The Morgue Man

 

A Demon Buried Deep

His name was Manro Brown, a thirty-year-old man with a demon buried deep inside him. When people talk about "a few good men," Manro Brown was never one of them. He hadn't always been this way. Back then, he was calm, calculating, and driven—he wanted to become one of the greatest doctors in the world. But life had other plans.

He was doing well in medical school at Brown University when he got introduced to drugs at one of those wild parties. He couldn't stop. The habit swallowed him whole and ruined his academic career. Soon he was wandering the streets, sniffing anything he could get his hands on. Good jobs were impossible to find—the economy was in the tank, everyone was drowning in bills, and the pay barely covered rent. All anyone talked about was how this recession was the worst in American history.

---

Mortician Wanted

One day, after taking his dose, he passed out on the sidewalk. When he woke up, a flier was stuck to his cheek. He peeled it off and read it: *"Mortician Wanted – Good Pay."* The place was a rundown morgue in the middle of nowhere, but the money sounded decent. He staggered his way there.

The building was old, paint peeling off the walls, and it was packed with corpses. It was the kind of place cheap people used to store their dead. Manro slammed the flier on the front desk. "Still available?" he growled, eyes bloodshot.

"Sure," the clerk said. "You're the first person to show up."

"I'm interested. What do I have to do?"

"You're in luck. First come, first served. If you're ready to start now, the job is yours."

"Now?"

"Yeah. Any problem?"

"No. What do I have to do?"

"Tag the bodies, make sure they don't rot, check the refrigeration units, monitor power outages. You might have to wash them too."

"Damn it, man. Bathing dead bodies?"

"Don't worry—just the fresh ones."

"How often do fresh ones come in?"

"Now and then. You in or not?"

"I'm in," he said.

That was how Manro started working in the morgue. Some nights he just sat there, staring at the walls, thinking about his old life in med school. He'd shake his head and mutter, "Life sucks."

---

The Deal

He'd been there about a month and a half when two men approached him one evening while he was off duty, nursing a beer in a dive bar near the morgue.

"Hey! You Manro Brown?" one of them asked.

"Who wants to know?" Manro slurred, eyes half-closed.

"Name's Zolan. This is my partner, Zero."

"Yeah, what now?"

"We were hoping to make a deal with you," Zolan said, glancing around.

"What kind of deal?"

Zolan leaned in and whispered, "A deal involving the bodies in the morgue."

Manro opened his eyes wide. "Go on. I'm listening."

"This will put extra cash in your pocket. You know how tight things are with the recession?"

"Yeah. Keep talking."

"Some people are interested in organs from the recently deceased."

"What for?"

"I don't know. From what I've heard, they use them for fetish rituals."

"So what's my cut if I'm in?"

"Sixty-forty. You're the one taking the risk."

Manro smiled and nodded. "Deal. What do you need?"

"Depends on what they want. Hand, foot, heart, kidney, liver, eyes, tongue—you name it. I tell you what they need, you deliver, I pass it on, and you get your cut. Simple."

"Sounds good," Manro said, shaking their hands.

---

The Child

And just like that, he started making real money. He could afford nice clothes, good food, even dates in expensive restaurants. Things were going smoothly—until the child's body came in.

She couldn't have been more than twelve. Manro shuddered as he washed her small, lifeless body, wondering what could have killed her. A few hours later, he got a text from Zolan: *"Need fresh: heart, eyes, liver, tongue, and hands."*

He sighed. She was the only fresh body that week.

---

Give Me My Eyes

A week later, Manro had a date. He smiled as he adjusted his new suit in the mirror, thinking how he never could have afforded a place like this without the extra cash. Maybe tonight she'd end up in his arms. He whistled as he left his apartment.

At the restaurant, everything was going great. He was charming, flirting, winning her over—until he saw the girl from the morgue standing right beside his date. He blinked hard. She was still there.

"Give me my eyes, my heart, my hands," she said in a small, hollow voice.

Manro froze. "I don't have them with me," he stammered.

"What's wrong?" his date asked.

He forced a smile. "Nothing, baby."

"Give me my eyes back," the girl said, stepping closer. He could see the empty sockets, the stumps where her hands used to be, the stitched-up chest where he'd taken her heart.

"I'm sorry, I don't have them. Please leave me alone," he muttered, clamping a hand over his mouth.

"What are you talking about?" his date asked, now worried.

"Sorry, it wasn't for you," he said, pointing at the ghost only he could see. "It was for her."

"Are you okay?" his date asked, seeing how pale he'd become.

"I'm fine."

"Give me my eyes," the girl whispered, closer now.

Manro pressed his back against the chair, trying to get away. "Stay away from me!"

"Give me my eyes," she repeated.

He couldn't take it anymore. He shouted, "I'm sorry! I stole your eyes, your heart, your hands—they made me do it!"

"What are you talking about?" his date asked, voice rising.

The girl kept chanting: *"Give me my eyes. Give me my eyes. Give me my eyes."*

---

The Reckoning

Manro broke. He started confessing everything—how he'd been mutilating bodies, selling organs for cash. People stared. Someone called the police.

When the cops arrived, Manro was still talking, tears streaming down his face. They arrested him right there.

In the end, Manro Brown learned the hardest lesson of all:

*Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can never buy back your soul.*

*Once you sell your conscience, the dead will always come to collect.*

You might also enjoy this:

A young man who got the protection of a goddess in The Blood Debt

A God who beg to be feed in The Bountiful God