"The Ghosts of Hallows’ Eve"
By Stephen Signor
The sound of rain echoes in the ears of Brockton’s only detective. As intermittent as his windshield wipers the past continues to
haunt him. Born October 31, 1944 Ellery Kings’ parents had always been a big fan of the fictional character Ellery Queen and so
decided to name their only child on his behalf. He hated it. All through his early days of school, especially at the Brockton Police
Academy, he had been taunted and teased. Ironic he became interested in police science. Perhaps it was the number of times his
father had been arrested for domestic violence and then died an accidental death that lead to his decision. His mother would
mysteriously disappear shortly thereafter.
His birthday is today. After his divorce six years ago they were all pretty much uneventful. But unlike all those that proceeded,
this would be one he’ll never forget. For this was Hallows’ Eve! It was a time for deceit. Strangers masquerade their alter egos.
For one forgiving night they can lose their identities and wallow in the joy of animosity. For him, sitting in an unmarked cruiser
in front of a morgue after hours felt normal. He even imagined talking to the departed while he sat and patiently waited for night
to fall.
The raging storm outside had altered time. A quick glance at his watch tells him it is 7:15 pm. Still no lights or movement from
within. Patrols had been staking this morgue at night for the past six years. Reports have been made regarding unusual activity
surrounding this facility every Halloween. It has always played host to peer pranks, trespassing and vandalism. But this became a
serious crime scene when barely a week ago two teenagers went missing. They were known to have entered only never to be
seen again.
“Jesus Christ!” Ellery cries out to no one.
High winds had caused a limb to remove itself from the dying elm he was parked under. The roof of his car had conveniently
broken the fall. Feeling unraveled he attempted to check his cell for messages. No signal existed.
Because of the hour he thought it strange that kids in costumes were now out with their parents collecting the typical array of
goodies. He also notices that teenagers have managed to mingle within the mainstream of trick-or-treaters.
Over an hour passed and nothing had occurred that warranted further investigation. Feeling it would be a long night Ellery decided to
take a side trip to the convenient store located just a few blocks up the road. And besides, he needed to get out and remove the fallen
limb from his roof.
All sorts of creatures would be looming in the parking lot. Even the cashier was dressed up. Passing glances by ghouls, goblins,
vampires and everything in between went unnoticed. Content with his steaming hot refreshment he returned to his perch on Fore
Street. Sitting in an unmarked car and wearing plain clothes he plans to remain unnoticed.
As he begins to sip his hot coffee one particular individual stands out and catches his eye. He has separated himself from the crowd
and heads toward his vehicle. His attention diverted by this persons movements he misses his mouths effort to capture the black gold.
“God damn it!” he exclaims as the searing liquid soaks his trousers and bakes his skin. This of course starts a chain reaction of
bundled nerves. The cup drops and tumbles escaping his every effort to catch it before the entire contents hits the seat next to him.
Burnt and annoyed he sits up.
His heart skips a beat at the sight and sound of a body pressed against the passenger side window. The strangers face, scared and
bloody is just staring. Forcefully his face cracks and a facsimile of a smile emerge.
“Nice makeup job.”
But he just keeps staring. Deep eyes bury themselves deep into his consciousness and soul. They are black as death itself. Very
impressive he thinks to himself. The window and body of the car squeal as the creep squeegees’ his way along the side to the rear.
And is gone.
Relieved by his passing Detective King returns his attention to the now continuous parade of freaks. Although the crowd has thinned it
remains steady. His legs still shaking from that disturbing image and stinging from being burnt he seeks comfort.
Leaning over he begins the search in the glove box for something to absorb the liquid that has also accumulated on the passenger
seat. Frustrated at coming up empty he makes a slow and deliberate move to rise back up in the seat. A 2nd figure is standing in front
of the car. This person too is just staring. Under the pale full moonlight sky no discernible features are revealed.
“Son-of-a-bitch, what the hell is going on here?” He mutters to himself.
Paranoia begins to makes itself home. His first instinct is to put on the headlights but is afraid of what reveal itself. This is ridiculous
coming from a grown man and seasoned veteran carrying a 38 special. He opts to beep the horn. The orange and black clad host
responds. Large hands crash under the weight of this massive figure onto the hood as if they were anvils. Having had enough, Ellery
slowly reaches for the 38, eyes trained and ready for any sudden movement.
Instinctively the deviant raises himself, his arms reaching for the sky as if to surrender. Then he slowly lowers them, pointing a digit
from one of his gloved hands. He jerks the hand as if defining recoil and leaves as quickly as he had appeared.
