"Welcome back to 107.5, the Rock Station! Up next we got Ozzy Osbourne's Hellraiser and then Papa Roach with Getting Away With Murder coming at you in the morning with the one and only Danny Dastardly."
I blinked my eyes open and groaned, lifting a hand to my head. 6:30 already? I thought to myself, the harsh guitar riff of Ozzy cutting straight through the last fragments of sleep. I sat up and yawned, scratching my head. My black and green hair was a mess, falling around my face like a damp curtain.
The small, one-bedroom apartment was too warm, smelling faintly of stale smoke and old coffee. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold air hitting my bare skin, and shuffled into the kitchen. My first act of the day, before coffee, before anything, was the wake-and-bake. It wasn't just a habit; it was the necessary buffer I built between myself and the world, the mental filter that made the next eight hours of formaldehyde and decomposition bearable.
I packed the small pipe meticulously, the motion automatic and precise. I held the smoke deep, then exhaled slowly, watching the blue-gray cloud curl toward the cracked window pane. The music kept blasting-the kind of angry, defiant noise I needed to drown out the internal silence.
I immediately reached for my vices. First, the pack of cheap cigarettes on the nightstand, which I tapped twice-a tiny, unnecessary ritual. Second, my thumb went straight to the jagged, over-chewed cuticle of my index finger. I was already wired, and I hadn't even left my room yet.
Stoned and slightly steadier, I moved to the bathroom. I stared into the mirror as I brushed my teeth, meeting the tired eyes framed by the chaotic shock of my hair. I looked like a college dropout, which was accurate, not a morgue assistant, which felt like a secret costume.
7:00 AM. Time to suit up. I pulled on a pair of black cargo pants and a band t-shirt, grabbing the most important pieces of gear: my work boots and my noise-canceling headphones. I gave them a quick charge; without my music, the morgue was a psychological weapon.
I tossed a banana and a cold bottle of water into my worn messenger bag, double-checking for my ID badge and keys. The keys were heavy, specifically the brass tag for the medical examiner's office. It was a badge of entry into a world most people pretended didn't exist.
As I laced up my boots, I caught a glimpse of the sky through the window-a pale, indifferent gray. I took one last, deep drag off the cigarette, snubbed it out, and grabbed my bag. Time to go. Time to leave the messy comfort of my morning routine and step into the cold, clinical reality of my other life.
The drive to the county facility was a blur of aggressive rock music and traffic. I pulled my aging grey 1988 mustang hatchback into the staff lot. The building was a brutalist block of beige brick and reinforced steel-unassuming, cold, and utterly anonymous. It never felt like a workplace; it felt like a bunker.
I hit the lobby door and the air instantly changed. Gone was the stale heat of my car; I was enveloped by the perpetual chill of the building's centralized cooling system, a dry, disinfectant-laced cold that got straight into the joints. I scanned my badge, Ash, the morgue assistant, and the heavy pneumatic lock hissed open.
I nodded to Dr. Chen, the weekday lead pathologist, who was already hunched over a microscope slide in the hallway. "Morning, Ash," he mumbled, not looking up. "We have an intake from the police. Unidentified female. Just logged her as Jane Doe 7. Needs the full inventory and prep."
"Got it, Doctor," I replied, feeling the familiar shift in my internal wiring from "stoned civilian" to "coldly functional employee."
I pushed through the double doors into the prep area. The Autopsy Suite itself was empty, but through the glass wall of the adjacent Forensic Lab, I saw a flurry of professional activity.
Maria, the senior evidence tech, was working a case at the metal workbench, dressed in a full Tyvek suit, her face hidden behind a shield. She was using a pair of long, fine-tipped tweezers to methodically pick through clothing, dropping tiny specks-hair, fibers-into numbered paper bags for microscopy and analysis. Her work was the painstaking, slow detail that either preceded or followed my own.
In the corner lab, two men from the Ballistics Unit were meticulously dismantling a handgun. I could hear the faint clink of metal against their felt-covered table as they logged the casing marks. They didn't even look up; their world was confined to rifling, velocity, and trajectory.
I headed for my station, dropping my bag by the scrub sink. The stainless steel surfaces of the suite were already gleaming under the harsh fluorescent glare. I pulled on my thin, light-blue scrubs, then the heavier, liquid-resistant gown over top.
I walked over to the refrigeration wall and checked the manifest. Drawer C-7. I rolled the hydraulic gurney over and, with a metallic click, opened the heavy door. Inside lay the new intake, Jane Doe 7, shrouded in a thin bag, her identifying details reduced to a toe tag.
I transferred her onto Table Two. I needed to log every last detail of her entry into the system before Dr. Chen began the exam. I grabbed my digital camera and my logbook. Before I touched her, though, I needed the noise. I put my noise-canceling headphones on, hitting play before they were even over my ears. The aggressive, defiant static of my music flooded my head, drowning out the low hum of the compressors and the distant, clinical clatter of the techs.
