
She Didn’t Blink, She Didn’t Breathe

Chapter 1
The steady droning of fluorescent lights buzzed through the perpetually cold morgue. A sound that, after three years, had woven its way into my sense of peace as comforting and familiar as my own breathing. Carl muttered under his breath as he wrestled with the finicky coffee machine before it spurted out the coveted drink. It wasn’t just the vending machine that put him in such a grumpy mood. We had gotten another new intern. Some emo kid with a gauge piercing and nose ring, obsessed with seeing a real live corpse up close, who would likely ghost us by tomorrow morning. Today’s workload was refreshingly light, and I was already tasting that cold beer I planned to enjoy later.
Carl took the emo intern along for a pickup, leaving me on my own for a bit. I started my usual routine. Sterilizing tools for the day and skimming case files. The two returned sooner than I expected, with a body in tow. Carl went to the front to take a call from a funeral director, leaving me alone with the fresh meat. He stood about five feet nine with a taut and lanky frame reminiscent of an overstretched rubber band. His countenance was overly standoffish. Arms crossed over his hoodie, eyes fixed in a focused resilience. But beyond the exterior coldness, I noticed a nervous finger twitch and the occasional eye dart whenever I focused on him for too long.
“Did you see it?” I nodded toward the black bag with a smirk. His eyes quickly widened, but he ducked his head and mumbled, “Carl said maybe tomorrow.” A rare chance I get to freak out a newbie and piss off Carl. I couldn’t pass it up. “Come here, dude,” I said, motioning him to move closer to me while I carefully unzipped the bag. A tuft of blonde hair spilled out of the bag, bleached and thin with the origins of brown forming at the roots. Like those three a. m. late nights when she’d stumble in with it plopped up in a messy bun on top of her head. Her eyebrows were perfectly plucked, matching that same shade of brown and framing her eyes. Those eyes: piercing, blue, wide, and unblinking, staring up at me with an almost fearful expression. I pulled the zipper down further to reveal her mouth. Lightly shimmering with gloss, lips barely parted, showing her slight overbite. That small imperfection cemented her familiarity.
“Lila?” I spoke the name before I realized I was even talking.
“Whoa, you know her?” The intern piped up, leaning in a little too closely, his nose ring glistening in the light as he talked. “She’s hot for a dead chick. Bet she liked to party, huh?” My stare struck him like a knife. Seething, sharp, and boring into the side of his skull. He froze, a deer in headlights, before mumbling an excuse and scurrying away, finally aware of how deep his foot was stuffed into his mouth.
Lila. The echo of her name in the air drowned out the hum of the lights. My chest felt clamped in a vise grip as I clawed to rezip the bag. I turned away from the counter and stared blankly into the void of the room. Three years had passed since that tumultuous night. Since I last saw her alive. What a reunion this was!
Memories rudely attacked my mind. The wafting of cucumber melon body wash through the air, her dorky twirl and jump in the makeup aisle at the grocery store, her perpetually cold fingers and toes. I shoved down my thoughts by grabbing some case files, hoping work would help anchor me back into the present.
Thankfully, Carl didn’t come back to chastise me for scaring the intern. Filling out paperwork, I zoned out for a while. A faint hum caught my attention as I leaned over the counter. I stood still and quiet until I heard it again: “Jake.” I realized now it was coming from the drawer. My heart slammed into my stomach. I started breathing deeper.
It’s probably the AC or gas escaping. You know that.
Even still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Annoyed, I crossed the room and yanked the drawer open. I took a deep breath and slowly unzipped the bag. Her huge blue eyes looked up at me, blankly. I calmed back down and instinctively adjusted a stray hair out of her face. Then, as clear as day: “Jake, help me.” My skin felt ignited as I jerked my hand away from her face. I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet and bruising my shoulder against the counter while crawling out the door. Outside, I finally managed to light the cigarette on my third try and puffed it until my fingers stopped shaking.
Upon my reluctant return to the building, I stared at the now-closed drawer. I wanted to believe I had simply daydreamed the whole ordeal. “This is ridiculous,” I scoffed, pacing to the vending machine. I shoved my change in. It hummed lightly before the spout delivered a weak stream of boiling-hot, candy-flavored coffee. While blowing on the paper cup, I took one last glance at the drawer. It remained still and quiet. I finished my shift and coffee in peace.
Chapter 2
The last thing on my mind when I got home was sleep. The mix of caffeine and lingering panic wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. My heart still twinged forcefully, and my thoughts raced as quickly as I flipped the channels. A few hours of stand-up specials began to file down the jagged spikes of memory, eventually dulling them to a quiet nervousness. I had been estranged from her, at this point, for as long as I had known her. I had even had a couple of semi-successful entanglements in the time since then. Our relationship felt like a lifetime ago. Sleep did eventually tease me with a couple of hours of peace, the weight of Lila’s memory clinging to my dreams, refusing to let up the whole night.
Carl actually was mad at me for freaking out the intern. A shiny pile of case files was in my inbox, including a few callbacks. Normally, I’d be irritated, but tonight? I was relieved to have anything else to focus on. At about nine, Carl waved at me to signal he was off to lunch while I leaned against the back wall, dragging on a cigarette. When I headed back inside, a faint sense of unease had crept into the room, settling thick like the smoke I had just finished.