He tries to focus on his movements hoping t get a glimpse at a face. There is no one home. Only darkness beneath the hood that
covers his head.
A loud thumping sound has broken the silence. His heart is fighting a losing battle to pound itself out of his chest. Although frozen with
fear he dares not divert attention away from the outside surroundings. He knows he will surely die on the spot if spooked one more
time.
The moon has since hidden itself behind the building. Apparently it too has seen enough and found refuge. Time to turn on the interior
lights and check his watch; 11pm. The midnight hour was closing in; that magical hour when twilight and dawn are evenly matched.
One more hour and this night will be over. At least psychologically.
Hesitantly and with great precaution he turns out the light. Everything to this point seems to have occurred in slow motion. Appropriately
he slowly looks up away from my watch. Alas he is alone! No surprises. More comforting the irregular heart beat has returned to
normal. He is consumed by silence.
Pedestrian traffic is all but non-existent. Just a few stragglers. Entombed by sheet metal, glass and leather he knows he must soon
leave this chamber of horrors. The night air will feel good. Compressed lungs will be thankful. His sanity will revere him.
It is at that moment a light is seen going on from within the morgue. No sooner than it goes out another one goes on. Definitely
movement. He can’t help but laugh out loud recalling the tale of Paul Revere. One if by land, two if by sea. Could it be a signal? To
whom? Careless behavior or macabre circumstances.
Exiting his tomb he is greeted with relief. And chills. The rain has let up and the ground temperature has equaled that of the air. Fog
begins to playfully roll around, teasing any remaining senses and enhancing an already present awareness of the holiday.
Armed with the 38, damaged wits and a flashlight loaded with fresh batteries he makes a quiet assault on the premises. That one light
remains lit in the far left corner of the building.
The property is gated but easily accessible by a small climb. Obviously a proven unsuccessful deterrent to trespassers, even the elder
Ellery King. It’s a reminder of the gates typically found surrounding older cemeteries. Like the one where his parents are buried. For
some unknown reason he wonders what it would be like to communicate with the dead. More sick humor to lighten the load of burden
that now consumes him.
Inside rustling and muffled voices can be heard. For once they are not those lately heard in his head. With a hand firmly on the door
knob and a gentle turning he has not alarmed those within. Trained stealth has served him well. Once open the air inside is released
like a pressure chamber. The smell of staleness and death fills his senses. Even during the day of regular activity it has felt haunting
with each entry.
The main corridor is long and dark. At the end is the source of the light seen from outside. It seeps under the door casting a vague
shadow of those who lurk on the other side. With his back pressed against the wall he slithers toward the invaded room. He pauses
momentarily at the apparent door where the first light emanated and moves on.
Soon he becomes face to face with the portal of death. His presence so far remains undiscovered. A decision to attempt entry without
force is a calculated one. With one hand on his 38 and the other on the door knob he thrust the door open and drops his arm into an
aimed and firing position.
Ellery is frozen with confusion by the sight in front of him. The room is empty. Instinctively he wheels around to protect vulnerability.
Then to the left and then to the right. Nothing!
“What the hell!” The sound echoes off the bare concrete walls.
Unsatisfied he remains armed and ready. But the room is not only empty of intruders is completely devoid of furnishings. Suddenly he
hears the sound of a bone saw. It appears to coming somewhere down one of the side halls passed earlier. Still armed he makes
short work of getting to the source of the commotion. This time he would not be eluded.
As he reaches the side hall he passes a familiar antiquated vending machine to his right. The thought of snacks repulses him. Just a
bit further away is a bench used by officials waiting the coroners’ results. A narrow beam of light splits the swinging doors of the exam
room that faces him. It appears to be calling him. Bursting through without hesitation proves useless. The findings are the same, with
one exception. Although lacking human presence everything else is as it should be: Autopsy tables, cadaver carrier, cabinets with
fluids and syringes and a Mopec refrigerator.
Ellery has seen enough. Been through enough. He could not compete with his senses or his lack of sanity. He would return to the
station, file his report and call it good. He wasn’t cut out for this. His last day as a detective was on the horizon and it just wasn’t worth it.
As quietly as he entered he left. However his retreat was much quicker. His only awareness on the way to the car was that the streets
were bare. There were no people and no cars within 2 blocks on either side. Without so much as looking back he departed this realm
of craziness. He would file his report in the morning when he was fresh.
