An important aspect of the preliminary external examination of the corpse is the detection of implanted pacemakers or portable defibrillators.<…>
These devices must be removed from bodies to be cremated because these pacemakers and defibrillators can explode when heated.
However, they must be removed in any case, because they are almost always suitable for reuse - either as a whole or as separate parts. (Pacemakers are used entirely in charity events, for example, to supply these devices to the health authorities of third world countries).<…>
One morning, Jason solemnly handed me a pair of gloves and a plastic apron and asked if I would like to "put a tick in the journal of the necessary skills an intern should have."
At first I imagined that Jason was joking, and that I now have to once again scrub the morgue to mirror cleanliness.
Trainees, indeed, achieve true virtuosity in handling sponges and rags, cleaning hair and pieces of subcutaneous fat from the shells in the very first weeks of work.
This, of course, sounds very unappetizing, but, in fact, it is very important not to let the plums get clogged, and, therefore, pulling out hair and other residues with tweezers brings some satisfaction and even has, in some way, a psychotherapeutic effect. I came to a state of nirvana after cleaning metal sinks to a shine in the dissecting room.
When Jason took out the threads, scissors and a scalpel from the cabinet, I immediately realized that something completely different was ahead of me, and even guessed what it was. We had permission from the relatives of the deceased to remove the pacemaker from the body, and I saw Jason do it several times. Now it's my turn.
On the left side of my chest, I felt the device with my hands and was able to determine its outline.
Usually, these devices are easy to find by feeling the skin of the chest, but in obese deceased they are not easy to find because pacemakers are small, streamlined and easily lost among subcutaneous fat.
Pacemakers help maintain the normal rhythm of the heart during arrhythmias (that is, when it is disturbed) by sending electrical shocks to the heart at a certain frequency.<…>
I had already raised my hand with a scalpel over the flat surface of the device when Jason suddenly said: "Are you sure this is not a defibrillator?"
The defibrillator is larger than a pacemaker, but I had no experience and would not be able to distinguish between the two devices by touch. Defibrillators are implanted in people prone to cardiac arrest caused by fibrillation. In the event of such a stop, the device produces a high-voltage discharge that brings the heart back to life.
This device must not be removed like a normal pacemaker. If an unsuspecting technician cuts the wires of the device with metal scissors, the device will be discharged and the technician will be shocked very badly. This discharge can even kill.
If a portable defibrillator is found, call the interventional cardiology clinic and call a cardiophysiologist, who arrives with a special device that turns off the defibrillator and then monitors its condition to make sure it is inactivated.<…>
Although for those who work in the morgue, the dead are people in the full sense of the word, I still subconsciously sense the difference between the living and the dead. Later, when I made my first full skin incision of a deceased dentist, I experienced phantom pain as this person was suffering from his bedsores. Over time, however, I became immune to these feelings. I realized that the person lying on the dissecting table is not able to feel the pain of the incision, and that I just need to do my job.
I easily made a short cut just above the flat surface of the pacemaker. Then I grabbed it with my thumb and forefinger and squeezed it hard.
Yellow subcutaneous fat protruded from the wound, under which the shiny metal surface of the device was guessed. It seemed as though the horse chestnut kernel was emerging from its soft shell.
Wires were pulled for the stimulator, and I cut them with scissors. I cleaned the unit with disinfectant and put it in a labeled plastic bag. Pacemakers were taken from us once every few weeks by the Catholic cardiology laboratory. With that done, I stitched up the incision - I had already practiced stitching once when Jason pulled out the pacemaker - and the stitch was barely visible. I sealed the incision with a plaster, and now the corpse could be put back in the bag.
Well done, bunny! - Jason exclaimed, put a tick in the box of the practice journal and signed. This was another step towards obtaining the coveted certificate of a morgue technician.
Explosions in crematoria became quite common before the removal of pacemakers from corpses became a routine practice. The first such case occurred in the UK in 1976.
In 2002, the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine reported that nearly half of British crematoria had explosions of this kind, causing property damage and personal injury. One of the most recent cases was the explosion in the crematorium of Grenoble in France, in which a pacemaker exploded in the corpse of a pensioner. The explosion was equivalent in power to an explosion of two grams of trinitrotoluene and caused damage of 40 thousand pounds sterling.