As I locked into focus on an autopsy file, the lights began to flicker. A mild annoyance at first, barely worth my attention. But after twenty minutes of relentless blinking, my nerves had been thoroughly drilled.
“What the hell,” I muttered in anger under my breath, just as the whole room plunged into complete darkness. A torrent of curses leapt out. Sharp, acerbic, and unrestrained as I scrambled through my pockets, hunting for the flashlight on my phone. As if on cue, the lights flared back on with a burning glare, just as my thumb found the light icon.
I rolled my eyes, forcing myself to refocus on my work. But an eerie distraction robbed my attention again. The low screech of the fluorescent lights swelled into a high-pitched, ear-piercing wail. The sound was joined by a hushed whisper faintly hitting the air.
“Jake, help me,” it breathed. The familiar grip of fear that had clenched my chest melted into a simmering and comforting rage. “This shit again?” I barked across the empty room, my voice echoing off the sterile metal walls. The whine of the lights developed into a shrill whistle, resembling a teakettle. I covered my ears to muffle the chaos. The whispering grew louder as well, morphing into a clear woman’s voice. It had been too long for me to remember if it resembled hers.
Fed up with the insanity, I refused to play this game anymore. I stormed over to the familiar drawer, yanked it open with the usual jerk, and tore the zipper of the body bag down in one quick motion. “What do you want?” I shouted at the lifeless corpse, its eyes and mouth now shut, silenced forever. I leaned in. “What do you want from me?” The lights began to sputter again as I slammed the drawer shut with a clanging echo. Snatching a scalpel from the table, I hurled it across the room. It ricocheted off the wall as I put my head in my left palm, attempting to corral all the chaos in my mind.
As I stood deep in thought, an unfamiliar breeze brushed the nape of my neck, followed by the icy poke of a finger. I nearly launched out of my skin, jumping slightly and spinning around to face Lila.
Chapter 3
The air in the morgue thickened into a cold, pressing weight that was nearly suffocating. Lila was standing right in front of me. Well, more like hovering, actually. Her blonde, mid-length hair hung limply, framing her face. Her previously piercing eyes now appeared dull, clouded by an unnatural gloss and fixated on mine. She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe. Her lips trembled as she struggled to speak.
“Jake,” she whispered yet again. This voice was not the one I remembered from all those years ago. The Lila I knew had a warm and booming voice. This tone was hollow and distant, bouncing off the metal walls. My breath came in slow and shallow bursts as the air in the room grew progressively colder.
“You’re not real,” I screamed, unsure if I was trying to prove it to myself or if I believed it. “You’re dead. In the bag.” My arm shook as I pointed at her in disapproval. The lights pulsed again, and for a split second, I saw something. A dark silhouette stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, lunging menacingly.
“I tried to help you, Lila! You’re gone. Nobody could.” I stopped, forcing a huge ball of tears back into my throat. I had to avoid looking at her directly, as every glance seemed to trigger a memory. The expression on her face was blistering. It was the same one she had in the front yard that night. After that huge fight, the last one before I never saw her again. The scent of cucumber melon seeped into the air, flashing nostalgia at me even deeper.
Her form floated higher until her feet were hovering well above my head. “Jake, please.” The morgue door swung open casually as Carl thudded in.
“You done with those files yet or.” He paused mid-sentence as his perplexed face examined the room. “What the hell happened to the lights? And why’s it so cold in here?”
I whipped around to face him, stammering faster than my brain could recognize the words. “Didn’t you see.” I trailed off once I finally realized what I was saying. Carl massaged his temple with a heavy sigh. “The intern? Yeah, lazy kid’s probably halfway home by now.” He looked up at me curiously. “You okay, Jake?”
I turned back to where Lila had been hovering. Nothing. The drawer was closed. The scalpel shone on the floor where I had chucked it earlier. “Yeah,” I replied, defeated. “Rough night.”
Carl nodded, his expression changing from concerned to content within seconds. “Get those callbacks done. You don’t get paid to scare interns.” He shuffled back to the front, leaving me to my own devices once again. At least I’d hoped.
The moment Carl’s footsteps faded, the whispers began again. Faint, insistent, and definitely coming from that same drawer. “Jake.” I balled my hands up into fists, nails clenching crescent-moon scars into my palms.
“No,” I shrieked, focusing all my mental energy on the metal cabinet. I walked over and stood fuming, staring at the drawer as if it were a loaded gun. The whispers went from haunting to clawing, sharply grating on my nerves. My hand hovered over the drawer’s handle again. Did I really want to keep doing this? Opening her up, exposing her to the elements? Uncovering her dignity? Disturbing her eternity for what? To prove my own sanity? Was it even necessary to cross this “moral event horizon,” to borrow from Lila’s repertoire?
