That day the morgue house was in a strangely, quiet mood. The October wind was blowing fiercely, sweeping away the past from its path. Sitting in my room I had always kept my eye on that old morgue house that was an outcaste from the rest of the hospital property.
Growing up near that morgue house, I had always avoided being to close it. My town was not that big. I knew every detail of it: every corner, every coffee shop. I even knew where the local thieves held their meetings, which was supposed to be a secret place. But I did not care. I wanted to explore the unknown.
When you are a kid you always want to know "this," and "that." You always ask odd questions to people and they go "huh." But for some reason I could not ask about the morgue house. It was a mystery haunting my soul.
Sometimes at night I would stand in my balcony and watch the morgue house through my binoculars. The lights in the morgue house were always on at night. .
The guy who was working in the morgue house was always alone, but sometimes I could see him talking, but I could not see the person he was talking to. I would stay awake until he left, so I could see the person he was talking to, but I never did.
One night I found myself near the morgue house. My legs were moving against my will, and I was moving closer-and-closer to it. Finally, I was inside. It was exactly the way I imagined it would be. The dark walls were getting darker as I was passing through the long hallway. There were corpses all around me. I was holding my breath, .
like it was going to be any help. I was hopeless; I did not want to be there. I .
could hear my heart pounding faster and faster. Moving from one room to another in split seconds, I found myself in a dark room. The guy who was working there came in without noticing me. I finally saw his face. He was a short guy with huge hands. His face was not like anything that I had seen before. From his face I drew a violent conclusion.