That would never happen. It was too late. In his car he became overwhelmed. Sweating profusely, shortness of breath, and a tightness
in his chest consumes him. The last thing he remembers is the sensation of impending doom. One last breath is expelled from his
tormented body before he slumps over in his seat.
Time passes when all of sudden the vibration of his cell phone begins to resonate against his face. After slumping over, his head had
landed on the phone. It continues to beckon him. Without rising he removes the annoyance from his cheek and answers.
“Hello?”
On the line is Captain Gorman. Unconcerned of Ellery’s garbled tone and unaware of his present location he informs him that he is
needed to return to the morgue. As they speak, Gorman informs him, an autopsy is being performed on a death that occurred around
midnight. No other details are available.
He continues to rambles without waiting for an answer, “Where are you now? How did it go last night? Damn the midnight hour! God I
hate this holiday!”
“King? Can you hear me?”
Unable to respond effectively Detective King just replies “Okay, I’m on it.”
He tries to recall the events that lead him here. They are vague yet somehow vivid. His soul is haunted by images. Everything else is a
blur. And yet he is filled with comfort. Aware of his surroundings he smiles, says “Good thing I am already here.” And laughs.
Rain begins to fall again in torrents as he runs to the side door. Walls of concrete and cinder block continue to echo their resentment to
the thunder storm raging outside as he sits there waiting for confirmation on the cause of death. The dead are lucky. Behind those
swinging double doors of the gross room they lay peacefully waiting. They will soon be freed, their souls soon to be released into the
night. Their exodus will begin. Still, you never get used to death. You just survive until your own day comes. He tries not to dwell.
In the distance he can hear the murmur of a bone saw. It drowns the whispers of untold secrets. Occasionally it is accompanied by a
symphony of stainless steel pans. The lights in the ceiling above continue to wink at him, flirting with his sanity and taunting his
patience. Its’ making his head ache. He could also use a snack. There is an antiquated vending machine poised at the opposite end
of the corridor. It seems to be calling out to him. It’ll be good to feel the legs again.
Rising he prepares for the inevitable. All the good snacks will be gone. Either that or he will not have the correct change. Frequency
should have taught him a lesson. He’s a slow learner. Surprisingly there is something to his liking for which he also has correct
change. That’s because it happens to be the only item left in the machine. No calendar handy to make a note of this historic event.
“A7” it is, he says happily aloud.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, those double doors from which all enter but never leave, appear to swing open. That was quick,
he thinks! But no one is there. Returning his focus on self preservation he can now hear the coins as they pass through the forbidden
chambers hidden behind the smoky glass paneled door. Its’ deafening. The gears have engaged, the deposit confirmed. He engages
the lever of A7.
In slow and deliberate motion the silver coil of wire begins to move, bringing him closer to satisfying an overdue hunger. Then silence.
Looking down the search is fruitless for the goodies. The tray is empty. To no avail he also checks to see if the purchase had jammed
before falling. He distinctly remembers pulling A7. Efforts to re-enter the selection are in vain as he discovers there never was an A7
slot. In fact the machine is completely devoid of slot designations altogether. The thought of procuring a refund is thwarted by a subtle
warning. Clearly written on a piece of paper taped above the coin slot are the words: Machine Out-of-Order.
Suddenly he is blinded by white light. It surrounds him like a cocoon. The floor beneath seems to disappear. As if on cue a familiar
voice calls out. He can feel a presence; it travels through him, a will-o’-the-wisp.
It is at that moment he is tapped on the shoulder. Startled he wheels around to see none other than a floating likeness of himself
staring back. The resemblance is remarkable. No words are exchanged. Instead of being shaken Ellery is consumed by warmth.
The smile is comforting. He is reminded of the past. He remembers how he got here. White light continues to be a friend, and
although he senses it won’t last long his smile lingers.
From the gross room sound can longer be heard. The coroners’ report is complete. The conclusion is final. Removing his surgical
mask he takes one last look at the body before covering it with a sheet. From a drawer he gathers a tag and affixes it to the toe of the
dearly departed. It reads “Ellery King”. Slow and careful his shell is wheeled, raised and slid into cold storage.
“Poor soul, his last day on the job”, the coroner says to no one as he closes the door of cooler number A7.