This story begins with the search for my first job. Browsing and analyzing a job listing on a local website can be a tedious task. But when you live in a city with 5,000 people, it complicates your search several times more, forcing you to lower your minimum job requirements.
I went to college every day and came back home, so I really needed the money. One time, about to leave, I accidentally drew attention to an ad, which struck me very much. It was morgue work. The thought that I would have to work around dead bodies just depressed me. However, I continued reading the job description and found that the job does not imply interact with any of the bodies. This is where my real and scary story from the morgue happened.
I have no other options, I thought to myself. The next day, I called and spoke to who I thought was in charge. He insisted that I come the next day and just get to know the place. The next day I was ready to get a job and drove to a small establishment. Mark, the head of the morgue, greeted me at the door with a smile and a firm handshake. "Did you say your name was Mikhail?" he asked me kindly.
“Yes, that's right,” I told him. He led me all over the grounds and then led me to a huge lawn, which he explained I would have to mow every week. I didn't mind that at all. Finally he finished his tour and we entered the building. He pointed to a dimly lit room in the corner. "I'm sure you can guess what kind of room it is," he said. I think that even with my eyes closed, I would be able to determine what kind of room it was, because of the specific smells of decaying flesh. This room made me feel uncomfortable from the very beginning. If I knew what horrible stories the morgue of this room conceals, I would not even step here.
Then he went to another small room and took the keys from his thigh. Opening the door, he began to explain that this was his office. I looked inside, I saw a table, a large chair, scattered papers and a mini-refrigerator, however, nothing out of the ordinary. Soon he closed the door and locked it. Then he began to show the room in which we found ourselves as soon as we entered the building. Dirty and cracked floor tiles spoke of age and neglect of work. “You have to clean up here every night, nothing special, it's a pretty small area,” he explained, tapping his chin with his fingers as he thought of other tasks. “Throw away the trash, bring some items when they arrive at our morgue, such as small boxes of formaldehyde or new scalpels. I think that any small random quests that may appear should be easy on you. " He finished explaining. "All clear? Have questions?". I couldn't think of anything, so I just shook my head in the affirmative and expected him to continue the tour. “Okay,” he said. “I'm waiting for you here tomorrow at about 5 pm. You're going to work until midnight or so, okay? "
“Okay,” I told him. The next few nights of work were pretty straightforward: I come in, clean up any disturbances that happened in the day, mow the lawn, and then just kill the rest of the time. I just sit in my phone or watch TV in the common area of the building. He never seemed to mind, because most of the time he just didn’t leave his office. He exits when a new body arrives at the morgue. I remember the first time I saw a fresh corpse that was brought to us. Mark went out and started talking to the police, they wrapped the body and made some notes. Mark then transported him to a dimly lit room, placed him in a cell in the wall, and conceived the morgue by disappearing. Most of the time the next day was occupied by a professional autopsy performed by Mark.
I worked at the morgue for a few weeks and Mark seemed to be very friendly. He always bought me lunch from a local barbecue shop on the road. One day he discussed his disappointment that he had because all the past employees who were before me were gone. I could tell that he seemed like a lonely person, as if he had no one in his life. I always shared this lunch with him, and I really felt like we got a little attached to one another.
He was about forty-five years old, but he already had a little gray hair. His eyes truly held their sadness, although his voice told a different story.
Mark usually cleaned his office and the room where the bodies were stored around 8 pm. The morgue room was small, there were about 10 racks in which you could place corpses and then hide them in the wall. He wiped the floor, which was usually not very dirty, sometimes he was nice to the windows, and sometimes he wiped the metal doors, but in 90% of the cases he finished everything in 5 minutes. At 9 or 10 o'clock he usually went about his business, maybe 15 minutes, I think he had a problem with alcohol, as he came back soaked in the smell of whiskey and cigarettes. Like a clockwork, at 11 pm he walked to the store and bought some snacks. He usually returned with 4 yoghurts, 4 small packs of potato chips, 4 oranges and 4 bottles of water. Sometimes the products could change. He would give me 1 each and then go to his office and put the rest in the mini-fridge. Mark always stayed longer than me, so I think he bought them for himself later.
