The Night Shift at the Morgue Has One Rule: Never Answer the Knocks"

The First Rule

"Rule number one," said Carl, the retiring night attendant, as he handed me the keys to the Willowbrook Morgue. "Never answer the knocks."

I laughed. "You’re joking, right?"

Carl’s face was stone. "Three knocks. Always at 3:03 AM. Never open the door."

I rolled my eyes. Ghost stories didn’t scare me. I was a med school dropout, not some superstitious old man. But as Carl left, he muttered one last thing:

"Ask Jerry why he quit."

Night One: The Knocking

The morgue was colder than I expected. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows over the stainless-steel drawers. I busied myself with paperwork, ignoring the creeping unease.

Then, at exactly 3:03 AM, it came.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp raps on the service entrance—the one that led directly to the freezer.

I froze. No one should be here. The door had no outside access.

The knocks came again, louder.

I reached for the handle—

"DON’T!"

I spun around. Jerry, the previous attendant, stood behind me, pale as the corpses he used to tend.

The Truth About Willowbrook

Jerry’s hands shook as he spoke. "Five years ago, a Jane Doe was brought in. No ID, just a silver locket with a photo of a little girl. The cops never identified her."

I swallowed. "So?"

"So," Jerry whispered, "she knocked the first night. I opened the door. Nothing was there. Next morning, Drawer 13 was open. The Jane Doe was gone."

A chill crawled up my spine. "Where’d she go?"

Jerry’s eyes flicked to the freezer door. "She comes back. Every night. Looking for something."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was inside the freezer now.

The Locket

I should’ve run. But curiosity—stupid, reckless curiosity—made me pull open Drawer 13.

Empty. Except for one thing.

A silver locket, tarnished with age. Inside, the photo of the little girl was gone. In its place, a single word etched into the metal:

"MINE."

The freezer door rattled.

Something scratched at the other side.

And then, a voice—guttural, wet—whispered:

"You have it."

The Last Rule

Jerry was already sprinting for the exit. I followed, but the lights flickered. The freezer door burst open.

Cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of formaldehyde and rotting flowers.

I didn’t look back.

I never worked the night shift again.

But sometimes, at 3:03 AM, I wake up to three knocks on my bedroom door.

And from the other side, a little girl’s voice giggles:

"Found you."

Want a sequel? Let me know if we should explore the locket’s history—or what happens when the knocks stop... 👀