Post by stonerninja on Dec 20, 2007 3:50:47 GMT -5
I dunno why, but I felt compelled to write this sucker. I've been...collecting urbane legends for some time, this time, and I guess I needed somewhere to put them. As for the other aspect of the story, I don't really know what a morgue looks like, so you'll have to excuse some stylistic exclusions. It's called Mortuary Legends. Have...whatever you will with it.
Simon took a quick drag on his cigarette.
“Hey!” Paul, hearing the faint click of the lighter, cast his gaze across the employee lounge. “You know there’s no smoking allowed in here.”
Simon puffed smoke and laughed. “That’s not the only thing that’s not allowed in here.” He ran his finger across his nose and snorted deeply.
Paul grinned. “The nights are long, and you gotta have something to get you through.”
“Really? I talk to myself.” He giggled.
Paul cocked an eye. He hadn’t been working here long, but long enough to know that when he had the night shift at the Ravenwood Morgue, Simon was not the man to co-work with.
It wasn’t that he was cold and unfriendly, but there was something about him. His balding pate, his premature gray hair, his hollow eyes. It gave him the look of a child molester who was hiding from the law.
Paul turned around and started to leave the room.
Simon coughed. “You know, there’s a story about a guy who was driving home late from work, and he sees this hitchhiker. So he picks him up, it’s cold outside, the guy gets in the back seat, and he’s real thankful at first. But then he gets real quiet, see? So after a few miles, the guy driving the car turns around, the hitchhiker’s still there, but his head is gone.”
It was a simple story, quickly told, and not exactly unfamiliar to Paul, but suddenly the room seemed a lot colder. He laughed to stave it off. “Where did that come from?”
He waved the cigarette through the air. “I dunno. When you’ve worked here as long as I have, you get to hear a lot of things. Not quite urban legends, something...else. Must have something to do with the environment. Kinda macabre, eh?”
Paul looked around. The cold, blue fluorescent lights flickered and hummed. “Well, it’s certainly sterile. Back here at least.” He was talking to fill the air. He turned to leave again, when Simon spoke.
“You know any stories?”
Paul didn’t know why, but whatever task he had to attend to felt distant, and he was compelled to sit down. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back a metal folding chair. “Not quite a morgue story, but it’ll do. I used to work down at the docks, loading boxes and crates. It was real menial work.
“But there was this one guy, older guy, who worked there. And he told me once about when he was working on a cargo ship. And they were out at sea on a particularly nasty night, when the radio goes off, and they get some kind of a distress signal. They follow the signal, and there’s this smaller ship that’s almost like it’s materialized in the middle of the water. And as they pull up next to it, one guy swears he saw someone dumping bodies off the side and disappearing back into the ship.
“And everyone’s kind of freaked out, but they go on board to look around, see if anything’s going on. And the ship is deserted. There’s no one on board at all. No signs of a struggle, no writing in any of the books, nothing. It wasn’t a new boat, but it didn’t look like anyone had ever used it.
“So they tow it back to the harbor, and here’s the weird part. The ship had been missing for three years.”
Simon took a final drag on his cigarette, and dropped it in a paper cup. It hissed. “Cool.”
“Supposedly true.”
“Oh, they all are.” Simon fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, pulled out the pack. He took a fresh smoke, lit it and drew. “I got another,” he said, exhaling. “Had this one for a while. There’s this guy walking through the woods. He gets a little lost, but when he finally finds his way out of the woods again, he stumbles on this carnival. He’s always loved carnivals, so he checks it out.
“But it’s a really strange carnival, it’s like...incomplete somehow. Anyway, there’s a fortune teller, and she stops him and gives him a free reading. At first it’s the usual crap, but at the end, she stops, and tells him that he must never look in a mirror, or he would die.
“So he’s a little creeped out, by the lady, by the carnival, everything. So he tries to find his way back through the woods, but before he gets too far, he realizes his wallet is missing. So he goes back, maybe it was stolen or something, right? He goes back, and his wallet in just lying on the ground, and the carnival is gone.
“Now he’s REAL creeped out, so he finally gets back home, and he makes sure that there are no mirrors in his house. Gets ‘em all removed. Stops driving. Whatever. He just makes sure that he’ll never look at a mirror again. Couple years later, he’s out walking again, and he sees a carnival. Like, a real one, a wholesome one. He can’t resist it, so he goes in.
“So he gets to the fun house. And, without thinking, he goes inside. And, of course, eventually he gets to the hall of mirrors. The second he’s in there, he starts freaking out. The door behind him somehow locks, so he’s the only one in there, right? So he starts screaming, banging on the door. They get some kind of security guys to open the door, but by then, he’s stopped screaming. He had a heart attack, he died of fright.”
Simon stopped his story and sat back. Cigarette smoke whisked around his yellowing grin. Paul looked at him.
“Well,” he said after a minute, “That was interesting, but a little less convincing than the others.”
“How so?”
“Well, if he died in there, how did anyone know about the whole mirrors thing? Did he ever tell anyone about the fortune teller?”
Simon frowned. “I dunno.”
“I thought urban legends were supposed to be...you know, reality based?”
