She pulled a fresh gurney into the embalming room. On it lay an elderly man, his skin the color of wet river clay. The protocol was simple: wash, drain, preserve. But the air in the basement was heavy, smelling less of formaldehyde and more of burnt hair and ancient soil.
A wet, slapping sound echoed from the hallway. Slap. Drag. Slap. Drag. She pulled a fresh gurney into the embalming room
Then, she heard it—a voice coming from her own throat, but not her own words. But the air in the basement was heavy,
As she reached for the carotid artery, the lights flickered. Across the room, the lid of a storage cabinet creaked open. It didn’t swing; it pulsed, as if something inside was breathing. Rebecca froze. She remembered Mr. Delver’s warning: The demons don’t want the dead; they want the vessel that’s still warm. She grabbed her clipboard
The fluorescent lights of the River Fields Mortuary hummed at a frequency that felt like a needle pressing into Rebecca’s skull. She had taken this apprenticeship to face her demons, but tonight, the demons were literal.
She grabbed her clipboard, her hands shaking so hard the pen skittered across the floor. She needed to identify the mark. Every demonic possession left a sign—a sigil hidden in the folds of skin or behind an eyelid. If she didn't find it and burn the right body before the shift ended, she wouldn’t be leaving through the front door.