“Jake, look!” The way she said it sent me right back. Her voice. Her real voice made it through to me like a radio signal out of static. I was immediately transported back to three summers ago, the air thick with the heat of July and the faint scent of citronella to keep the bugs away. We were on the highway after leaving Josh’s housewarming party. The kind of night where the music is too loud, everyone parties way too hard, and it was certain that no one would quite remember what happened by tomorrow. Lila had really tied one on. Between three rum and Cokes and who knows how many tequila shots while I was distracted, her words and laugh became slurred and sloppy while her balance and gait were completely shot. I had tried unsuccessfully to corral her into the backseat, hoping she would sleep it off. Of course, she wouldn’t sit still, sliding around my Honda Civic like a fish in a plastic bag. So we finally settled on shotgun, with the window rolled all the way down, blonde strands of hair flowing wildly in the breeze. She was mercifully quiet for most of the ride until she just had to fill the silence with something.
“Jake, look!” she slurred, awkwardly pointing into the sky. At the stars, or perhaps the distant light from a gas station. I clearly remember her voice. Bright, booming, and hopeful in those days. “It’s like living in the planetarium, right?”
I smirked, my left hand on the wheel, my right around her waist just in case she leaned too far out the window. “Yeah, I think that’s just vertigo, hun. Try to stay still and breathe.”
She let out that goofy, unapologetic laugh I always loved. No matter how frustrated I was with her, that laugh never failed to lift my mood. Her purple plastic flip-flops were propped up on the dash. The radio began playing some sappy country music song from an old Super Bowl commercial. The sickly sweetness of rum, tequila, and cucumber melon permeated the car as she belted out her own off-key version of the lyrics. Then she stopped abruptly.
“Pull over,” she begged, her arm tugging at mine forcefully. “Quick.”
“Are you going to puke in my car?”
“Not if you pull over.”
I sighed, deciding to pull over. Getting home a little late was better than hosing down my car. The second I got over to the shoulder, she sprinted into the woods before I could even turn the engine off. She got about fifty feet away, then disappeared behind a tree. I heard faint gurgling sounds for a few moments.
“You okay?” No answer for several seconds before a weak, “Sure,” came from behind the trees, followed by a visibly slower Lila shuffling back to the car. I opened the passenger door for her. She shook her head and went to sit on the hood instead. I gave up. I leaned against the hood on the driver’s side, half watching her, half gazing at the stars while lighting a cigarette.
Lila stared up at the stars. Pupils heavily dilated, breath short and fast, face flushed and patchy red. She was always so beautiful. “Jake,” she said eerily quietly, brushing her fingers against my arm. “You ever think about what happens after?”
I remember that I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I felt like she was trying to rope me into one of her endless philosophy debates. “How about you?” I offered her a drag.
“I don’t know for sure,” she exhaled. “But sometimes, I think it must be cold and quiet.” She smirked at me, but I didn’t know why.
Back in the car, she’d finally fallen asleep against the now-closed window. I drove slower than I needed to, just to enjoy the peace. The hum of the AC, the static of the radio intertwined with her now-softer breathing. Glancing back at her, I knew that day would be a memory I would endlessly tease her about later.
The cold morgue air snapped my focus back to my surroundings. The warmth of the summer night’s memories faded, replaced by the sterile buzz of reality. My hand still hovered over the handle. I could still hear her. “Jake, look!” In my memory, followed by her laugh, so bright and alive. My fingers twitched, then went still. I didn’t need to see her again. Not like this. The Lila I remembered. Dancing in public, sparking random philosophy debates, the life of every party. She wasn’t in there. What was in that drawer, in all the drawers, was dead.
No more chances. No more what-ifs. We’re just the waystation for the deceased. Opening it wouldn’t bring her back; the “her” I used to know is gone. I shoved my hand into my pocket, feeling for the crinkled pack of cigarettes against my knuckles. I exhaled, turning from the drawer. “Not yet,” I muttered into the morgue’s silence, letting her voice fade into the darkness.
Chapter 4
The days had dragged on frustratingly as a new routine settled in: make coffee, work through case files, do callbacks, be terrified by supernatural entities, then smoke a cigarette. I wasn’t sure what would happen next. Her file had been worked. Cause of death was overdose, found just outside the woods within view of the highway exit sign. Nothing suspicious noted.
The simplicity of it gnawed at me. Overdose. A clinical word, as sterile as the morgue itself, but it didn’t fit the Lila I’d known. She was a little reckless but not a complete mess. I’d shoved the file into a drawer, hoping the paperwork would bury the questions. It didn’t. Every time I passed that damn metal cabinet, my skin prickled, like static before a storm.
Tonight, the morgue was quieter than usual. Carl had left early, mentioning a date. Good for him. Nobody had seen the intern since I’d scared him off. Just me, the lights, and the faint drip of a faucet somewhere in the back. I leaned against the counter, sipping the near-scalding sugar water with fervor. Anything to warm this place up.
The stack of case files sat untouched, a silent taunt. I didn’t want to open them and risk seeing her name again. As odd as things had been lately, what happened next truly felt impossible. The familiar light flickering, whispering, and shaking of the drawer began again. It started subtly. The lights flashed once, twice, then settled into an erratic pattern. I clenched my tiny paper cup tighter.
“Jake, look!”