One night at about 9 o'clock, Mark left the room where the bodies were kept with a strange feeling of anger, he slammed the door to the room so hard that it opened slightly. At that time, I was in the process of cleaning the floor in the common room, so I looked into that room. The floor was very dirty there because I think Mark just dropped the formaldehyde bottle. Glass was scattered all over the floor and brown liquid was spilled. I realized that Mark was very angry, so I left.
I thought that if I cleaned the room, I would impress my boss. I went in and immediately began to wipe. I collected the shards of glass and threw it away. I was almost done when I heard the sound into the building. I looked up, expecting someone to enter the room, but no one was there. I was definitely just hearing the noise, so I kept my head up, expecting to hear something else. I heard a knock again, and in surprise jumped like a frightened cat. A noise came from the wall behind me. At least that's what I thought. I stood in the room for the next 5 minutes but didn't hear anything else. The morgue room still kept me on my toes.
I left the room, convinced that I was just making myself sound, since this was the first time I stepped foot in this strange place. I was watching TV in a small room when Mark returned. The smell of liquor instantly penetrated my nose. He looked at me after looking into the room with the bodies: “You cleaned it up there,” he said. “Hmm, yes,” I replied. He said nothing, but looked at me with his shining, bloodshot eyes. “Okay,” he said as he walked into his office.
The next day I offered to wash the outside of the building with a hose, which I didn't want to do. He came out to me from time to time to check how I was doing with my work. It was driving me crazy. It was very hot that day. “You're like a little fireman,” he told me with an eerie smile. What? I thought to myself. It was the strangest thing he ever said to me. Mark told me that the last guy who worked before me decided that it would be nice to dig a ditch here as the rain washed away all the flowers. “I called him a miner,” he said with a laugh.
The next night, when I finished getting around, he made me go to the store. I hated going to this store late at night. It was just weird. I quickly went back to the morgue and noticed that the building did not glow, even the street lights on the side of the road near the morgue had gone out. I stared at the ominous building and walked slowly to the front door. "Mark?" I called. There was no answer. I swallowed and stopped in fear. Some unknown force threw me back, but I nevertheless crossed the threshold and saw that there was no one inside. The door to the room where the dead bodies were kept was wide open. I walked in slowly and looked around the room. I noticed something strange that I hadn't noticed before. The two outermost racks had padlocks, as if someone was worried that the corpse would not go anywhere. Cold sweat ran down my spine. The front door of the morgue swung open, and Mark saw me here, surprised and a little nervous. He hurriedly entered the room where I was and closed the door. “I was just confused by the mess with the documents, so I went out for a walk,” he explained.
I looked at him skeptically. He quickly changed the subject and explained that he needed to focus on something in his office. He left me alone in the common room. I looked into the room where the bodies were stored again. In the corner, I saw a small CCTV camera, which was aimed at those two outer compartments. Strange, I thought.
Mark suddenly left the office and asked me what I was doing. I turned around and said, "Nothing." There was an awkward moment of silence, Mark had a sharp and angry look. "Why is the camera pointed so strangely?" I asked in a trembling voice. He lightened his tone and explained that the previous employee said that this is the best place for the camera, because she can see the whole room. Mark at home laughed.
He returned to his office, closing the door behind him. I haven't seen him all night. I knocked on his door at midnight, but there was no answer, so I just said goodbye to him. I left the morgue where this strange story took place and went to my car in the parking lot. Through the very dim light of Mark's window, I could see his gloomy and frightening silhouette. I started to get extremely paranoid. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, realizing that, because of my excitement, I forgot to pick up my wallet and phone from the employee locker. I slapped my hands on the steering wheel in anger. I don't want to go back.
In about 15 minutes I was near the gloomy morgue. I stopped in front of the morgue and looked through the black windows. Deep chills shot through my body, I couldn't even bring myself to get out of the car. I'll pick up my things tomorrow, I thought to myself.
