Office of the Returned

The animated corpse of the woman shifted uncomfortably as I inspected her casket.

I glanced over at the poor beast. She was luckier than most as she hadn't returned nearly a skeleton. Those souls always had the worst of it as no matter what they did, they would always appear unnatural.

She had most of her skin, although what she had hung loose, and bits of dirty bone were visible in places. Her long, matted hair was filled with clumps of dirt and no doubt a few crawling insects. What was once a glamorous, shining white gown now hung as dirty brownish rags. If she dressed carefully, at least at a distance, she could still appear human. She may have a chance at a relatively normal unlife, mostly free from harassment. Mostly.

Her two sunken, grey eyes held wild bewilderment. Hundreds, if not thousands of thoughts were probably rushing through her mind. Magically returning to life about 100 years in the future would shock just about anyone.

The process itself was as mysterious as it was disorienting. The condition of the returned often didn't even match the amount of time that had passed since their demise. Some looked only days or months deceased, which didn't line up with what we knew about decomposition. After nearly 100 years, at most, what should be left is some teeth and maybe some clumps of grave wax.

What most found baffling was the brain as no matter the condition or state of decay, the returned could walk, talk, and most horrifyingly, THINK, which raised a number of moral and theological questions.

The magick would often transport their somehow restored yet decayed body near their burial site. Many of the returned were found wandering near their grave in a dreamlike state, which is why the council had taken to hiring "Grave Constables" to keep them from wandering off before someone like myself could begin an assessment.

As for my assessment, it could mean the difference between a fair shot at spending the rest of her unlife in relative comfort or destitution. From the government's perspective, the returned didn't legally own anything aside from what they were buried with. Any fortunes they had acquired in life had long been distributed to pay off debts or had been bequeathed to their families, families who more often than not were quite tight-fisted when the news arrived that a long-dead relative had returned. I've seen once-great millionaires who had built dynasties for their ungrateful families be turned away at the drop of the hat, now living in squalor on the outskirts of society. It seemed that death remained an equalizer in some sense.

"What year?" I asked.

She blinked at me slowly. "Year?" she croaked.

Her voice was like sandpaper on glass. No doubt from her degraded vocal cords. Another tell that she was a returned, and another avenue for future harassment if noticed by the wrong people. I pulled out my cellphone from my coat and opened a notation app. I asked again with practiced patience. What was routine for me was no doubt a bewildering experience for many who were pulled back from the void.

"What year did you pass?" I asked.

Another slow blink. Although her situation had been explained to her by the graveyard constable who found her wandering the cemetery a few hours ago, it still must have been a lot to take in.

"1923," she finally said.

I nodded, punching in a few things on my phone. It was always 100 years.

I put on a glove and kneeled next to the casket, sifting through some of the soil that had fallen inside.

"Would your family have buried anything with you? Something like jewelry, sentimental items, or maybe a mirror?" I asked. "Anything affected by the magick would have value," I added after a moment of silence.

What made the Returned and their belongings valuable was the mysterious magick. The process, however it worked, often infused materials near the corpse with much of the raw energy that we now found useful for powering things in our society. Our office went through considerable effort and expense to obtain these infused items before black marketeers could get their hands on them, which was another reason for the on-duty constables in the graveyard. The money received from agents like me from the office of "Magicks and the Returned" might be their only shot at being considered human again. We offered what the council considered to be a "fair" price for the infused items, however, most would not be able to reintegrate into society.

It cost a considerable sum for the undead to be legally "re-personed," and there were many who could not afford it. Those poor souls would often be forced into ghettos or camps outside the city walls. Until they somehow managed to scrape together the funds to once again be legally considered "a person," they would be outcasts. Even if they were legal, often their ghoulish appearance would keep them away from major population centers. Some would illegally find work doing jobs too dangerous for a normal human, but if they or their employers were caught, anything earned would be stripped from them, and some would have to spend time in the cells. The Returned didn't have to eat or sleep, so months locked in a prison felt like their own hell.

