(Short Story) THE MORTICIAN by Alan Ealy
The Mortician by A.Ealy
The fluorescent lights of Restful Slumber Mortuary hummed with a sickly yellow glow, a stark contrast to the inky blackness outside. For Elias, the 3 am shift was always the worst. Not because of the bodies – he’d long since grown accustomed to the stillness of the recently departed. No, it was the other stillness that gnawed at him, the silence that amplified the whispers in his own fractured mind.
His divorce from Sarah had been a brutal, drawn-out affair, leaving him hollowed out and bitter. The world felt muted, the vibrant colors leached away, much like the life draining from the bodies he prepared. Somewhere along the line, a dark seed had taken root in that emptiness, twisting his grief into something monstrous.
It started subtly. A stray thought, a flicker of resentment towards the living, the breathing, the ones who still had what he’d lost. Then came the opportunities afforded by his profession – the access, the solitude, the inherent trust people placed in those who dealt with death.
The drug was simple enough to procure, a potent sedative that left its victims pliable and unaware. The kidnappings were meticulously planned, the targets carefully chosen – individuals who, in his warped perception, represented the life he felt had been stolen from him. Ten… no, he’d lost count. The faces blurred into a collective symbol of his pain.
His “clients,” as he chillingly referred to them in his mind, were kept in the rarely used, soundproofed cremation chamber in the sub-basement. He’d tell himself it was a twisted form of control, a way to reclaim the power he felt he’d lost. The ritualistic burning, always around the dead of night, was his perverse act of finality. The roar of the furnace drowned out their muffled cries, the stench of burning flesh a grotesque perfume in the sterile air.
Tonight, however, felt different. A new kind of unease prickled at the back of his neck. The shadows in the prep room seemed deeper, more sentient. The silence felt less empty, more… expectant.
He was wheeling in his latest acquisition, a young man snatched from a dimly lit street corner hours ago, when the lights flickered violently and died, plunging the mortuary into absolute darkness. The emergency generator sputtered to life, casting long, distorted shadows that danced on the walls.
A cold draft snaked through the room, carrying with it a scent he hadn’t noticed before – not the sterile chemicals of his work, nor the acrid smell of the furnace, but something ancient and earthy, like upturned soil.
Then, the sounds began. Faint at first, like whispers just beyond the threshold of hearing. They seemed to emanate from the embalming room, then the viewing parlor, a chorus of hushed voices growing steadily louder, closer.
Elias froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He told himself it was his guilt, his fractured psyche finally conjuring the tormented souls he’d silenced. But these whispers… they weren’t accusatory. They were hungry.
A scraping sound echoed from the hallway, like fingernails dragging across polished wood. The temperature in the room plummeted. He could see his breath misting in the dim emergency light.
Panic seized him. He had to get to the cremation chamber, complete the ritual, regain control. But as he turned, he saw them.
Shadowy figures began to coalesce in the corners of the room, their forms indistinct but undeniably present. They seemed to writhe and coalesce from the darkness itself, their silent gazes fixed on him.
The whispers intensified, swirling around him like a suffocating shroud. He could almost make out words now, fragmented and chilling: “…stolen…life…retribution…”
He stumbled backward, knocking over a tray of embalming tools. The metallic clang echoed through the oppressive silence, momentarily silencing the whispers. But only for a moment.
The figures began to move, gliding towards him with an unnatural grace. Their unseen hands reached out, their touch like a glacial burn.
Elias scrambled back, his mind a whirlwind of terror and dawning realization. He hadn’t just taken lives; he had defiled the natural order, invited something ancient and terrible into his world.
He backed into the viewing parlor, the velvet curtains feeling like clammy skin against his hands. The whispers were deafening now, a cacophony of suffering and rage.
Suddenly, the temperature in the room spiked. The air shimmered. From the doorway, a figure emerged, taller and darker than the others. Its form was vaguely humanoid, but its features were obscured by shadow, and its eyes glowed with an inner, malevolent light.
A voice, cold as a tombstone and echoing with the weight of ages, filled the room. “You have perverted the cycle. You have stolen what is not yours to take.”
Elias tried to scream, but his throat constricted. He could only whimper as the shadowy figures closed in, their touch growing colder, more agonizing. He felt his life force being leached away, his body growing heavy and numb.
The last thing he saw, before the darkness consumed him completely, was the burning gaze of the tall figure, and the horrifying understanding that tonight, the mortician had become the subject. The furnace in the sub-basement would remain cold, for a new kind of heat was about to claim Elias, a fiery justice for the lives he had so cruelly extinguished. The whispers, no longer hungry, were now a chorus of grim satisfaction.