The next day at 5 pm I was already at my workplace. I hadn't seen Mark for an hour, I assumed he was in his office. The grass was mown, the floor was cleaned, debris was thrown away, and the windows were clean. I decided to kill some time by washing the dirty lawn mower. It took me half an hour. A few minutes later, Mark appeared out of nowhere. "There is my fireman!" he exclaimed excitedly. This did not make me happy. I looked at him to acknowledge his presence. “Yes,” I said, ignoring the conversation. After a few moments, I looked up again, but he disappeared like a ghost.
I haven't seen him for the next few hours. I've done all the work I can. I even wiped all the chairs in the living room. After that, I knocked on Mark's door several times, expecting him to answer. There was silence. I sat down and decided that I would stay all night. Moments later, Mark burst through the front door. He was clearly drunk. "Mihail" his words were slurred. He could hardly walk in a straight line. He fumbled with his keys in the door of his office and, finally, opening them, he hastily pulled them out and slammed the door behind him. The keys slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor, but he didn't notice.
I sat a little scared and dazed from what I had just seen. I looked at the keys on the ground and my thoughts began to lead me forward. I waited about 10 minutes and went to Mark's door. I knocked several times very lightly, but there was no answer. I knocked on the door three times. Nothing. I bent down and slowly lifted the keys up. My curiosity was very great. I went to the room with the corpses and unlocked the door. A chill enveloped my body as I entered the room. I walked over to the two padlocks where the locks were hanging and began fingering the keys. I inserted the key and the lock opened. I recoiled in fear when I heard desperate sounds and a muffled scream.
I locked on my feet, breathing hard. I looked into the common room, nothing has changed, Mark's door is still closed. I plucked up my courage and slowly rolled the body. My heart pounded when I saw a guy, maybe 18 years old, dressed in a dirty jumpsuit with black boots. His mouth was covered with a rag and tied tightly around his face. His entire body was tightly bound with ropes, impairing his ability to move. His eyes spoke of fear and terror, but also desperately called for help. I stumbled, not knowing what to do. I had to open another counter. The key slid quickly and pulled out the padlock. The counter swung open quickly and I was again struck by an overwhelming sense of fear and danger. There was a 23-year-old boy who was wearing an apparently fake police uniform. Used condoms were scattered around him. He looked at me and recoiled desperately, his gaze sharing the same opinion as the previous guy.
I realized there was another locked counter that I hadn't noticed before. I hastily opened it, expecting the same result. When I started pulling out the rack, I could not see anything inside, but I continued to pull it all the way. A photograph was taken at the very end of the counter. My picture when I was standing with a hose outside the building. In addition, there was a firefighter's helmet. I stepped back and turned pale. I ran out of the building and locked myself in my car. I haven't even had time to call the police yet. I just sat there in a stupor and thought about the maniac at work. Here is such a terrible story about the morgue that happened to me.
We have a medical examiner. Good guy, we are friends with him. And we come across quite often. Sometimes we sip cognac, sometimes vodka. Duc, he is a good storyteller, and under this case he tells the most wonderful stories. I do not pretend to be authorship, nor to authenticity. Free retelling from the first person.
First story. "Refrigerator".
It was either April 30, or even before some holiday. Our refrigerator has broken. The unit, in the sense. They began to look for a refrigerator ( and in our city at that time there was only one "refrigerator", Igor Ts. - such a short, strong, bearded. Morflotman.) found. He came in the evening, at five o'clock. We took him to the place where the unit was, and I went to my office. And he also asked: "You just don't leave me here, otherwise I'm afraid." Well, well, we will not leave. As a result (the day off is on the nose) the girls all piled home, and I was left alone. I sat, wrote papers, wrote, then someone called, quarreled, and I think - I'll spit on everything, I'll go home. Imagine (still uncomfortable) I really forgot about this refrigerator! I went, I closed the doors, and went home.