By Stephen Signor
The sound of rain echoes in the ears of Brockton’s only detective. As intermittent as his windshield wipers the past continues to
haunt him. Born October 31, 1944 Ellery Kings’ parents had always been a big fan of the fictional character Ellery Queen and so
decided to name their only child on his behalf. He hated it. All through his early days of school, especially at the Brockton Police
Academy, he had been taunted and teased. Ironic he became interested in police science. Perhaps it was the number of times his
father had been arrested for domestic violence and then died an accidental death that lead to his decision. His mother would
mysteriously disappear shortly thereafter.
His birthday is today. After his divorce six years ago they were all pretty much uneventful. But unlike all those that proceeded,
this would be one he’ll never forget. For this was Hallows’ Eve! It was a time for deceit. Strangers masquerade their alter egos.
For one forgiving night they can lose their identities and wallow in the joy of animosity. For him, sitting in an unmarked cruiser
in front of a morgue after hours felt normal. He even imagined talking to the departed while he sat and patiently waited for night
to fall.
The raging storm outside had altered time. A quick glance at his watch tells him it is 7:15 pm. Still no lights or movement from
within. Patrols had been staking this morgue at night for the past six years. Reports have been made regarding unusual activity
surrounding this facility every Halloween. It has always played host to peer pranks, trespassing and vandalism. But this became a
serious crime scene when barely a week ago two teenagers went missing. They were known to have entered only never to be
seen again.
“Jesus Christ!” Ellery cries out to no one.
High winds had caused a limb to remove itself from the dying elm he was parked under. The roof of his car had conveniently
broken the fall. Feeling unraveled he attempted to check his cell for messages. No signal existed.
Because of the hour he thought it strange that kids in costumes were now out with their parents collecting the typical array of
goodies. He also notices that teenagers have managed to mingle within the mainstream of trick-or-treaters.
Over an hour passed and nothing had occurred that warranted further investigation. Feeling it would be a long night Ellery decided to
take a side trip to the convenient store located just a few blocks up the road. And besides, he needed to get out and remove the fallen
limb from his roof.
All sorts of creatures would be looming in the parking lot. Even the cashier was dressed up. Passing glances by ghouls, goblins,
vampires and everything in between went unnoticed. Content with his steaming hot refreshment he returned to his perch on Fore
Street. Sitting in an unmarked car and wearing plain clothes he plans to remain unnoticed.
As he begins to sip his hot coffee one particular individual stands out and catches his eye. He has separated himself from the crowd
and heads toward his vehicle. His attention diverted by this persons movements he misses his mouths effort to capture the black gold.
“God damn it!” he exclaims as the searing liquid soaks his trousers and bakes his skin. This of course starts a chain reaction of
bundled nerves. The cup drops and tumbles escaping his every effort to catch it before the entire contents hits the seat next to him.
Burnt and annoyed he sits up.
His heart skips a beat at the sight and sound of a body pressed against the passenger side window. The strangers face, scared and
bloody is just staring. Forcefully his face cracks and a facsimile of a smile emerge.
“Nice makeup job.”
But he just keeps staring. Deep eyes bury themselves deep into his consciousness and soul. They are black as death itself. Very
impressive he thinks to himself. The window and body of the car squeal as the creep squeegees’ his way along the side to the rear.
And is gone.
Relieved by his passing Detective King returns his attention to the now continuous parade of freaks. Although the crowd has thinned it
remains steady. His legs still shaking from that disturbing image and stinging from being burnt he seeks comfort.
Leaning over he begins the search in the glove box for something to absorb the liquid that has also accumulated on the passenger
seat. Frustrated at coming up empty he makes a slow and deliberate move to rise back up in the seat. A 2nd figure is standing in front
of the car. This person too is just staring. Under the pale full moonlight sky no discernible features are revealed.
“Son-of-a-bitch, what the hell is going on here?” He mutters to himself.
Paranoia begins to makes itself home. His first instinct is to put on the headlights but is afraid of what reveal itself. This is ridiculous
coming from a grown man and seasoned veteran carrying a 38 special. He opts to beep the horn. The orange and black clad host
responds. Large hands crash under the weight of this massive figure onto the hood as if they were anvils. Having had enough, Ellery
slowly reaches for the 38, eyes trained and ready for any sudden movement.
Instinctively the deviant raises himself, his arms reaching for the sky as if to surrender. Then he slowly lowers them, pointing a digit
from one of his gloved hands. He jerks the hand as if defining recoil and leaves as quickly as he had appeared.
He tries to focus on his movements hoping t get a glimpse at a face. There is no one home. Only darkness beneath the hood that
covers his head.