My eyes darted toward the familiar drawer. Along with the command came a disturbing clawing sound, like a scared rodent had been locked inside by mistake. The drawer jolted with a violent thud that shook my coffee cup from across the room. In hindsight, I should’ve left. I could’ve bolted out the door like many of Carl’s interns. But I couldn’t will my feet to move. My attention was unshakably focused on the drawer. The whisper came again, and out of sheer anger, I picked up a metal chair and hurled it across the room. It clanged harshly against the drawer, hit the wall, and landed upright.
“Lila, I can’t do this. I don’t know what you want!” The lights died. The entire room was engulfed in darkness with a few seconds of silence. I scanned the room with my lighter. I felt instant relief that the room was empty.
“Jake, it’s not me!”
My breath hitched in shock, and I dropped the lighter.
What?
“Run!”
I heard the voice again, her real voice, booming and terrified. It wasn’t coming from the drawer, but from everywhere. A shadow in the darkness jumped out and attacked me. I could barely get a grip on it. The material wasn’t slippery, but smoky, like it wasn’t made of physical material at all. The height of it was malleable. It shot up to at least ten feet tall. Its hands felt like metal claws suffocating me in the void.
“Jake, run,” I heard her shriek again. I didn’t know where she expected me to go. As the entity’s claws tightened, a scream clawed its way up my throat, but I choked it down, straining against its grip. By some miracle, the lights flashed back on, and the entity immediately vanished.
I was horrified but lacked the mental fortitude to process what happened. I left work early and contemplated returning at all. I camped out in the living room all night, a kitchen knife in one hand, house bright as possible, blaring pop music. I was a mess. There was no way I was going to survive this much longer. By dawn, the knife was still trembling in my hands when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Door’s locked. Where the hell are you?”
I wanted to toss that thing out a window. With shaky fingers, I managed to type back.
“Something’s after me, man. We gotta talk.”
Carl showed up at my place by noon. I wasn’t sure just how much I could tell him about what was actually happening. I’ve been a reliable, albeit sarcastic, employee. I’m sure he would let me off the hook.
He took a long, nearly victorious sip of barista-made coffee.
“Better than that vending machine garbage, right?”
“Carl, I.” I trailed off. In all the years I’ve worked with the guy, I’ve never had to share a heart-to-heart with him. Hell, if he didn’t leave before me, I’d assume he locked himself into one of the drawers at night! He raised an eyebrow, leaning back into my leather armchair as if he owned the place.
“What’s been up with you, Jake? You look like death.”
Was he mocking me?
I rubbed my eyes. The knife finally released from my grip to clang onto the coffee table.
“It’s Lila. We broke up a while ago, and now she’s back somehow.”
“Messy breakup?”
“Cop cars, nosy neighbors, shattered dining plates on the front lawn. You tell me.”
He whistled, then took another sip.
“Classic lesson we all learn. Excitement and passion are fun for a while, but that ticket’s got a pretty big expiration date.” He laughed, crossing his legs. “I dated a former model once. Smoking hot, zero emotional regulation. Threw a lamp at me, then called me a week later to get back together. Soap operas can be entertaining to watch, but not to live in.”
I stared, jaw tight, and tried to steer him.
“Carl, that’s not.” But he was already off, rambling about an ex smashing his car windshield with a baseball bat.
“I’m not asking for dating advice!” I snapped. “Last night, something happened at the morgue.”
He smirked, cutting me off.
“She stalking you now?”
“No, damn it. She’s calling my name from a drawer.”
He froze mid-sip. “I’m sorry?”
“She said, ‘Jake, help me.’ The blonde girl. Lila.”
Carl set the cup down, massaging his temples for a few seconds before looking back up at me.
“Listen, Jake. Breakups can really mess with your head, and working night shift at a morgue can push anyone over the edge. Take off the next two days and get some rest.” He grabbed his hat and dismissed me with a shrug. I guess I was going to have to do this on my own.
Chapter 5
I had almost missed the buzzing of the fluorescent lights as I huddled over Lila’s case file, fingers trembling. Not because of the cold, but from the nagging fear of Carl’s wrath. If he caught me lurking around here, he’d put me in a padded cell for sure. Still I was the only person who could help Lila, no matter how little sense it made to me.
The atmosphere in the morgue was different in the pre-dawn hours. An uncomfortable quietness that was less peaceful and more anticipatory, like holding your breath before blowing out candles. I had slipped in through the side door, rusted and usually bolted shut during night shift, unnoticed, and ghosted my way through the barely alive day shift. My boots squeaked against the tile floor, the sound bouncing off the walls as I made a beeline for the file room. I had to be quick and strategic. Carl wrath would be a slap on the wrist compared to that thing stalking me.