“I never said that these were urban legends, remember?” Simon took another drag. Paul stood up to leave, but Simon spoke again. “Besides, if you want to hear something real, I’ll tell you something real. I’ll tell you something that really happened. In here.”
Paul put his hands on the table and leaned in.
“Last week, I heard a body walking around. Downstairs. In the basement where we keep the stiffs.”
Paul pushed himself up, and felt an icy hand slid down his spine. He tried to laugh it away, but there was something off about this. Even if it was crap, and it certainly was, Simon had said it with such conviction, that it seemed true. He almost believed it.
“You’re crazy.”
“I swear to God,” Simon objected, standing up, “I was here the other week taking a piss in the alley. The power was out, remember? So I get back inside, and I hear something in the basement moving around. Like, just pacing back and forth. So I run upstairs, grab a flashlight, and when I get back, there’s no one there. Just a stiff on the table, but he looks kinda messed up, like he’d been moved, see?”
“You’re crazy,” Paul reaffirmed, leaving the room.
“Think about it!” Simon got up, tossing the cigarette into the cup. “No one else was here, it’s not like someone was hiding in the building. They couldn’t have gotten out without me noticing.”
Paul stopped and looked at Simon. “Look, I don’t know if you’re messing with me or what, but...”
There was a crashing noise from downstairs. The cold room. Where they kept the stiffs.
Simon cocked his head. “What was that?”
“I dunno. Maybe it was a body, walking around. Come on.”
Paul started walking towards the source of the sound, Simon nervously in tow. The morgue had always seemed flat to Paul, unfriendly even, but now...now it was menacing. Almost unreal. It was as if this WAS one of Simon’s urban legends.
The basement’s light was off. The switch was just on the wall, close to the door, but somehow, reaching into the room seemed dangerous. Did he hear a soft clatter in the corner? Did he feel a trickle of sweat bead his brow? Simon bobbed behind him. Weakly, Paul’s fingers crept across the wall, and flipped the switch. The room was showered in pale light.
And there was nothing. The room was stately and clean, any sign of ghosts or ghoulies had vanished with the fluorescent light. Paul felt his chest heave in relief. He turned around.
“See, it was...” He felt something cold and sharp sink into his chest. Simon had produced a knife, and was plunging it repeatedly into Paul’s body, slicing through skin, gutting organs. Blood squirted onto both of them. A few more stabs, and Paul pushed himself away from Simon, turned around feverishly, and collapsed on the basement floor. The sterile white floor was the last thing he saw.
He did not see Simon’s gray eyes form slits of satisfaction as he dropped the knife on the floor. Gingerly, perhaps with experience, he tugged Paul’s arm, and pulled him further into the room.
“Lemme see,” he said aloud, “I think that drawer 4A is vacant...”
Simon took a quick drag on his cigarette.
“Hey!” Paul, hearing the faint click of the lighter, cast his gaze across the employee lounge. “You know there’s no smoking allowed in here.”
Simon puffed smoke and laughed. “That’s not the only thing that’s not allowed in here.” He ran his finger across his nose and snorted deeply.
Paul grinned. “The nights are long, and you gotta have something to get you through.”
“Really? I talk to myself.” He giggled.
Paul cocked an eye. He hadn’t been working here long, but long enough to know that when he had the night shift at the Ravenwood Morgue, Simon was not the man to co-work with.
It wasn’t that he was cold and unfriendly, but there was something about him. His balding pate, his premature gray hair, his hollow eyes. It gave him the look of a child molester who was hiding from the law.
Paul turned around and started to leave the room.
Simon coughed. “You know, there’s a story about a guy who was driving home late from work, and he sees this hitchhiker. So he picks him up, it’s cold outside, the guy gets in the back seat, and he’s real thankful at first. But then he gets real quiet, see? So after a few miles, the guy driving the car turns around, the hitchhiker’s still there, but his head is gone.”
It was a simple story, quickly told, and not exactly unfamiliar to Paul, but suddenly the room seemed a lot colder. He laughed to stave it off. “Where did that come from?”
He waved the cigarette through the air. “I dunno. When you’ve worked here as long as I have, you get to hear a lot of things. Not quite urban legends, something...else. Must have something to do with the environment. Kinda macabre, eh?”
Paul looked around. The cold, blue fluorescent lights flickered and hummed. “Well, it’s certainly sterile. Back here at least.” He was talking to fill the air. He turned to leave again, when Simon spoke.
“You know any stories?”
Paul didn’t know why, but whatever task he had to attend to felt distant, and he was compelled to sit down. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back a metal folding chair. “Not quite a morgue story, but it’ll do. I used to work down at the docks, loading boxes and crates. It was real menial work.
“But there was this one guy, older guy, who worked there. And he told me once about when he was working on a cargo ship. And they were out at sea on a particularly nasty night, when the radio goes off, and they get some kind of a distress signal. They follow the signal, and there’s this smaller ship that’s almost like it’s materialized in the middle of the water. And as they pull up next to it, one guy swears he saw someone dumping bodies off the side and disappearing back into the ship.
