Why do they always keep the light on down there? I’ve worked in this place for two years and whenever I’ve asked, it’s always the same b******t.
Now, I do realise that it takes some courage to work at a mortuary, but for god’s sake, you knew what you were getting up to. The stiffs come in, one after another, some in better shape than others – hah! But… why? Just what is so special about the cellar in this place – it’s just an empty room of cobwebs and damp?
Although, I must say, I’ve noticed a few weird things about this place over the past few weeks. The groundskeeper keeps locking himself in there, and then some distant, haunting noises can be heard resonating from within, but normally it doesn’t go on for longer than a few minutes.
I waited one night, just to watch him go down there: sure enough, he descended the stone staircase and softly closed the door behind him. Soon after, there were muffled grunts and groans accompanied by a frantic thrashing sound. ‘What a loser’ – I thought to myself, chuckling, faint disdain building up in me as I listened to the noises he was making.
One night, I became so curious that I decided to find out just what the hell was going on, so I waited until the end of my shift and pretended to shut up the mortuary, but instead crept downstairs to wait, skulking in the shadows of – the constantly illuminated cellar, hiding behind a big box labelled ‘Carris Illicitus’ (‘Forbidden Meat’ in Latin; I’d learnt Latin at school, and knew what it meant).
So, on that night, as I was hiding behind the boxes, I saw him entering the cellar, carefully looking around so as not to be seen by anyone, silently closing the door behind him. He looked around, eyeing up the boxes, lovingly patting some of them, eventually stopping in front of the ‘forbidden’ one, which he fondled exceptionally adoringly.
I watched as he began to open it, lifting the big cardboard flaps at the top, one by one, a groaning emanating from within. Slowly, he withdrew what I can only describe as a flayed baby with a head so big it could easily be mistaken by that of an old man, wrinkled and gnarled, with the sickest smile I’d ever seen in my life. It began to thrash around, making the noises I was so accustomed to hearing of late, as the groundskeeper, seemingly in some kind of trance, looked at it in awe, not moving a muscle.
Suddenly, the ‘man-baby’ thing pounced upon the groundsman, his face enthralled by the occurrence, and nastily subsumed his being within, enveloping his entire, willing body. I watched, in horror, as the thing consumed the hapless sod; when it was done, it shrieked loudly and, at a speed no one would expect of anything known to humans, darted out of the cellar.
I don’t know what that was, or where that thing is now, but we’re all in great, great danger.
All I know is the groundsman is still here, and he keeps going down there.