Okay, Ash. Time to work. Just a job. Just a body. I pulled the sheet back, ready to start the inventory.
I pulled the clean white sheet back. Jane Doe 7 was small, pale, and still. Her body exhibited postmortem lividity-the settling of blood after the heart stops-on the undersides of her limbs, indicating she'd been moved. Her limbs were stiff; rigor mortis was clearly set, confirming she'd been deceased for a minimum of eight hours.
I focused on the overall picture, documenting everything before the Medical Examiner (ME) arrived to breach the skin.
I picked up the digital camera and started the routine-full body, head-to-toe, then detailed shots of any injury and identifying features.
First, the hands. They were clenched tightly. I carefully uncurled her right hand, finding a few fragments of material under the nails-small, dark threads and a tiny speck of dried skin. I took a close-up photo, then used non-toothed tissue forceps to gently lift the evidence and seal it in a small, sterile paper envelope. This was logged as potential fiber evidence for the lab.
Next, the neck. There were two distinct, crescent-shaped contusions-bruises-just below the angle of the jaw. They were dark, deep purple, and mirrored, perfectly consistent with a powerful thumb-and-finger grip. I leaned in, angling the light just right, and took multiple macro shots, capturing the subtle petechial hemorrhages-tiny burst blood vessels-visible around the edges of the eyes and eyelids, a classic sign of severe oxygen deprivation.
I noted the detail for Dr. Chen: "Ligature mark absent, manual strangulation indicated by bilateral contusions and heavy petechial expression."
I then meticulously checked the rest of the body for any other defensive wounds or blunt force trauma, logging all observations, measurements, and details into the digital system.
Dr. Chen entered as I finished the external inventory. "Good work, Ash," he said, pulling on thick gloves. "Manual strangulation is consistent with the preliminary report. Let's confirm."
I handed him the scalpel. Following the previously marked outline, Dr. Chen plunged the blade deep, initiating the Y-incision. He sliced through the skin and subcutaneous fat with practiced ease, then picked up the rib cutters. The room filled with the heavy, wet crunching and cracking of the ribs and cartilage as he removed the sternum, exposing the full thoracic cavity.
"Ash, light," Dr. Chen commanded. I adjusted the lamp.
"Observe the congestion," he instructed. "The lungs are deeply engorged, heavy with fluid, and dark purple. Characteristic of asphyxia. The trachea is clear. Log the heart weight, please."
I secured the pre-calibrated digital scale. Dr. Chen carefully dissected and weighed the heart. "Weight is 415 grams. Significant cardiac congestion." I logged the measurement.
The most critical step followed: dissecting the neck. Using a small dissection probe, Dr. Chen carefully revealed the throat structure. He noted the extensive soft tissue hemorrhage surrounding the hyoid bone and cricoid cartilage.
"Fracture to the hyoid is absent, but the crushing force damaged the carotid sinus reflex and caused severe damage to the cartilage," he concluded. "Proximate cause of death is asphyxia due to manual strangulation."
I assisted with the evisceration, the process of removing the organs for detailed inspection. "Prep the small samples, Ash," Dr. Chen directed. "Liver and bile for tox screening."
He examined each major organ: the liver congested but intact; the stomach sealed for contents analysis; the spleen noticeably enlarged, another common finding in asphyxia. I meticulously weighed and logged each organ.
Finally, Dr. Chen made the coronal incision across the scalp and, using the vibrating bone saw, cut the top of the skullcap. The brain tissue appeared swollen-cerebral edema. He carefully lifted the brain out. "Weight it, then place it in formalin for later sectioning." The profound weight of the organ in my hands was always the sobering finale.
With the observations complete, I began the reconstruction, placing the weighed organs back and suturing the Y-incision with heavy surgical twine, restoring the body's physical integrity for release.
Dr. Chen finished his dictated report. "The findings are conclusive. Homicide by manual strangulation."
At 11:30 AM, the procedure was complete. I stripped out of my soiled gear, scrubbed my hands until they were raw, and grabbed my bag. The case was closed. I scanned my badge to exit the secure wing and walked toward the staff parking lot, leaving the cold, clinical reality behind.
I gunned the engine of my gunpowder grey 1988 mustang hatchback, the furious music of My Chemical Romance acting as a necessary buffer. I didn't stop driving until I pulled up to my apartment building.
I went straight to the couch, dropping my bag onto the floor. My immediate ritual of decompression began.
First, the cigarette. I lit it with a shaky hand, inhaling the harsh smoke and letting the nicotine stabilize the residual anxiety from the morgue's atmosphere.
Then, the essential buffer. I packed my small glass bong and took three slow, deep hits. The familiar, fuzzy warmth seeped in, softening the harsh, clinical edges of the day, pushing the images of congested lungs and bruised necks out of my active memory.
