearance. “I’d say I feel . . . slightly out-of-body, if that makes sense? Aside from that, I have a vague recollection of a bunch of people fussing around and then I’m pretty sure I shit myself.”
    Charlie pretended to fill out something on his clipboard, if only to avoid openly laughing. He and Jack were going to get along just fine.
    The spirit paused for a moment, rubbing his hand down his face before really considering the room again, now realizing it for what it was, actually remembering the last few moments of his mortal existence. The man took a few unhurried steps around the room, letting his eyes linger on the walls. A small painting of a blue rowboat, wrapped in an off-white frame that matched the walls on which it hung, sat forlornly across from where Jack’s bed used to be. Charlie hadn’t noticed it when he entered the room. One oar of the boat lay across its width while the other sat half perched in the water. The painting was far too small for the space it was asked to fill, its colors far too nondescript, yet Charlie could see it sucking in the spirit’s attention all the same.
    â€œI’ve seen this before. I remember this painting . . .” Charlie waited patiently while the man’s thought process began to coalesce. “And that TV with the shitty remote. I know this room. This is Mount Sinai. I had those chest pains—when the hell was that? A week ago? Two weeks ago? They brought me in here, ran some tests . . .” He began to speak, his low voice rolling along, but quieter, more contemplative than before. “This isn’t a dream. I’m dead,