The memory of the metal claws raking against my body in the dark created a bitter taste in my mouth. Lila’s voice was a painful splinter in my thumb, while the entity, or whatever it was, pushed it in further, daring me to pull it out. The file room smelled like dust and old paper and the faintness of a chemical-laden cleaning product. My fingers trembled as I rifled through the cabinet, perhaps from the combination of caffeine and dread. I pored over dozens of files of Jane Does before I found it: a thin, manila envelope wedged between two huge folders, at least four inches thick. Her name jumped out to me in Carl’s familiar block handwriting. I skimmed for any new details. The date of her arrival, three days ago, March 5th. Female. Mid-20s. Found unresponsive off Highway 12, in front of the highway sign. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Bullshit I already knew. When my eyes got to the coroner’s report, my stomach dropped. Under cause of death, written in black ink, was the word: overdose. Holding it up to the small desk lamp, I could see underneath, fainter, in a different color pen, like it had been altered: strangulation. I leaned in deeper and took a quick picture with my phone. Why mark over it? I went through the file photos, holding my breath in respect while carefully examining them. She looked the same as she did in the drawer. Her face pale and still, wide bright eyes staring into nothingness. A ball of emotion threatened its way up my throat. I forced it down and continued reading. The left side of her neck was purple, splotchy, and bruised. I could see swelling around the neck as well. I’d cataloged enough files on junkies and domestics to know what petechiae looks like. This was no accident. The tox screen appeared to be pending indefinitely. The mostly blank page mocked me. No proof to back up this “overdose” cause. I scribbled down as many shorthand notes as I could. The report had mentioned Lila’s clothes from the night. Long-sleeved blue shirt, blue denim jacket, black leggings, black boots, and a yellow scarf. I remembered that scarf. It was one of her favorite pieces of fall clothing. In the biting winter air, she would wrap it around, covering her mouth. She loved that scarf.
I laid low for about an hour until the building seemed quieter. I headed into the storage room. Shuffling through the many containers, I found Lila’s. Everything was there except the scarf. Highway 12 wasn’t far away. Just about twenty minutes out. My Honda Civic sputtered to life while I peeled out of the morgue’s parking lot. I needed to see the place and know for sure why that file was a lie. Perhaps the answers were still out there. There were barely any other cars on the road, just the hum of my tires against asphalt. Silence was good. Silence helped me think. I cracked the window and lit a cigarette.
As Exit 9 approached, I pulled over onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under my tires as I turned off the car. Shadows began peeking through the forest in the early morning air. This was it. The spot where, three years ago, Lila bolted into those woods to vomit while I smoked and waited. The same spot where her lifeless body was found just days ago. I zipped my jacket a little tighter and trudged through the mud. With all this green and brown, if a mustard yellow scarf was out here, I should find it pretty quickly. The file said she was fifty feet in, past the pine trees. My feet gently cracked leaves underfoot until I reached an open field. I stopped short, a memory invading my brain with a realization: one of my fondest memories of Lila, the night of the housewarming party, was the beginning of the end. We broke up a month afterwards.
I tried not to remember much from that day. She came in really early one morning, plastered. Followed by a screaming match in the front yard. “You’re suffocating me!” she shrieked through mascara-streaked tears. I shouted something back I barely remember about how I couldn’t keep up. Nosy neighbors peeked through the blinds when a police car showed up. The public attention became too much, and she stormed off, flip-flops in hand. The last time I ever saw her alive. I blinked the memory away, into the ether. My cigarette had burned down to the filter, ashes crumbling into the dirt. I flicked it away and looked back into the clearing. I crouched down, running my hands over the damp ground, littered with pine needles. No scarf, no footprints, just the weight of disappointment and the dull ache of my knees. I stood, popping them, and headed back to my car.
That’s when I felt it. That sharp, icy sensation on the back of my neck, like someone was staring at me. “Lila?” I spoke up in the heavy quiet, half-expecting her to leap from the trees. Nothing moved except the air. The presence of the entity lingered here, unseen but undeniable, tying her here like a thread on her scarf.
Chapter 6
I wasn’t ready to go home just yet. It was too quiet. Too empty. I figured I’d drive for a while, to nowhere in particular. Eventually, I came across a neon sign: The Mile Marker. A bar in the middle of nowhere? Thank God! I pulled into their gravel pit parking lot and glanced up at the red, glowing OPEN sign. Inside was like any old bar: smelled like stale beer, some overly sweet scent I couldn’t place, and worn wood.
The jukebox hummed an upbeat tune I half-recognized, despite its unplugged cord dangling in plain sight. The clock on the wall ticked back from 10:47 p. m., defying time itself. Clearly, this wasn’t just your average dive bar.
A weathered woman stood behind the bar, maybe late fifties, lines in her face cracked like pavement. Rhea, per her name tag. She glanced up to ask my order as I slid down onto the stool. “Whiskey,” I grumbled. She poured it quickly and quietly, and I tossed the whole thing back in one motion. It burned beautifully on the way down. Rubbing my eyes to adjust my vision, I saw a cardboard box behind the bar. It was stuffed with junk, but a faint shade of yellow caught my eye. My stomach fluttered. I leaned over the bar. “That a lost-and-found?”
“Yep. Bunch of junk people leave behind,” she said while wiping a glass. “The good stuff gets gone pretty quick.” I gestured toward it. “Mind if I take a look?” She shrugged. I sifted through it. Keys, a faded cap, a kid’s toy until my fingers grazed it: soft, frayed, and mustard yellow. Lila’s scarf. I fumbled with my phone and swiped through until I found a picture of Lila and me three years ago, scarf double-looped around her face, smiling wide. “Maybe you’ve seen her?” My voice cracked slightly. I was feeling that whiskey now. She leaned in, pulling her glasses down to her nose. “Yeah, about a week ago. Came in with some guy in a gray hoodie. Didn’t talk much. She left before him, though.” She tucked her glasses back into her shirt. “Friend of yours?”
