The Mortician | Fiction

This is the start of an idea I have for an anthology that I'd love to publish once it's finished. I thought I'd share it to see what you guys think! Also, this is just a working title for now.

It really freaked me out the first time it happened. I was just tagging another body when the one on the examination table sat up. Sat straight up out of nowhere, a dead body. I jumped. I probably screamed like a little kid. I knew for a fact that body had no life left in it. I had done the autopsy myself!

When it started talking to me, I really lost my mind. Dead bodies don’t talk.

“Where am I?” He asked, his voice croaking with each syllable.

I stared at his inquisitive eyes for a minute before I could bring myself to answer. I was trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I had pronounced him dead and now he was talking to me. Every fiber of my being screamed at me that it was impossible. I had to have accidentally drugged myself—or something— and now I was hallucinating. Still, I tried to rationalize.

Obviously, he wasn’t dead and that didn’t make any sense to my frazzled mind, or my normal, sane one either, for that matter.

“You’re in the morgue, sir?”

“The morgue? Why am I in the morgue?!”

“Well,” I explained, “you were pronounced dead and sent to me.”

“Dead? How?”

“Your file said you had a heart attack at home. I’m not so sure about that dead part now, though.”

“H-heart attack? I feel so weird.”

“Well, I imagine you do. You’re—er, you were— dead.” I approached the man slowly. The idea of zombies had wormed its way into my head and made me even more terrified. He could attack me at any moment. I had to be careful.

That’s when I saw it.

There were two of him.

One was still lying on the table, obviously lifeless. The other was sitting upright and staring at me, less obviously lifeless.

I nearly screamed again. What the fuck was going on here? I certainly lost my mind.

“What the matter?” The upright version of the man asked.

“There’s….there are two of you.”

“Two?” He turned to look where I was staring, directly behind him. “...oh.” He all but whispered. There was no emotion in his voice. I’m sure he didn’t know what to feel. Who would, staring down at their own body?
We both stayed silent for an uncomfortably long time.

“I think you were right.”

“Huh?” I questioned, caught off guard by his voice.

“I think you were right. I did have a heart attack. That’s why I feel so weird. I don’t have a body anymore.”

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say and I was pretty sure I was dreaming.

I stared at the man as he stared at his own body. We were both in complete shock and I was convinced I had lost all my marbles.

That’s how I found out that’s ghosts and spirits were most definitely a real thing and that I could see and communicate with them.

I struggled with the irony of my career choice after that day, but have since accepted it.

Obviously, it was all just meant to be. It’s been both fun and horrifying. Dead people have the best stories to tell as they wait to move on to the next world. I feel like it’s now my duty to hear their stories. From the lighthearted and beautiful to the dark and scaring, I collect them. Some I pass on and share. Some I wish I could forget as they burrow their way into my nightmares.

I must warn you, not all ghosts are friendly. Not all stories are happy and fun. Some people loved very troubled lives, but I can’t overlook their stories. They deserve to tell their tale as much as anyone else.

As for the man that had the heart attack, he told me a lovely story after we both finally accepted what was happening.
He decided the best way to spend his last moments in this world was to tell me his favorite memories. And that is exactly what I’ve encouraged all the others to do.

Of course, there have been the ones that decided to go the complete opposite route. One man told me about the murder he had committed and all the things he did in prison. But, honestly, I think those were his favorite memories. His ghost was intimidating and plain fucking scary. I didn’t want to hear all the details of his past, but I couldn’t keep myself from listening. He was a fantastic storyteller, bring all the guts and carnage to life in my head. I still have nightmares of his stories. I get shivers just thinking about them. I must say I’m glad he went to prison for the things he told me about.

I’m waiting for the day that someone tells me something I should take to the police. I hope it never happens. They’re all going to think I’m crazy. “Oh yes, officer, the ghost of the killer told me he did it!” They’ll laugh me right out of the station. Or worse, have me mentally evaluated.

For now, I just enjoy the stories and help these poor souls move onto their next journey.

Photo Source: