The Night Shift at Ravenhill

Prologue: The First Twitch

They told me I’d get used to the smell.

Formaldehyde and rotting lilies. The cloying sweetness of decay that clung to my scrubs no matter how many times I washed them.

But no one warned me about the movement.

It started on my third night at Ravenhill Memorial. A toe tag fluttering in the AC breeze. Fingers curled like they were reaching for something. Then last week, Mr. Henderson—a seventy-year-old stroke victim—sat straight up on his slab as I walked by.

By the time I grabbed Dr. Calloway, the body was lying perfectly still.

"Stress," he said, patting my shoulder. "Happens to all the newbies."

But I know what I saw.

And tonight, the corpses are whispering.

Chapter 1: The Midnight Rounds

2:17 AM. The fluorescents hum like dying wasps.

I check each drawer—cold steel gleaming under my penlight.

Drawer 14: Jane Doe from the highway collision. Lips stitched shut. Eyes wide open.

Drawer 22: Teenage overdose. Needle marks on his arms. Fingernails freshly torn.

Then I hear it—a wet, ripping sound from the autopsy room.

The door’s ajar.

Inside, Dr. Calloway’s newest arrival—a suicide pulled from the river—lies belly-up on the table.

Except someone’s already made the Y-incision.

And the stitches holding her shut are moving.

Chapter 2: The Previous Intern

The security footage shows nothing.

Just me screaming at empty tables for three minutes straight.

But the archives tell a different story.

Before me, there was Daniel Park. Before him, Maria Vasquez. Both worked the Ravenhill night shift. Both quit abruptly.

Maria’s final note in the logbook:

"They don’t stay dead here. Something’s hungry."

The page is stained with something dark and sticky.

When I lick my finger, it tastes like river water.

Chapter 3: The Autopsy Tapes

The old VHS player groans as it spits out footage from 1993.

Black-and-white footage shows Dr. Calloway—thirty years younger—leaning over a body.

"Subject 14 responding well to treatment," he murmurs.

The corpse’s chest opens like a flower.

Something glistens inside—not organs.

Teeth.

Hundreds of them, chattering in unison.

The tape ends with young Calloway reaching into the cavity.

"Soon," he whispers.

The timestamp reads 3:33 AM.

Chapter 4: The Harvest

I find the truth in the sub-basement.

Rows of glass tanks hold floating bodies, their skin translucent as parchment. Dozens of them—some decades old, their mouths sewn shut with fishing line.

And at the center, Dr. Calloway stands over a fresh arrival—my Jane Doe.

"The river brings the best ones," he tells her, scalpel glinting. "All that water in your lungs makes such tender meat."

Behind him, the tanks begin to rattle.

Because Jane Doe isn’t on his table anymore.

She’s standing behind me.

Her stitches pop one by one as she whispers:

"Run."

Epilogue: The New Hire

They find my badge in the river.

The job posting goes up the next day:

NIGHT SHIFT MORGUE ATTENDANT - NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY

Dr. Calloway interviews the new kid himself.

Nice boy. Strong stomach.

And when he signs his paperwork, the doctor smiles at the birthmark on his wrist—shaped exactly like a mouth.