I nodded. I grabbed the scarf. Words tumbled out before I could process them. “Can I?” I held the scarf up for her to see. “Please?” I sensed her skepticism. “And if the little blonde girl comes looking for it?” “She’s not coming back for it.” I sighed as I pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket. Her eyes met mine for a beat, then another. Finally, she shrugged and said, “Take it.” “Seems like you need it more than this bar does.”
I tucked the scarf into my jacket pocket, its soft weight pressed against my ribs like a stone in my chest. I scurried back to my Civic under the moonlight, the only sound from the crunching of the gravel under my boots. Carl’s truck was already there when I pulled up to the morgue. I killed the engine and opened the door to light a cigarette. He was already inside, probably fighting with the coffee machine again, unaware of the bombshell I was about to unleash. “Carl!” Right by the coffee machine like I thought he’d be. I was ready to lay into him when the lights flickered before plunging into darkness. I pulled Lila’s scarf from my pocket. The drawers began to rattle. Not just hers, all of them. A low, grinding sound of metal scraping like everything in there was trying to get out. Carl dropped the coffee cup, liquid spilling everywhere. “What the,” he began, but I was already moving, heart pounding, toward Lila’s drawer.
“Jake, help me.” It wasn’t just her this time, something bigger and angrier. The whiskey buzz was long gone, replaced with a cold sweat prickling my neck. I held her scarf tighter. The frayed ends brushed my knuckles. The rattling ended, sudden, and then a wet sound. It sounded like footsteps slapping the tile. “You’re not pranking me, are you?” Carl said, grabbing my arm. His voice was short, no smirk this time. I shook my head violently as the footsteps circled us. Carl pulled on me tighter against the counter. The air turned thick with the smell of stale beer and a sickly sweetness. Like that bar I just left. A shadow stretched across the wall. Too tall to be Lila’s. “Jake.” Another whisper, this time scratchy and loud in the room. Still not her voice.
“Jake, promise you’re not screwing with me?” Carl’s grip got even tighter. I pulled away, shaking my head, eyes focused on the shadow as it drew closer. It was ten feet tall, claws sparkling off the emergency exit sign. The scarf began to burn hot in my hand. Impossibly hot until I flung it across the room, swearing while it hit the floor. The shadow lunged at me, Carl pulling me back. The lights snapped back on, and the entity was gone. Only things on the floor were spilled coffee and the yellow scarf. Carl stared wild-eyed for a long time. “You’re not paranoid,” he stuttered, probably to himself. I grabbed the scarf, now room temperature, and stuffed it back into my pocket. “The blonde girl, Lila. She wasn’t an overdose,” I exclaimed finally. “Found this at a bar. Why wasn’t it with her belongings?” Carl sighed, but the door swung open before he could respond.
That intern was back. The twitchy emo one I hadn’t seen in days. He walked in with a slouched demeanor, his gray hood pulled low, covering his eyes. “Thought you quit,” I grumbled, fiddling with my keys. “Yeah, you wish,” he shrugged, smirking. “Carl practically begged me to come back. Said you were about to crack under the pressure.” His voice had that same edgy tone, like he was mocking me, but I didn’t understand. “He’s not wrong,” Carl snorted. I ignored the side chat and pulled Lila’s scarf out again. “This was at a bar. Bartender says she was with a standoffish guy in a gray hoodie a week ago.” The intern froze for a moment, then choked into his sleeve. “Weird,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. Upon further inspection, I noticed many red scratches, swollen and fresh.
My guts twisted as the lights flickered again and then died. Drawers rattled again, as forceful as ever. “Not again,” Carl started, but I was already glaring at the intern. The scarf burned hot in my hand again. “You,” I stepped closer to him. “You knew her. That ‘hot for a dead chick’ crack. You saw her before.” He smirked, almost laughing, but stepped backwards. “You’re cracked in the head, dude. I just like blonde chicks.” His eyes darted to the scarf, the drawer, the floor, then the scarf again. Then a clear look of realization turned into panic. “Jake, help me,” Lila’s voice whispered. But not from the drawer. She was directly behind him. He flinched, and I knew he heard it too.
I jumped for him, grabbing the collar of his hoodie, but the entity got him first. It slammed into me, knocking me against the table. When I got my breath, it had the intern clutched across the waist, the claws lingering at his neck. He managed to wriggle out of its grasp and bolted to the door. “Get back here!” I screamed after him. I tried to chase him, but the entity shifted, forming a wall between us. Carl pulled me back as the lights flashed back on, and the entity vanished once again. “What the hell, Jake?” Carl asked, still holding my shoulders. The intern had vanished, the sounds of gravel outside long gone. Carl stared for a moment. “What’s the kid got to do with this?”
I wrapped the scarf around my wrist. “It was him, Carl. I know it. He killed her.”
