Sunday Short: The Deathly Spa

Final Case (for now) in the Rotting Mysteries of Zombie Poirot

Somewhere high above the clouds, hidden in the cold ribs of the Himalayas, there stood a spa known only to those who had already died at least once.

Sanctum Surrender wasn’t listed on any map. Its brochure was printed in disappearing ink and delivered via raven dipped in honeyed blood. Its slogan, etched in bone above its obsidian gates, read:

“Come to die... and rise again prettier.”

Naturally, Zombie Hercule Poirot was intrigued.

He arrived in style carried on a yak-drawn sledge, swaddled in moth-eaten cashmere, a travel trunk filled with salted eyeballs, stitched moustache oil, and his crime-solving cane.

The air bit like ghosts.

A woman greeted him at the frostbitten threshold.

She was tall, faceless but smiling, and wore a spa robe woven with runes that shimmered when she blinked (or whatever she did with her face).

“Welcome, Monsieur Poirot,” she purred. “We hope to smooth your rough edges.”

Poirot raised a brow. Only one remained. “Madame,” he said, “they do not get much rougher.”

---

The guests were few but… distinguished.

There was Lord Nargoth the Sleepless, a vampire baron whose skin was peeling like dried paint.

Lady Belladonna Nair, a Southeast Asian witch whose failed love hex had turned her insides to wax.

Gunther the Ghoul, who brought his own formaldehyde and claimed his reflection was haunting him.

And finally, Adrian a mortal wellness influencer who had gotten in by mistake. He claimed he “manifested” the invite through breathwork and moon journaling.

All were drawn by the same promise: rebirth through the sacred springs.

Sanctum Surrender’s central attraction was the Eternal Pool, a geothermal hot spring said to strip you of your sins, scars, and humanity all while improving collagen density.

On the first night, guests were massaged with hellfire oils and bathed in salt kissed by the damned.

By the second night, things began to… change.

Lady Belladonna was the first to scream.

Her bathwater turned crimson. Her scream echoed from every wall. And when the staff arrived, she was gone melted into her own monogrammed towel. Only her hex ring remained, still twitching.

No one spoke of it over dinner, but dessert was canceled.

---

Poirot did not sleep that night.

(He never did. Too many parts of him no longer needed rest.)

Instead, he tiptoed down to the springs, careful not to wake the salt statues lining the hallway they had a habit of shifting positions between glances.

The pool was warm, glowing faintly blue.

And whispering.

He knelt by the edge. The whispers stopped.

Then he saw it a shred of skin clinging to the rocks. Not shedding. Dissolving.

Someone had been absorbed.

The next morning, Lord Nargoth was gone.

The spa claimed he had “checked out early.”

Poirot lifted his hand. It was sticky.

“Lies,” he whispered.

---

He summoned the Headmistress to the fire room.

“What are your waters made of, madame?”

She smiled without lips. “Sacrifice. Balance. Renewal.”

Poirot stared. “Zhat is not a list. Zhat is a threat.”

---

That evening, the guests were invited to a Final Moon Ritual a ceremonial soak that promised total transformation.

Only Poirot and Adrian remained.

Adrian, ever cheerful, skipped into the glowing pool first.

“Can’t wait to start my Glow Up from the Grave series,” he said, filming himself with a ring light shaped like a pentagram.

He dissolved before he could tag the location.

His phone floated for a moment, then vanished too.

Poirot stood alone.

The Headmistress gestured to the pool.

“You came to be healed, Monsieur Poirot.”

“I came,” he said, “to solve a murder. Zhis is no spa. Zhis is a sacrificial circle. Every guest feeds the pool. Every bath... is a slow death.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping closer, “you’re curious. You wonder what you’d become. If your death could be undone.”

Poirot turned to the pool.

Steam kissed his cracked skin. He felt… tempted.

But temptation was not justice.

He reached into his robe, pulled out a vial of salt blessed by seven reluctant monks, and poured it into the water.

The pool screamed.

The walls cracked.

The Headmistress hissed then crumbled like old petals.

The spa shook. Candles flared. Mirrors shattered.

Poirot walked calmly out the front door as the building collapsed into itself with a quiet sigh, as if relieved.

---

Days later, in a boutique strip mall in the afterlife, a new spa opened.

It promised “glow-ups for ghouls,” “witch-friendly scrubs,” and a mystery product known only as Elixir P.

On the receptionist’s desk sat a silver tray.

And on it: a single gray moustache hair.

The End?

...for now.