The Night Shift at the Morgue

David Michaels had just started his new job as an attendant at the Riverdale Morgue. It wasn’t his dream job, but in the struggling economy, he was grateful for any work he could get. His first shift was a night shift, starting at midnight. The building was old, its walls yellowed with age, and the fluorescent lights flickered ominously.

As he entered the morgue, he was greeted by Dr. Evelyn Harper, the head pathologist. She was a stern woman with a no-nonsense attitude, but she offered a small smile of encouragement.

“Welcome, David,” she said, handing him a set of keys. “I know it can be unsettling at first, but you’ll get used to it. Just follow the protocols and you’ll be fine.”

David nodded, trying to mask his unease. Dr. Harper gave him a brief tour, showing him the storage rooms, the autopsy tables, and the locker where they kept the records.

“We’ve had a busy week,” she explained. “There are a few bodies awaiting autopsy, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

As she left, the silence of the morgue seemed to deepen. David sat at the front desk, his only company the hum of the air conditioning and the distant drip of a leaking pipe. He busied himself with paperwork, but his mind kept drifting to the cold storage room where the bodies lay.

Around 2 AM, David decided to take a walk around the morgue to stretch his legs. As he passed the storage room, he heard a soft thud from within. His heart skipped a beat.

“It’s just your imagination,” he told himself, but the urge to check was irresistible.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was cold, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic. He walked between the rows of metal drawers, listening for any unusual sounds. Another thud echoed through the room, louder this time, coming from the far corner. David approached cautiously, his breath visible in the chilled air.

He stopped in front of a drawer labeled “Jane Doe.” It had been closed when he last saw it, but now it was slightly ajar. David’s hands trembled as he reached for the handle. He pulled it open, revealing the body of a young woman. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful, but something about her felt… off.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, and David stumbled back, a scream caught in his throat. The body remained still, the eyes unseeing. He slammed the drawer shut and backed out of the room, his heart pounding. He tried to convince himself that it was just a trick of the mind, but the fear gnawed at him.

Returning to the front desk, David found a note that hadn’t been there before. It was written in shaky handwriting: “Find the truth. Set me free.”

Panic surged through him. He checked the security cameras, but they showed nothing unusual. Determined to understand what was happening, he dug through the records, finding Jane Doe’s file. She had been found dead under mysterious circumstances, her body showing signs of trauma, but no conclusive cause of death.

As he read, a sudden chill filled the room. The lights flickered, and he felt a presence behind him. He turned slowly, and there she was—Jane Doe, standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with sorrow and anger.

“Help me,” she whispered, her voice echoing through the silent morgue.

David’s fear was overwhelming, but he forced himself to speak. “What do you want?”

She pointed to the autopsy room, and as she did, the air grew colder. David followed her, feeling as though he was walking in a nightmare. The autopsy table was empty, but Jane Doe’s spirit hovered beside it, her form flickering like a dying candle.

A gust of wind blew through the room, scattering papers. One landed at David’s feet—a page from her autopsy report. It detailed a laceration that had been overlooked, a possible clue to her death. David scanned the report, realizing that the injury had been consistent with foul play.

As he pieced together the information, Jane’s spirit began to fade, her expression softening. David knew he had to act. He called Dr. Harper, waking her with his frantic explanation.

“David, calm down,” she said, though her voice was tense. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

While he waited, David felt the oppressive weight of the morgue’s silence. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows, and the presence of Jane’s spirit lingered, urging him to uncover the truth.

Dr. Harper arrived, her face pale but determined. Together, they re-examined Jane Doe’s body, finding the overlooked laceration and other signs of struggle. Dr. Harper was visibly shaken.

“This changes everything,” she murmured. “We need to contact the authorities. This wasn’t an accident.”

As dawn approached, the police arrived, and the morgue buzzed with activity. David felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. Jane Doe’s spirit had vanished, but the memory of her haunted eyes stayed with him.

The investigation revealed that Jane Doe had been a victim of a violent crime, her death covered up as an accident. With the new evidence, the perpetrator was identified and brought to justice. The morgue slowly returned to its usual routine, but David knew he would never forget that night.

He stayed on at the morgue, determined to help those who could no longer speak for themselves. The whispers of the past still echoed in the cold halls, but he faced them with a newfound resolve. The night shift was no longer just a job—it was a mission to bring peace to restless souls and ensure that the dead were never forgotten.