Chapter 7
Carl slammed the file cabinet shut after pulling Lila’s file. The metal clang echoed off the morgue walls. I pulled the scarf from my pocket, still warm, and laid it on the table beside my phone. We spread her files out, comparing them to the photos I took. “Look at this,” I said, pointing to the belongings list: blue shirt, denim jacket, leggings, boots, no scarf. “I found it at The Mile Marker, not here.” Carl frowned and flipped to the coroner’s report. The word “strangulation” appeared in faint blue ink, scratched out, with “overdose” written over it in black. “And the tox screen. Who was supposed to do it?”
“Well, me, but.” Carl trailed off, rubbing his neck. I glared. “He’s getting away with it because you slacked off.” The intern, with his shimmering piercings and that looming standoffishness, had been here, messing with files behind Carl’s back, covering his tracks. It clicked. He killed her, strangled her, and staged the overdose. Before Carl could argue, the lights flickered and cut out. A sickly sweet stench, like stale beer, filled the air. The entity loomed, ten feet of shadow and claws, a shard of Highway 12’s malice guarding his secret. It lunged. I swung the scarf. Flames erupted, scorching its arm. A howl broke out as it stumbled back. A pool of black liquid poured from it. It was injured. Carl grabbed me. “Hit it again!” But the drawers rattled, and it vanished into the air.
The precinct smelled like burned coffee and roughness as I slid the files across the desk to Detective Kane. My hands shook, not from cold. This place felt like a fireplace on Christmas compared to the morgue. I greeted Carl briefly in the hall, his arms crossed tightly, before stepping into the detective’s office. Kane, a stocky bald man with a permanent scowl, flipped through Lila’s file, eyes narrowing. “What am I looking at here?” he asked, his voice gravelly. He probably smoked more than I did.
“A murder cover-up.” I slammed the scarf onto the table, its edges singed. “Found this at a bar called The Mile Marker. It was supposed to be with her personal belongings in the morgue.” The detective inspected it. “Well, you know we can’t use this as evidence with your fingerprints all over it.” Kane lifted the scarf and sniffed it, as if it might reveal something. “Smells like ash. You torch it?”
“Not exactly.” I hesitated. The image of that entity flashed in my mind, claws dripping black ooze. I shuddered and shoved the scarf back into my pocket. “Here’s the coroner’s report. Strangulation scratched out with overdose written over it.” Kane leaned back. His chair creaked as he tapped the report with his index finger. “And you’re saying the one responsible is this punk kid with the piercings?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was the only one on shift. Messing with files when Carl wasn’t supervising him. Made a sick comment about her. Petechiae and bruises on her neck. The tox screen that didn’t get done? It’s obvious to me.” The detective’s skepticism infuriated me. “Seems promising, but where is he now?”
“Bolted overnight. We checked his apartment. It’s empty. You can’t tell me it’s a coincidence.” Kane grunted and scribbled notes quickly. “We’ll check it out. If he’s running, we’ll find him.”
Later, outside the precinct, Carl bummed a cigarette off me. The flame flickered in the early morning dusk. “Told the detective my side,” he said, exhaling. Smoke circled his head like a halo as he leaned on the wall. “Man, I dropped the ball on that tox screen. Three bodies in a week, many overdoses, suspected homicide of a prominent city council member. I was swamped. Intern offered to help log stuff for me. Why didn’t I double-check? This is my fault, Jake.”
I sighed and clenched my fist. “The kid made his own choices, Carl.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s my fault I didn’t pick up on his vibe from the start. He was too jittery, too eager. Hovering when I pulled Lila’s file, bombarding me with questions. I thought he was just enthusiastic. Kane asked if I saw him tamper with anything. I couldn’t honestly say I did.”
“And that thing in the morgue?” I asked.
Carl sighed, bitter. “I left that part out. Told him the lights went out, the scarf got singed by some electrical problem, and we got spooked. That’s all. They don’t need ghost stories, Jake. They need evidence. Kane’s sending someone to The Mile Marker to question people. Said he’d call if they found anything.”
I nodded, feeling for the scarf in my pocket, now cold as the air outside. I drove back to my place, its weight heavy on my mind. The sun dragged up the sky, painting it a bruised purple. Carl’s words replayed in my head, his guilt about the intern, the entity in the morgue. But Lila’s voice, “Jake, help me,” wouldn’t let go. It felt like the scarf tied her to me. I sat in the driveway for a while, staring at the dashboard. My mind drifted to a night three years ago. Lila sprawled on my couch, her legs intertwined with mine, watching some lousy horror series from the nineties. She laughed when the heroine burned a cursed necklace to defeat the ghost. “The most realistic part of this show,” she said. Then she made an off-color joke about implants that I rolled my eyes at. Now it felt like a message she sent through time. I grabbed a metal bucket from the garage, a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen counter, and a lighter from my pocket. I stepped into the alley behind the house and set the bucket on the concrete. The scarf slid out of my pocket, its singed edges lifting in the breeze, as if it knew what was coming.