A loud thumping sound has broken the silence. His heart is fighting a losing battle to pound itself out of his chest. Although frozen with
fear he dares not divert attention away from the outside surroundings. He knows he will surely die on the spot if spooked one more
time.
The moon has since hidden itself behind the building. Apparently it too has seen enough and found refuge. Time to turn on the interior
lights and check his watch; 11pm. The midnight hour was closing in; that magical hour when twilight and dawn are evenly matched.
One more hour and this night will be over. At least psychologically.
Hesitantly and with great precaution he turns out the light. Everything to this point seems to have occurred in slow motion. Appropriately
he slowly looks up away from my watch. Alas he is alone! No surprises. More comforting the irregular heart beat has returned to
normal. He is consumed by silence.
Pedestrian traffic is all but non-existent. Just a few stragglers. Entombed by sheet metal, glass and leather he knows he must soon
leave this chamber of horrors. The night air will feel good. Compressed lungs will be thankful. His sanity will revere him.
It is at that moment a light is seen going on from within the morgue. No sooner than it goes out another one goes on. Definitely
movement. He can’t help but laugh out loud recalling the tale of Paul Revere. One if by land, two if by sea. Could it be a signal? To
whom? Careless behavior or macabre circumstances.
Exiting his tomb he is greeted with relief. And chills. The rain has let up and the ground temperature has equaled that of the air. Fog
begins to playfully roll around, teasing any remaining senses and enhancing an already present awareness of the holiday.
Armed with the 38, damaged wits and a flashlight loaded with fresh batteries he makes a quiet assault on the premises. That one light
remains lit in the far left corner of the building.
The property is gated but easily accessible by a small climb. Obviously a proven unsuccessful deterrent to trespassers, even the elder
Ellery King. It’s a reminder of the gates typically found surrounding older cemeteries. Like the one where his parents are buried. For
some unknown reason he wonders what it would be like to communicate with the dead. More sick humor to lighten the load of burden
that now consumes him.
Inside rustling and muffled voices can be heard. For once they are not those lately heard in his head. With a hand firmly on the door
knob and a gentle turning he has not alarmed those within. Trained stealth has served him well. Once open the air inside is released
like a pressure chamber. The smell of staleness and death fills his senses. Even during the day of regular activity it has felt haunting
with each entry.
The main corridor is long and dark. At the end is the source of the light seen from outside. It seeps under the door casting a vague
shadow of those who lurk on the other side. With his back pressed against the wall he slithers toward the invaded room. He pauses
momentarily at the apparent door where the first light emanated and moves on.
Soon he becomes face to face with the portal of death. His presence so far remains undiscovered. A decision to attempt entry without
force is a calculated one. With one hand on his 38 and the other on the door knob he thrust the door open and drops his arm into an
aimed and firing position.
Ellery is frozen with confusion by the sight in front of him. The room is empty. Instinctively he wheels around to protect vulnerability.
Then to the left and then to the right. Nothing!
“What the hell!” The sound echoes off the bare concrete walls.
Unsatisfied he remains armed and ready. But the room is not only empty of intruders is completely devoid of furnishings. Suddenly he
hears the sound of a bone saw. It appears to coming somewhere down one of the side halls passed earlier. Still armed he makes
short work of getting to the source of the commotion. This time he would not be eluded.
As he reaches the side hall he passes a familiar antiquated vending machine to his right. The thought of snacks repulses him. Just a
bit further away is a bench used by officials waiting the coroners’ results. A narrow beam of light splits the swinging doors of the exam
room that faces him. It appears to be calling him. Bursting through without hesitation proves useless. The findings are the same, with
one exception. Although lacking human presence everything else is as it should be: Autopsy tables, cadaver carrier, cabinets with
fluids and syringes and a Mopec refrigerator.
Ellery has seen enough. Been through enough. He could not compete with his senses or his lack of sanity. He would return to the
station, file his report and call it good. He wasn’t cut out for this. His last day as a detective was on the horizon and it just wasn’t worth it.
As quietly as he entered he left. However his retreat was much quicker. His only awareness on the way to the car was that the streets
were bare. There were no people and no cars within 2 blocks on either side. Without so much as looking back he departed this realm
of craziness. He would file his report in the morning when he was fresh.
That would never happen. It was too late. In his car he became overwhelmed. Sweating profusely, shortness of breath, and a tightness
in his chest consumes him. The last thing he remembers is the sensation of impending doom. One last breath is expelled from his
tormented body before he slumps over in his seat.