Then I tell from the words of the girls. In general, he finished work at nine o'clock in the evening. ( a small digression: from the room with the refrigeration unit exit to the sectional hall, from there - the foyer, from which there are three doors - to the refrigerator itself, to the street and towards the offices. In the evening, the passage to the offices is closed, because at night the ambulance brings the dead. Well, and, accordingly, the door to the street is also closed.). I stuck it in one door - it was closed. On the street - closed. In the third door - there citizens take a break from life ... There were no cell phones yet, there is nowhere to wait for help. He climbed into the window in the aggregate ( the window is covered with a metal mesh) to ask someone for help. Looks - a couple is walking, a man with a woman, respectable, about 50 years old. And the time is evening, it is getting dark already a little. And so, they pass by, and he shouts something to them from the window, well, they say, wait, you can. Kaaaak this man sniffed! He ran behind the clinic, around the corner, and looked out - whether his wife was saved or not. In general, the refrigerator frightened two more, then despaired. Went to the foyer, sat down on the couch there, and waited. And so, at night, after 12 already, the ambulance brings the corpse. The driver opens the door from the street, enters, and taaaam: there is a kind of bearded square man, hands on his chest, looking sullenly. The driver screamed in a bad voice and ran away (he walked away for a long time). And the refrigerator went out in silence and went home. Before that, he was offended, the girls then found him again, he did not want to take money, did not want to talk to them at all. But then somehow they butter him up, told him ...
The second story. "About Souls".
Somehow they lifted me out of the house, the police, at night, at three o'clock, to murder. They sent the car, I go out, I say - I have to stop by at work, take my gloves. Let's go. We drive up, I go, I open the doors, I go in, and then - "frrrrr" - the air is so blown from behind, a breeze. I was scared! Night, and even such an institution, I think - damn it, really, really, souls fly! On wadded feet I got to the switch, I turn on the light - a sparrow, you bastard! How did he get there in the middle of winter?
Third story. "About the nose".
We stand somehow, we perform an autopsy. In the summer it was, the window was open ( the window is covered with a grid, as I have already said, and it is visible through and through, and a little from a distance it already looks like a solid). And then I got soooo in my nose - I have no strength! I turned to the window - "Pchhi!" ( he sneezes well, I must admit)))) And there, outside in the shade, men are squatting, about six people, respectable, 50-60 years old, talking something ( that squatting is not convicted, this is the local flavor, there are no chairs in the steppe). And so, I, therefore, sneeze, and with these men, like sparrows - fast! on both sides. And they stand there - their eyes are frightened, they look at each other, they can not understand anything.
Well, in addition, the fourth story, hunting, from him.
Once we went hunting. So I went, the boss of this and that, the boss of that, that, that one. And so, we arrived, shot, then let's cook, have supper. And one boss ( Namearek) was immoderate in alcohol and "drove". I started drilling, I will fire everyone, I’ll put everyone in prison, etc. And he is Kazakh, healthy, 110 kilograms, large. And I came with a driver. The driver was a Russian, a young boy. Well, we guys are healthy, we twisted it, stuffed it into a sleeping bag, fastened it, and put the driver on it - yours, they say, the boss, you and the watchmen. The driver asks - "And how to calm him down in Kazakh, otherwise he stumbles in Russian, and then duck in general ..." Well, I, you fool, take it and blurt out: "Harvest, auzyn sydyramyn" ( Lie down, or I'll tear your mouth)
Well, that drunk lies, slowly begins to come to his senses, to shrink. And this should have been seen: the driver, in an uncool voice, says to him, like a child: "Harvest, auzyn sydyram." He roars up, begins to jump like a bull in a bullfight under this carrier, swears, but his strength quickly dries up and he calms down again. Then, after about ten minutes, he starts to shrink again - and on a new one the same thing. And such a circus - several times. Every time we roll off next to each other, and the unfortunate driver, everything persuades him: "Harvest, harvest, auzyn sydyram." Then he walked away a little, took off the carrier from him, released him from the bag. The driver ran away, and he kept taking offense at us.
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More stories tagged "work"
One gets to the morgue in different ways. Death is met differently. Some are surrounded by relatives, others are in a sewer well or on a doorframe. For some, death is deliverance from torment, for others it is a blow of fate. The morgue accepts everyone - young and old, rich and poor, loved and abandoned, everyone - equally impartially.
- ... Why did you come to us on Thursday? - asks the orderly Sasha. - To understand what's what, it was necessary in the morning on Monday. First, they don't open it on weekends. Secondly, they take their own lives on weekdays less often than on weekends. Loneliness or excessive drinking is to blame - who knows? ..
