I swear on everything I own — he’d been cold for hours. I’d logged his time of death myself.
But right as I leaned over to zip up the body bag, his upper body jerked up like something had yanked invisible strings.
I froze. My heart didn’t just race — it stopped.
And then I noticed… his eyes were still shut.
He wasn’t alive. Not really.
That was the moment I knew something wasn’t right about this job. And it wouldn’t be the last time a body moved without a heartbeat.
I used to think the morgue was just cold rooms and paperwork. A quiet place where death was simple. Clean. Scientific. But I’ve seen things that made me question what really happens after life leaves the body. Things no one prepares you for in training.
Like the girl who bled from her nose after embalming. Or the man whose toe tag kept going missing — five nights in a row. Or the whisper I heard once, late at night, when I was locking up alone:
“Don’t leave me here.
I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me.
Until I heard it again… coming from inside one of the drawers.
I stood frozen, hand still on the drawer handle.
“Don’t leave me here.”
It was clearer this time. Low. Raspy. Like someone speaking through a cracked throat.
I looked around — every other drawer was sealed. The hallway behind me was empty. No footsteps. No pranksters. Just me… and the dead.
My fingers were ice. But I pulled the drawer open anyway.
Inside was the body of Mr. Obikwe. I’d logged him two nights ago — stroke, no foul play. I’d done his intake myself. No family. No visitors. No reason to stay longer than necessary.
But now, his mouth was open.
Not slightly parted like before. I mean open — wide, like mid-scream. His head had tilted to the side slightly, and I swear to God, I had zipped him up straight.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I left the lights on in the prep room, double-checked every lock. I told no one. Who would believe me?
But the next morning, something else happened.
I came in, clocked in, and found a toe tag lying on my desk. My name was written on it. My name — Amara. In black ink, all caps, like the ones we use for the corpses.
At first I laughed. Nervously. Thought maybe it was a sick joke from one of the guys on night shift. But when I checked the security footage, the footage between 2:11 a.m. and 2:34 a.m. was corrupted. Glitched out completely.
That was the exact time I woke up with a nosebleed and a lou
d knock on my bedroom door.
I live alone.
