The freezer wasn't supposed to be open.
Elijah stared at the white door slowly drifting ajar. Not because he'd unlocked it. Not because the keypad had failed.
But because something had opened it from inside.
He took a step forward, careful not to breathe too loud.
The air was sharp, thick with the iron tang of preservation chemicals and something else—something older. Like the scent of old paper and dried blood sealed in sacred vaults.
The freezer light flickered above.
And inside, a drawer rolled out on its own.
Drawer 12.
He hadn't used it in years.
Because the last time he opened it, he found someone already inside.
Someone who'd never been logged.
Someone who'd never left.
---
The drawer was empty now.
No body.
Just an object. Wrapped in linen. Still wet.
He stepped closer. Unfolded it.
A suit.
His suit.
The one he'd worn six years ago at the fire scene.
It was soaked in blood.
A memory cracked open inside him: the heat, the screams, the boy at the window reaching out—
And Elijah, paralyzed.
Watching.
Not moving.
Then—
> A whisper: "We saw you leave."
He spun.
And saw the toe.
A toe. Pale. Bare. Peeking out from behind the gurney.
He crouched slowly.
It was connected to a leg.
A leg to a torso.
The body had pulled itself out of the drawer.
And it was crawling across the floor.
Its jaw unhinged like a snake.
Whispers pouring out in reverse.
Like it was unspeaking its own death.
---
"Elijah."
He turned.
Valerie was in the doorway.
Frozen.
Mouth agape.
Behind her, the hospital alarms had gone silent.
So had the world.
No noise. No hum. No time.
Only Elijah and the body that shouldn't be moving.
He reached for her.
But her skin crumbled.
Ash.
She turned to dust in front of him.
And the whispers screamed:
> "You weren't supposed to leave the door open!"
> "They've escaped, Elijah!"
> "The cold doesn't hold them anymore!"
---
Suddenly, every door in the morgue slammed open.
Every drawer.
Every locker.
Wind howled.
The fluorescent lights overhead burst, raining glass.
And in the center of the room stood a child-sized figure.
Mouth stitched.
Eyes white.
It pointed to him.
And Elijah felt something break in his chest.
Not physically.
But a seal.
A lock inside his memory.
He remembered everything.
The girl on the table. The whisper. The plea he ignored.
The voice recorder he erased.
The father who hung himself because of the false autopsy.
The family destroyed.
The truth buried.
Now the dead had retrieved it.
And they were walking.
---
The body moved.
Not by crawling now.
It stood.
Bones cracking in reverse.
Muscles stretching like marionette strings.
And the worst part?
It was smiling.
> "We don't need cold rooms anymore."
> "We're in the walls."
> "In the ink."
> "In you."
---
Elijah turned to flee.
But the hallway wasn't a hallway anymore.
It was a funeral procession.
Bodies walking slowly.
Each one bearing their own death.
Holding it in their hands like scrolls.
They passed him, brushing his shoulders, whispering into his ears:
> "Tell them."
> "Write it down."
> "Confess."
And at the very end of the procession…
Was himself.
Dead.
Mouth sewn.
Eyes open.
And in his hand—
The Book.
Bound in morgue tags.
Filled with every lie Elijah ever signed.
Every truth he buried.
And the last page was blank.
Waiting.
---
He reached for it.
And the dead Elijah whispered:
> "It's your turn now."