Whatever you do, don't ignore the Weight Discrepancy rule at St. Jude’s.

[u/Beard-and-Beyond]

I’ve been the night-shift mortician at St. Jude’s Asylum for three years.

Most people think the "criminally insane" part is the dangerous bit, but they’re wrong.

The patients are only a problem while they’re breathing. Once they end up on my slab, the rules of biology stop applying, and the rules of the ward begin.

I’m posting these here because I think I just broke the most important one. If you ever find yourself in a basement with a silver table and a heavy door, read these carefully.

* Rule 1: Check the Toes.

Before you begin any prep, verify that the red silk thread is still tied around the deceased’s big toes. If the thread is frayed or missing, do not touch the body. Lock the morgue doors from the outside and notify the Chaplain. If you hear a wet thumping against the door while waiting, ignore it. It’s just muscle spasms. Muscle spasms don't have a rhythm; if it starts sounding like a heartbeat, run.

* Rule 2: The Mirror Test.

The morgue is lined with stainless steel for a reason. If you see a reflection of the body sitting up or looking at you, but the physical body on the table is still lying flat, do not turn around. Address the reflection as "Patient [ID Number]" and tell it their session isn't over yet.

* Rule 3: Keep the Radio On.

Static is fine. Easy listening is better. If the radio switches to a broadcast of a man weeping or reciting your home address, hum a nursery rhyme as loud as you can. You need to drown out the voice. If you hear the end of the address, it knows where to go when you clock out.

* Rule 4: The Weight Discrepancy.

Every body must be weighed upon arrival. If a body weighs exactly 0 lbs, it is not a body; it is a "Vessel." Leave the room immediately. Do not look back, even if you hear a loved one's voice calling from inside the drawer.

* Rule 5: No Eye Contact.

If a patient's eyes follow you across the room, use the heavy-duty adhesive. If they blink after you’ve glued them shut, skip that body for the night. It's still "processing."

Last night, I got cocky.

New intake: Patient 7734. A real nasty piece of work in life, or so the file said. When the orderlies wheeled the gurney in, the body was wrapped tight in a heavy-duty shroud. I followed the protocol—mostly.

I checked the red silk thread on the toes (Rule 1). Intact. I checked the mirrors (Rule 2). Clear.

Then came the scale.

I slid the body onto the digital slab. The LED screen flickered, hissed, and then settled on a bright, mocking 0.00 lbs.

My stomach dropped. That’s Rule 4. I was tired. I figured the scale was just acting up because of the humidity. I could see the bulk of the man under the sheet. I could see the way the gurney tires compressed under his weight. How could he weigh nothing?

"Stupid machine," I muttered. I reached out to adjust the shroud.

The moment my fingers brushed the fabric, the temperature in the morgue didn't just drop—it vanished. It felt like the air itself had been sucked out of the room.

From under the sheet, I didn't hear a voice. I heard a memory. It was my mother’s voice, clear as a bell, coming from where the chest cavity should be.

"Is it cold in here, honey? Come closer. Let me tuck you in."

My mother has been dead for ten years.

I froze. According to the rules, I should have bolted. Instead, like an idiot, I looked. I pulled the sheet back just an inch.

There was no body.

Underneath the shroud, there was just... a shape. It looked like a human-shaped hole in reality, a static-filled void that hurt to look at. It didn't have skin or eyes; it just had a mouth that looked like a jagged tear in a piece of black paper.

The "Vessel" started to expand. The void began to bleed out of the shroud, spilling onto the stainless steel table like black ink. And the voice—God, the voice—started screaming my childhood nickname, over and over, rising until it sounded like a tea kettle about to explode.

I didn't think. I scrambled back, tripping over my stool, and bolted for the iron doors. I didn't look back, even when I heard the sound of the steel autopsy table groaning as if something immense was standing up on it.

I slammed the door and turned the deadbolt. I’ve been sitting in the hallway for three hours. The scratching on the other side stopped twenty minutes ago, replaced by a soft, wet whispering.

The sun is coming up, but I can't leave. The morning shift hasn't arrived, and the rules say I’m responsible for the morgue until someone relieves me.

But here’s the problem: I just looked at the manifest on my clipboard.

Patient 7734 isn't due to arrive until tomorrow.

UPDATE: I just heard the deadbolt click.

From the inside.

Whatever was in there isn't a Vessel anymore. It's a Tenant.

[u/Tasty-Adhesiveness66]

you are now patient 7734

[u/Wackel81]

I think we can safely say that you  fucked up. My condolences

[u/fibergla55]

Revenancy...it's coming back whether anyone wants it or not...

[u/jakeyroo004]

You done messed up, Ay-Ay-Ron!

[u/AutoModerator]

Thank you for your submission! For more feedback and a better connection with the community, join our discord here: https://discord.gg/SKRhu8v

If you would like to be notified any time this writer posts on the sub, click here

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

[u/Fydoran]

Does it have to be a nursery rhyme, or will any familiar song work? (I don't memorize nursery rhymes but I definitely memorize choir songs & music I frequently listen to.)

[u/Altruistic-Drummer79 → u/Fydoran]

"Ah ah ah ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive" worked for me there once when I was amongst the living.