Time passes when all of sudden the vibration of his cell phone begins to resonate against his face. After slumping over, his head had
landed on the phone. It continues to beckon him. Without rising he removes the annoyance from his cheek and answers.
“Hello?”
On the line is Captain Gorman. Unconcerned of Ellery’s garbled tone and unaware of his present location he informs him that he is
needed to return to the morgue. As they speak, Gorman informs him, an autopsy is being performed on a death that occurred around
midnight. No other details are available.
He continues to rambles without waiting for an answer, “Where are you now? How did it go last night? Damn the midnight hour! God I
hate this holiday!”
“King? Can you hear me?”
Unable to respond effectively Detective King just replies “Okay, I’m on it.”
He tries to recall the events that lead him here. They are vague yet somehow vivid. His soul is haunted by images. Everything else is a
blur. And yet he is filled with comfort. Aware of his surroundings he smiles, says “Good thing I am already here.” And laughs.
Rain begins to fall again in torrents as he runs to the side door. Walls of concrete and cinder block continue to echo their resentment to
the thunder storm raging outside as he sits there waiting for confirmation on the cause of death. The dead are lucky. Behind those
swinging double doors of the gross room they lay peacefully waiting. They will soon be freed, their souls soon to be released into the
night. Their exodus will begin. Still, you never get used to death. You just survive until your own day comes. He tries not to dwell.
In the distance he can hear the murmur of a bone saw. It drowns the whispers of untold secrets. Occasionally it is accompanied by a
symphony of stainless steel pans. The lights in the ceiling above continue to wink at him, flirting with his sanity and taunting his
patience. Its’ making his head ache. He could also use a snack. There is an antiquated vending machine poised at the opposite end
of the corridor. It seems to be calling out to him. It’ll be good to feel the legs again.
Rising he prepares for the inevitable. All the good snacks will be gone. Either that or he will not have the correct change. Frequency
should have taught him a lesson. He’s a slow learner. Surprisingly there is something to his liking for which he also has correct
change. That’s because it happens to be the only item left in the machine. No calendar handy to make a note of this historic event.
“A7” it is, he says happily aloud.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, those double doors from which all enter but never leave, appear to swing open. That was quick,
he thinks! But no one is there. Returning his focus on self preservation he can now hear the coins as they pass through the forbidden
chambers hidden behind the smoky glass paneled door. Its’ deafening. The gears have engaged, the deposit confirmed. He engages
the lever of A7.
In slow and deliberate motion the silver coil of wire begins to move, bringing him closer to satisfying an overdue hunger. Then silence.
Looking down the search is fruitless for the goodies. The tray is empty. To no avail he also checks to see if the purchase had jammed
before falling. He distinctly remembers pulling A7. Efforts to re-enter the selection are in vain as he discovers there never was an A7
slot. In fact the machine is completely devoid of slot designations altogether. The thought of procuring a refund is thwarted by a subtle
warning. Clearly written on a piece of paper taped above the coin slot are the words: Machine Out-of-Order.
Suddenly he is blinded by white light. It surrounds him like a cocoon. The floor beneath seems to disappear. As if on cue a familiar
voice calls out. He can feel a presence; it travels through him, a will-o’-the-wisp.
It is at that moment he is tapped on the shoulder. Startled he wheels around to see none other than a floating likeness of himself
staring back. The resemblance is remarkable. No words are exchanged. Instead of being shaken Ellery is consumed by warmth.
The smile is comforting. He is reminded of the past. He remembers how he got here. White light continues to be a friend, and
although he senses it won’t last long his smile lingers.
From the gross room sound can longer be heard. The coroners’ report is complete. The conclusion is final. Removing his surgical
mask he takes one last look at the body before covering it with a sheet. From a drawer he gathers a tag and affixes it to the toe of the
dearly departed. It reads “Ellery King”. Slow and careful his shell is wheeled, raised and slid into cold storage.
“Poor soul, his last day on the job”, the coroner says to no one as he closes the door of cooler number A7.
New Hampshire Writers Dark Tales
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In addition to writing short stories and flash
fiction Stephen R. Signor has illustrated his
creativity as a contributor to newsletters and
author of numerous editorials. Originally from
New York State Stephen currently resides’
single, semi-retired and when not writing his
time is spent creating art on canvas and
enjoys photography.
fiction Stephen R. Signor has illustrated his
creativity as a contributor to newsletters and
author of numerous editorials. Originally from
New York State Stephen currently resides’
single, semi-retired and when not writing his
time is spent creating art on canvas and
enjoys photography.