It was 3:12 AM when the corpse whispered his name.
"Elijah…"
Not a scream. Not a moan. Just a breath. Soft, rasping. From lips stitched shut.
Elijah Vane dropped the bone saw.
It clattered across the cold steel of the autopsy table, splashing sterile water and blood onto his coat. For a moment, the morgue was dead silent. Then the cooler behind him exhaled—hissing steam—and the whisper came again.
> "Elijah… you're not supposed to be alive."
He turned slowly.
The body on the table had been toe-tagged less than an hour ago. Female, mid-30s. Cause of death: self-inflicted gunshot wound. Name: Marla Greeves. Found in her apartment bathroom with a suicide note and no heartbeat. Rigor was already setting in. Blood had settled.
She was dead.
She was supposed to be dead.
But her mouth moved.
And Elijah—against everything he knew about flesh, rot, and silence—leaned in closer.
"Say it again," he whispered.
And she did.
> "We remember you."
---
Elijah stumbled back, nearly slipping on the linoleum.
This wasn't the first time. Not by a long shot.
He'd heard whispers before. Ever since he took the night shift six months ago, the dead had started talking.
At first, it was accidental.
A mutter during embalming. A sigh during Y incisions. A groan from the freezer.
But those… could be explained. Air pockets. Nerve spasms. Hallucinations from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
This wasn't that.
This was intentional.
Marla's voice had shape. Purpose.
And it wasn't hers.
---
He backed into the sink, water hissing from a faulty pipe.
Marla didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stared.
Her eyes had been closed before.
Now they were open.
Glass eyes. Dead eyes.
Except they weren't empty.
They were furious.
---
"Elijah?"
The voice wasn't from the corpse.
It came through the intercom.
Valerie. The security officer on rotation.
> "You good in there? Lights are flickering on camera. Motion sensor's acting up."
He almost answered. Almost said, I'm fine. Almost lied.
But then Marla's jaw twitched.
And Elijah slammed the intercom button.
> "Tell the front desk I'm locking the room. No one comes in until sunrise."
> "What? Elijah, are you—"
> "Do it. Please."
---
He turned back.
Marla's lips were sewn shut again.
He hadn't done that.
The sutures were back. Perfect. Taut. Holding her secrets behind neat black thread.
His breath fogged in the freezing air.
His own reflection stared at him from the metal cabinet.
And whispered:
> "She wasn't the first."
---
The cold room hummed.
He approached the drawer wall slowly.
There were twelve bodies in storage.
Every one had a story. A tragedy. An ending.
He kept their tags neat, their records clean. He never spoke ill of them. He honored the silence.
But they didn't want silence anymore.
He opened Drawer 4.
No one was inside.
Drawer 5.
Empty.
Drawer 6.
A child's body.
With a note.
Folded. Blood-speckled.
Written in his own handwriting:
> You saw me die and walked away.
> You buried the footage.
> You let them think it was an accident.
---
Elijah staggered back. Heart pounding.
He hadn't touched that drawer since the boy came in three months ago.
Name: Lewis Trent.
Age: 9.
Died in a fire that should've been ruled an arson.
But no one ever found the evidence.
No one… because Elijah never reported the burns on the child's wrists.
He never turned in the footage that showed the truth.
Because he was tired. Overworked. Paid to process, not to question.
Now the dead wanted justice.
Or worse—they wanted him to feel what they felt.
---
The lights flickered.
Again.
But not at random.
In sequence.
One.
Two.
Three.
Down the hall.
Like a trail.
Like an invitation.
Like a cue.
Elijah followed.
---
The back of the cold room had a door he'd never used.
It led to the old wing. Sealed years ago after an electrical fire warped the generator room.
No cameras. No power.
He unlocked it with a trembling keycard.
Stepped inside.
And froze.
The hallway was filled with bodies standing upright.
Dozens.
Propped against the walls like sleepwalkers.
Eyes open.
Staring at him.
Some had mouths sewn shut.
Others didn't.
> "We've waited long enough," they whispered.
> "The truth was supposed to matter."
> "You made us ghosts."
Elijah backed up.
One corpse stepped forward.
Marla.
Skin gray. Eyes black. Mouth now unstitched.
> "Let us speak."
> "Or take our place."
---
He turned to run.
But the hallway had closed.
The door gone.
Only cold.
Only whispers.
Only his name, over and over:
> "Elijah… Elijah… Elijah…"
Like a lullaby.
Like a curse.
He screamed.
No one heard.
---
When security opened the cold room at sunrise, Elijah was gone.
Every drawer was full.
But one tag was new.
ELIJAH VANE.
Date of Death: Unknown.
Cause: Still being whispered.