Finally, I settled onto the worn couch with a blanket and the TV remote. I navigated to a compilation of horror classics and selected Vincent Price's House on Haunted Hill. The black and white cinematography, the over-the-top acting, and the theatrical deaths were perfect. It was a world where death was safely fictional, far removed from the cold, final truth of the autopsy table.
I took another drag from my cigarette. I was finally, truly home.
The gothic strains of the House on Haunted Hill score mixed perfectly with the smoke-filled, marijuana-hazed calm of my living room. Vincent Price was lecturing his terrified guests about a vat of acid, and for the first time all day, I was genuinely relaxed. I took a final, long pull from the pipe and set it down, the residual buzz holding the morgue safely at bay.
Then, my phone rang.
The noise was jarring, an abrasive intrusion on the black-and-white escapism. I didn't recognize the number. It was a restricted line, just showing up as "Unknown Caller." I almost let it go to voicemail, but some flicker of my forensic curiosity-or maybe just the high-made me stab the answer button.
"Hello?" I mumbled, shifting the cigarette to my left hand.
A voice answered, low and cold, cutting through the background noise of the movie. It wasn't slurred or frantic; it was measured, precise, and utterly unfamiliar.
"Du bist ein Narr, Ash."
The voice spoke with a heavy, distinct cadence, and the language was definitely not English. It sounded like German.
I frowned, holding the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen. "Uh, who is this? You have the wrong number."
The voice continued, ignoring me completely, the tone chillingly flat. "Genieße die Show. Dein Theater beginnt bald."
I blinked, frustration replacing my calm. "Look, buddy, I don't know what you're saying. This is a wrong number, you need to check your dial."
There was a pause on the line, a sharp, cold intake of breath that was unnervingly loud. Then, a single, sharp click that sounded exactly like a recording being turned off.
The line went dead.
I pulled the phone away, staring at the black screen where the "Unknown Caller" had just vanished. I wasn't scared, just deeply annoyed. Some drunk idiot calling from an international burner line, I reasoned. Trying to mess with people. Probably just a fluke.
I tossed the phone onto the cushion next to me and grabbed my cigarette. I took a final drag, snubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray, and reached for the pipe again. The movie was still playing. Vincent Price was now maniacally laughing.
Du bist ein Narr, Ash.
The phrase, whatever it meant, stuck in my mind, an unwanted burr on my freshly smoothed calm. I shrugged it off. German. Foreign. Irrelevant.
I settled deeper into the couch, the pipe back in my hand, forcing my focus back to the safe, theatrical deaths unfolding on the screen. The only threat I was dealing with tonight was cinematic.
The phone incident was quickly forgotten, pushed out by the comforting haze and the theatrical grandeur of Vincent Price. I was entirely absorbed in the film now, watching a scene where the host, Frederick Loren, was gleefully describing the terrors awaiting his guests. The dialogue was a beautiful, over-the-top symphony of menace.
My eyelids started to droop. The combined effect of the long day, the cold exhaustion from the morgue, and the heavy dose of THC was a sedative I couldn't fight. I kept telling myself I'd get up, turn off the movie, and make it to the bedroom, but the couch was too soft, the blanket too warm.
I slid slowly down the cushions, the sound of Price's chilling narration blurring into a distant, hypnotic murmur. The glow of the screen flickered across the apartment. My cigarette, thankfully, had gone out moments before.
I woke with a violent, heart-jarring jolt. My eyes snapped open to the darkness, the room filled only with the low, ominous glow of the television screen. The movie had clearly continued without me.
The soundtrack had faded to near silence, leaving only a single voice dominating the space-smooth, cultured, and utterly chilling. It was Vincent Price's famous, drawn-out monologue, and the sound was far too loud in the silent apartment.
"...They're waiting for you. They're waiting for all of you. They've been waiting for a long, long time."
The words seemed to hang in the air, echoing with a menace that felt intensely personal. Disoriented, I realized I had been asleep for hours. My mouth was dry, my head thick and heavy. The clock on the cable box read 2:47 AM.
I struggled to sit up, the movement clumsy and slow. My body felt like it was encased in concrete. The psychological horror of the movie, coupled with the real fear from the strange phone call earlier, had curdled my sleep into something dark.
I stumbled off the couch. The floorboards felt cold beneath my feet. I didn't bother turning off the television; I just wanted the scene and the voice to stop following me. I moved through the apartment like a zombie, using the faint light from the screen to guide me.
I made it to my bedroom, a space far darker and quieter than the living room. The bed was a huge, soft promise of true oblivion. I didn't bother undressing, kicking off my boots and leaving my heavy cargo pants on.
I collapsed onto the mattress, pulling the duvet up over my shoulders. As my head hit the pillow, the final threads of consciousness snapped. The sound of Price's voice, now muffled by the closed door, was the last thing I heard before sinking into the deep, necessary sleep of true exhaustion.