I held it up in admiration. It was the last piece of her I could hold. Yet it had become a leash, something the entity used to claw into our world. I held it over the bucket, struck it with the lighter, and dropped it inside, pouring whiskey on top. The scarf ignited fast. Orange flames raced across the fabric, turning it black. The smell rose, a mix of burning fabric, ash, and that faint sweetness I’d caught at the bar. I watched it crumble to ash, the smoke stinging my eyes. I tipped more whiskey into the bucket. It hissed, snuffing out the fire, leaving only a pile of gray behind. The tense weight in my chest shifted, like a stone sinking deeper. “I’m sorry, Lila,” I muttered, taking a sip of the whiskey. “I couldn’t save you, but now you’re free.”
I kicked the bucket over. The wind picked up, scattering the ashes across the alley. For a brief second, I swore I heard her laugh, soft and goofy and happy. My phone buzzed from the kitchen counter. I walked inside and saw the precinct’s number on the screen. I answered. Kane’s voice came through, tense and urgent. “Jake, we need you and Carl down here. We found a body.”
Chapter 8
The morgue felt colder than usual when I pulled up in my Civic, gravel crunching under my boots as I stepped out. Detective Kane was already there, his precinct cruiser parked beside Carl’s truck. Inside, I found them by the steel table, Kane’s gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the fluorescent lights as he talked with Carl, who stood with his arms crossed. They looked up as I approached. Kane flipped open his notebook, squinting at his scribbled notes. “Car accident victim found off Highway 12,” he said, tapping the page. “Car crumpled into a guardrail. Died instantly of head and neck trauma. It’s your intern.” My stomach twisted, a mix of relief and frustration boiling up. I’d solved it, pieced together Lila’s murder, but too late. The kid was already gone, slipped through justice’s fingers. Carl reached for the body bag zipper and pulled it down slowly. The scraping sound echoed in the quiet room. There he was, piercings and all, his smirk now solemn. I looked away. He looked too peaceful for what he did to Lila, and it gnawed at me.
I went about my routine in the morgue, trying to shake off the irritation. I sterilized tools, checked the log, and stacked files on the counter, the familiar motions grounding me. My eyes darted toward Lila’s drawer. It shook violently, the familiar metal grinding sound growing deafening. My heart sped up, practically beating out of my chest. I stepped over to the drawer, hand hovering over its handle. The rattling stopped abruptly. I waited. Nothing. No whispers. No shadowy figures. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights above. I exhaled slowly and let relief wash over me.
I went out for lunch. By the time I returned, the intern’s body had been taken away. Carl was back later, his truck’s loud rumbling announcing him. I’d spent the morning sorting files to keep busy. Lila’s case was finally solved. Her body had been claimed by unknown relatives and shipped off to some funeral home I’d never heard of. Even without her drawer rattling, the weight of it all still pressed on me. I needed a fresh start. The misery and death had worn their welcome by now.
Carl strolled in with a new intern in tow. This kid was different. Tall and lanky, with a mop of curly brown hair and a shy smile. He wore a button-up shirt and khakis. No piercings or hoodie. He clutched a clipboard to his stomach like a shield. “Jake, meet Tim,” Carl said, playfully slapping the kid on the shoulder. “Mortuary studies degree. Says he’s here to learn. Expects a long and successful career here.” Tim nodded sheepishly and extended a hand to me. His voice was soft but sincere. “Nice to meet you, sir. Carl’s only told me great things.” I shook his hand, firm and fast. For once, I didn’t feel like hazing the new guy. He was the opposite of the last kid. He was sincere.
“Call me Jake, dude,” I said, forcing a welcoming half-smile. “Just don’t touch anything without permission.” Tim laughed quietly, a little awkward. Carl grinned. “What did I tell you, kid? He’s not so bad,” Carl told him. They walked over to the coffee machine, Carl already fiddling with it. I turned back to my files, stacking them neatly. A rote routine I’d been stuck in far too long.
Then I heard it. A whisper, faint but clear as day. “Jake.” My head popped up, eyes scanning the room. The drawers stayed still. Carl and Tim chatted by the coffee machine, oblivious. The voice lingered softly like a breeze. I gritted my teeth and shook my head. I wasn’t going to answer the call this time. I had solved Lila’s case, the first of the stiffs in this morgue to talk to me, and she would be my last. Whatever that whisper was, someone else could chase it.
At the end of my shift, I texted Carl from the parking lot like the coward I was. “I’m done. Quitting. Tired of this place.” I typed, recalling the flickering lights and endless parade of death. “The place is weighing on me. Need something else.” Carl didn’t respond for several minutes. I expected a wall of text. “I get it. Best of luck, man. If you ever need anything, you know where I am,” he finally replied. I thanked him, a genuine smile sweeping my face. “Take care of the kid,” I added. I opened my car door and sat there, cigarette in hand, staring at the morgue’s dark facade.
The rearview faded into the dusk as I watched the building that had caged me for years. The weight felt like a chain I’d finally snapped. For once, I didn’t dread what might follow me home. The air was silent now. Maybe it was Lila letting go, or maybe I was finally breaking free. I pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the gravel and ghosts behind. I needed something simpler now, away from death. I flicked the cigarette butt out the window and drove off onto the highway.