“And everyone’s kind of freaked out, but they go on board to look around, see if anything’s going on. And the ship is deserted. There’s no one on board at all. No signs of a struggle, no writing in any of the books, nothing. It wasn’t a new boat, but it didn’t look like anyone had ever used it.
“So they tow it back to the harbor, and here’s the weird part. The ship had been missing for three years.”
Simon took a final drag on his cigarette, and dropped it in a paper cup. It hissed. “Cool.”
“Supposedly true.”
“Oh, they all are.” Simon fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, pulled out the pack. He took a fresh smoke, lit it and drew. “I got another,” he said, exhaling. “Had this one for a while. There’s this guy walking through the woods. He gets a little lost, but when he finally finds his way out of the woods again, he stumbles on this carnival. He’s always loved carnivals, so he checks it out.
“But it’s a really strange carnival, it’s like...incomplete somehow. Anyway, there’s a fortune teller, and she stops him and gives him a free reading. At first it’s the usual crap, but at the end, she stops, and tells him that he must never look in a mirror, or he would die.
“So he’s a little creeped out, by the lady, by the carnival, everything. So he tries to find his way back through the woods, but before he gets too far, he realizes his wallet is missing. So he goes back, maybe it was stolen or something, right? He goes back, and his wallet in just lying on the ground, and the carnival is gone.
“Now he’s REAL creeped out, so he finally gets back home, and he makes sure that there are no mirrors in his house. Gets ‘em all removed. Stops driving. Whatever. He just makes sure that he’ll never look at a mirror again. Couple years later, he’s out walking again, and he sees a carnival. Like, a real one, a wholesome one. He can’t resist it, so he goes in.
“So he gets to the fun house. And, without thinking, he goes inside. And, of course, eventually he gets to the hall of mirrors. The second he’s in there, he starts freaking out. The door behind him somehow locks, so he’s the only one in there, right? So he starts screaming, banging on the door. They get some kind of security guys to open the door, but by then, he’s stopped screaming. He had a heart attack, he died of fright.”
Simon stopped his story and sat back. Cigarette smoke whisked around his yellowing grin. Paul looked at him.
“Well,” he said after a minute, “That was interesting, but a little less convincing than the others.”
“How so?”
“Well, if he died in there, how did anyone know about the whole mirrors thing? Did he ever tell anyone about the fortune teller?”
Simon frowned. “I dunno.”
“I thought urban legends were supposed to be...you know, reality based?”
“I never said that these were urban legends, remember?” Simon took another drag. Paul stood up to leave, but Simon spoke again. “Besides, if you want to hear something real, I’ll tell you something real. I’ll tell you something that really happened. In here.”
Paul put his hands on the table and leaned in.
“Last week, I heard a body walking around. Downstairs. In the basement where we keep the stiffs.”
Paul pushed himself up, and felt an icy hand slid down his spine. He tried to laugh it away, but there was something off about this. Even if it was crap, and it certainly was, Simon had said it with such conviction, that it seemed true. He almost believed it.
“You’re crazy.”
“I swear to God,” Simon objected, standing up, “I was here the other week taking a piss in the alley. The power was out, remember? So I get back inside, and I hear something in the basement moving around. Like, just pacing back and forth. So I run upstairs, grab a flashlight, and when I get back, there’s no one there. Just a stiff on the table, but he looks kinda messed up, like he’d been moved, see?”
“You’re crazy,” Paul reaffirmed, leaving the room.
“Think about it!” Simon got up, tossing the cigarette into the cup. “No one else was here, it’s not like someone was hiding in the building. They couldn’t have gotten out without me noticing.”
Paul stopped and looked at Simon. “Look, I don’t know if you’re messing with me or what, but...”
There was a crashing noise from downstairs. The cold room. Where they kept the stiffs.
Simon cocked his head. “What was that?”
“I dunno. Maybe it was a body, walking around. Come on.”
Paul started walking towards the source of the sound, Simon nervously in tow. The morgue had always seemed flat to Paul, unfriendly even, but now...now it was menacing. Almost unreal. It was as if this WAS one of Simon’s urban legends.
The basement’s light was off. The switch was just on the wall, close to the door, but somehow, reaching into the room seemed dangerous. Did he hear a soft clatter in the corner? Did he feel a trickle of sweat bead his brow? Simon bobbed behind him. Weakly, Paul’s fingers crept across the wall, and flipped the switch. The room was showered in pale light.
And there was nothing. The room was stately and clean, any sign of ghosts or ghoulies had vanished with the fluorescent light. Paul felt his chest heave in relief. He turned around.
“See, it was...” He felt something cold and sharp sink into his chest. Simon had produced a knife, and was plunging it repeatedly into Paul’s body, slicing through skin, gutting organs. Blood squirted onto both of them. A few more stabs, and Paul pushed himself away from Simon, turned around feverishly, and collapsed on the basement floor. The sterile white floor was the last thing he saw.
He did not see Simon’s gray eyes form slits of satisfaction as he dropped the knife on the floor. Gingerly, perhaps with experience, he tugged Paul’s arm, and pulled him further into the room.
“Lemme see,” he said aloud, “I think that drawer 4A is vacant...”