When Danny “Slumlord” Wilson died, no one went to his funeral. The word “slumlord” is there because not only was that what everyone in the neighborhood called him – behind his back as well as to his face – but he wore the moniker as a badge of pride. Though no one went inside Abbott and Sons funeral house to pay their respects to Danny, many of his tenants – current and former (though his rate of unjust evictions made the former outnumber the current by two to one) – had gathered at Jaspers, the bar across the street. More than one person described it as a wake where the dead wasn’t welcome or invited.

The revelry burbled out through the open bar door and a patron would occasionally step out to make an obscene gesture or two at the funeral house across the way. By no coincidence, the drunkenness and lewd catcalls aimed in the direction folks imagined the body was laid in the building built to a crescendo shortly before the viewing hours were to draw to a close. Five minutes before, though, a ripple ran through the bar. “Shh!” and “There she is!” and “I didn’t think she was coming!” and “I didn’t think she was still alive” pinballed through the crowd as the din dropped to a whisper and silence as an old woman walked bent over down the sidewalk towards the funeral home. She wore a black sweater pulled over her black dress and her gray hair spilled out from beneath a black pill box had complete with a veil. She leaned heavily on a wooden cane, her black-gloved hand holding tightly with every slow, methodical step. By the time she reached the door of Abbott and Sons the jukebox across the street had been silenced and everyone at the bar held their breath.

John Abbott Senior watched her approach from inside and opened the door for her when she came near. “Is it too late to pay my respects?” she said with a quiet voice that held a trace of an indistinct European accent.

“No, ma’am,” he said looking at his watch. “You have time.”

“Excellent,” a smile creased her face as she walked into the viewing room.

“Friend of the deceased?” he asked. She turned and regarded him steadily without saying a word. When the stare drew on for an uncomfortable amount of time, John Abbott added hastily, “He had no family besides his son who is in the south of France and, well, didn’t want to bother coming for the viewing – his words, not mine.”

“Yes,” she said, though it came out like a cat’s meow. She stood in front of the casket. In the dark mahogany and silk-lined box lay Danny Wilson. “How did he die?”

“Ma’am?” the words were so quiet John Abbott couldn’t quite make them out.

“Death,” she focused her piercing glare on him and said louder. “How? Was it slow and painful? Or did it catch him abruptly so he didn’t even know he stopped breathing?”

John Abbott’s brow furrowed at the question. “Umm,” he stammered. “Heart attack. In his sleep.”

“Hmm…” was all she said and turned back to the body.

After several more awkward moments, John Abbott said, “I will give you some time alone. If you need anything I will be in the lobby.” The woman remained quiet as if he hadn’t said a word. He took that as his cue to leave.

When the woman was alone with Danny, she removed one glove revealing her liver spotted, gnarled fingers and then removed the other glove and placed them in her purse, then stooped to place the purse on the floor. Then she began to chant slowly, quietly, barely perceptibly. She waved her free hand in smooth movements, tracing arcane letters in the air. Her chanting built in cadence and volume, though never loud enough to escape the room, to draw the attention of John Abbott. When her chanting built to its peak, she rapped the floor three times with her cane and fell silent and still.

Danny Wilson sat up in the coffin. Or, at least a Danny Wilson sat up. His body remained laying in the satin, but Danny Wilson stared around as if awoken from a deep sleep by a loud noise.

“Hello, Danny.”

“What? What the hell? Where am I?”

“Do you remember me?”

He blinked to try to orient himself and focused on the figure of the old woman. “Yeah, I know you,” he said. “You’re that damn gypsy I evicted a dozen years ago. Ya deadbeat!”

The old woman’s smile broadened. “When you insulted me, disrespected me, when you threw my belongings in the street… do remember what I said to you?”

“Yeah. You said you’d cause me an eternity of suffering. I remember. But joke’s on you, lady. Life has been good!”

“How’s death?”

Danny’s brow furrowed and he looked around. “What the fuck?” As he finally noticed the coffin his face went white. “No way. No way…” he looked at the old woman who nodded behind him. He slowly turned and regarded his body laying beneath him. “Holy shit! Oh my god! What did you do?”

At that moment John Abbott came into the small room. “Ma’am,” he started, “we’re going to have to close the casket now in preparation for the burial.”

“Burial? No fucking way! What the hell! Hey, Mister, get me out of here! Lady, come on!” Danny Wilson struggled, but couldn’t extricate himself from the casket.

“That’s fine,” she said amused.

He took a step to the casket and started to lower the lid. Danny yelled profanities and pushed at the lid, but John Abbott didn’t notice and slowly closed the casket over the struggling Danny Wilson.

“Get me out of here! Get me out of here!” Danny’s panicked voice came out muffled by the satin and mahogany.

“Are you going to attend the burial?” John Abbott asked as Danny continued his muffled screams.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, pulling her gloves back on.