"The Secrets of the Mortuary: A Decade of Silence"
For ten long years, I worked at a mortuary in a quiet, nondescript town. When I started, I was simply looking for a stable job—a way to pay my bills and get by. The work was straightforward, albeit grim. We prepared the deceased for their final resting place, ensuring that families could say their goodbyes with dignity. But over time, I realized there was something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something that still haunts me to this day.
The mortuary was owned by a man I’ll call Mr. D. He was a charismatic, larger-than-life figure who seemed to thrive in a business that most people couldn’t stomach. Mr. D was always cheerful, quick with a joke, and generous with bonuses during good months. But there was another side to him—a darker side that only revealed itself in moments I’d come to know.
It started when Occasionally, a pregnant woman’s body would arrive at the morgue. These cases weren’t common, but they weren’t unheard of either. Accidents, illnesses, and tragedies claimed lives indiscriminately. Each time such a body arrived, Mr. D’s joy would shift. His excitement was too much, though he tried to mask it as professional concern.
“Handle this one with care,” he would say, his voice trembling with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. “This is a special case.”
I didn’t think much of it at first. Special cases required more attention, after all—families expected perfection. But it wasn’t long before I noticed a pattern. Whenever a pregnant body came in, Mr. D would insist that it be kept in the “warm room,” a smaller, insulated space in the mortuary that was typically used for quick preparations. He claimed it was to preserve the body better.
What I didn’t know then was that this warmth wasn’t for preservation at all.
It wasn’t until my third year that I witnessed my first “coffin birth.” I’d heard of the phenomenon in medical circles—how gases building up in a decomposing body could force a stillborn fetus from its mother’s womb. It was rare, horrifying, and something most morticians might never encounter in their careers.
But at Mr. D’s mortuary, it became almost a routine. The warm room, I realized, was designed to accelerate decomposition just enough to trigger these scary births. And each time it happened, Mr. D would appear very... delighted.
“Nature is extraordinary, isn’t it?” he’d say, his eyes glinting as he inspected the tiny, lifeless body. “This is why we treat every case with care.”
What disturbed me even more was what happened next. The fetus was never placed back with the mother. Instead, Mr. D would quietly take it to his office, locking the door behind him. None of us dared to question him.
Over the years, I began to notice another pattern. Each time there was a coffin birth, the mortuary’s business would boom . Deaths seemed to increase in the area, and families flocked to us for services. Mr. D would become even more jovial during these times, handing out bonuses and thanking us for our hard work.
“You see?” he’d say during staff meetings. “We’re blessed. This is why we do what we do.”
But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. How could a mortuary suddenly see such a spike in business after such grim events? And why did Mr. D refer to the fetuses as “blessings” in private, his voice dripping with happiness?
It wasn’t until I overheard a conversation between Mr. D and a mysterious visitor that the pieces began to fall into place. The visitor, a man dressed in an expensive suit, spoke in hushed tones, but I caught enough to understand.
“The charm is working,” the man said. “The offerings are accepted. You’ll see even greater returns soon.”
Mr. D nodded, smiling as he handed the man a small, wrapped package. My stomach churned as I realized what was inside—the remains of one of the fetuses.
From that moment, I couldn’t unsee the truth. Mr. D was using the fetuses in some kind of ritual. Whether it was witchcraft, dark magic, or something even more sinister, I didn’t know. But it was clear that these rituals were tied to the mortuary’s success.
At the time, I tried to rationalize my complicity. I needed the job. I had bills to pay. And Mr. D’s bonuses made life easier. But as the years went on, the weight of what I’d witnessed grew unbearable. Each time I saw a grieving family, I wondered if they’d ever know the full truth about what happened to their loved ones.
I wanted to speak out, but fear kept me silent. Mr. D was a powerful man in our town, with connections that reached far beyond the mortuary. I knew that if I exposed him, I’d be risking not just my job, but my safety.
The breaking point came during my final year at the mortuary. A young woman, no older than twenty, was brought in after a car accident. She was seven months pregnant, and her family was devastated. As I prepared her body, I couldn’t stop thinking about the life she’d been carrying—the life that Mr. D would soon exploit for his twisted purposes.
When the coffin birth occurred a few days later, I felt a wave of nausea. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be a part of this horror.
I handed in my resignation the next day. Mr. D didn’t seem surprised.
“Not everyone is cut out for this line of work,” he said, smiling as he handed me my final paycheck.
Even now, years later, I can’t escape the memories. The sound of the warm room’s door creaking open, the sight of Mr. D cradling those tiny bodies, the whispers of his dark rituals—they all linger in my mind like a shadow I can’t shake.
I’ve thought about coming forward, but who would believe me? The mortuary is still thriving, and Mr. D is still the charming businessman everyone respects.
But I know the truth. I know what he’s done, what I helped him do. And I can only hope that sharing this story anonymously will serve as some small act of redemption.
If you’ve ever wondered what secrets lie behind the doors of a mortuary, consider this: sometimes, the dead aren’t the ones you should fear.
This confession is a reminder that evil can wear a friendly face, and sometimes, the things we dismiss as coincidence or superstition are rooted in something much darker. If you work in a similar field, trust your instincts. Speak up before it’s too late.
Anonymous
Social Plugin