I once again returned to her casket. Like her body, the magic had decided that it would be in a state of semi-decay, not necessarily of whatever natural state it "should" be in after 100 years underground. It was a simple pine box that had collapsed at one end and showed some signs of rot and deterioration. Thankfully, by the time I had arrived on the scene after receiving the call, the grave had been located, dug up, and lifted above ground as per our standard operating procedure.

"What's going to happen to me?" she finally croaked. "Is this hell? Have I died and gone to hell? The last thing I remember is going to bed with a vicious headache, my husband at my side, and now...."

This was the moment that I knew would come. I stood up and removed my sunglasses to stare her in the eyes. Most of the returned spent several hours in a bewildered state, acting as if the situation was no more than a disturbing dream. Initially, most were compliant and went along with officials, but eventually, lucidity and the reality of the situation would hit them.

I quickly glanced over to the grave marker to remind myself of her name. It was a simple tall stone with a rounded top. Etched into the granite was, "Sarah Stevens, aged 31, beloved wife and mother. Washed in the blood."

"Sarah," I said. "The constable has explained the situation to you, yes?"

She nodded, and some dirt fell loose from her hair.

"He explained... but I don't believe it. I've been told I am a corpse, a non-person... a monster..."

I held up my hand. "No, he wouldn't have told you that you are a monster. For one, it's against our procedure, and number two, because you're not."

She may not be a monster, but in the eyes of the state, she wasn't a person. I wished with all my heart I could tell her things would be OK, that even though a century had passed, she now had a second chance. I wished I could tell her that one of her descendants would no doubt come to collect her, accept her, and help her adjust to the modern world. But when the magick came to the world and the returned became a reality, society determined the undead to be a nuisance and an unnecessary expense.

She gave me a quick up and down. Her grey, sunken eyes saw right through me.

"I... I don't believe you," she rasped. She took a step towards me, prompting the nearby constable to go for his weapon. You couldn't really "harm" the undead, but they still had a very human reaction to having a firearm pulled on them. I held up a hand to keep both of them from acting.

"I've made my assessment," I began.

***

I removed my coat and set it on the back of the chair in my office. There were hooks for coats and jackets near the exit of the building, but I disliked having to pause on my way out of the building. It gave an opportunity for people to ask questions. Word might get to the wrong people that I was on my way to an assessment, and that's the last thing I wanted to happen. Several governmental divisions shared the space, and there was big money to be made on the black market. I generally knew everyone in the building, but I didn't KNOW them.

I sat down heavily and ran my hands through my hair. I took another moment and rubbed my eyes before turning on the monitor to my office computer. I had been called out before I had even gotten to take a sip of my morning coffee. The hours-old brew now sat cold on the edge of my desk, staining the mug.

The monitor flickered on and the reporting software had remained open from the last time I logged in.

I pulled out my cellphone and began transferring information from my notation app to the PC.

After a while, I was at the conclusion of my report.

"Sarah Stevens was given a fair assessment of her coffin and items. I stayed at the gravesite until those items believed to be infused with the 'Magick' were secured and removed by the retrieval team."

I smiled a little as I wrote the last few sentences.

"Like with all cases of the returned, Sarah's family was contacted. Surprisingly, the reaction was positive, which we don't see very often. A great-grandson came to the site and retrieved Sarah. I have a feeling that she will be 're-personed' and not become a burden to society. As per usual, a caseworker should attempt to contact her in 6-8 months."

I really doubted she would ever see a caseworker; they were not popular with the public and severely underfunded.

I hit send on the report and watched the notification pop up that it had been filed successfully. I looked down at the now-very room temperature coffee.

"Time for a fresh one," I muttered to myself.

I turned off the monitor and stood up. Before I left, I looked into a small mirror that I had hanging near the door. I always took a quick glance before I left, to remind myself who I was and how lucky I was to have this job. I pulled off my sunglasses.

A man stared back at me. A man with two grey, sunken eyes. I put my sunglasses back on and went for a coffee, ignoring the whispers of the others in the building.