Suicides are dissected with great care. What if it's murder? That is the expertise to dot the "i". Even if the body is cut by an electric train, the remains will still be opened "according to technology." And Sasha will again lament that this is "extra work" - to open the skull of someone from whom there is a "wet spot" after the electric train.
It is understood that the morgue attendant, like a turner at the machine, must keep his tool ready and in good working order. Sasha understands this. Otherwise, the "head hitch" will come out. It is better to avoid hitching. And I would like to relax after the next autopsy, but the relatives behind the door will not let me “forget”. They do not understand the "specifics" of the morgue. As if by agreement, they arrive for the bodies of relatives in cars in the morning. And they demand to issue them a death certificate and a body immediately. Immediately - no. There is only one expert doctor at the autopsy, but there are many dead. An autopsy is the same operation, and it requires a lot of time and effort.
Living in anticipation behave differently. Some are crying quietly, and who, seeing the closed window in the reception, sticks in "up to the chest" and, seeing the receptionist drinking tea, yells: "How, are you still eating here?"
Experts, orderlies and other morgue employees working here do not take offense at the living. Whenever possible, they try to serve. The autopsy cannot be accelerated, but the process of dressing the deceased, putting him in a coffin has been brought to an automatism.
If the elevator works, there will be no hitch with the lifting of the gurney with the corpse. But the elevator, like other equipment of the morgue, has worn out over many years of operation and often refuses to "serve". Then the orderlies have to "serve". They go down to the basement, roll out the necessary corpse from behind a massive door (as if from a crypt), closed by a bike blanket, and manually drag it upstairs, each time remembering with a "kind" word of the designers who conceived two turns on the stairs, which are neither on a gurney nor cannot be overcome on a stretcher. Only manually, with the body overweight.
And if this body is decomposed, swollen? The orderlies have one task: to carry out the "mass" packed in a bag so that the road does not spread. Otherwise, you will not be able to get out of the hassle, but you will need another bag for the remains. It doesn’t come to the "spreading" of bodies in the morgue. These are taken from sewer wells, basements, gutters, or attics.
The "spoiled" one was brought in with me. The jacket has survived. And sneakers. It's better not to look at the rest. And experts have to work with such "material". Full autopsy program. Perhaps the poor fellow is identified by his sneakers. Or a jacket. But he will go on his last journey in a sack. And if they don't identify? After a while, he will lie in the ground under the registration number. Morgue employees will deliver him to the cemetery. This is a "free supplement" to the duties of the staff photographer of the morgue - Svetlana. She will take pictures of the remains and escort them to the burial site, document everything and return to her direct duties.
“This is not a woman’s work,” I say to Svetlana.
“Not female,” she agrees. - But someone has to do it too. And in our morgue, whatever work you take, you cannot say that you dreamed of it since childhood. I also got here by accident. I thought I would earn some money. Remained. With us everything is like this: either they leave immediately, or they go nowhere. We understand that not everyone is "given" to work in a morgue. If you can, stay and carry this burden to the end ...
Until the end of their days, doctors-experts Vladimir Chetin, Henrikh Burak, Sergei Soroka did their job. None of them lived to see retirement. It only seems that they, working with what remains of a person after death, have become coarse to insensibility. Doctor-expert Eduard Trukhan, who had just opened five adult corpses, "broke down" on the sixth, children's one. He himself went to this "challenge", he took the boy out of the noose, he himself opened the thin little body.
Children in the morgue are not uncommon. Children die too. From illness. From our adult carelessness. By an absurd accident. But every time a small body on a large "cutting" table is perceived as a personal tragedy. They are carefully opened. How alive. They dress and comb their hair as if they want to make amends. Baby corpses rarely have to be lowered into the refrigerator. Inconsolable parents both bring and take away children from the morgue, as they say, as soon as possible. But there was recently a case when the girl was not taken for a whole week. The mother received the death certificate - and sank into the water. I had to call the children's clinic so that someone could go and find out what's what. We went. And there - smoke with a rocker, the parents received a grant for the funeral of the child, they drink on drink ... Previously, this happened rarely - so that the deceased would not be taken away. Now there are several cases every month.
They refuse, mainly, from the elderly. They come to collect the death certificate. For a guide. And then look for the wind in the field. Morgue workers then call relatives, appeal to conscience. Sometimes it works. More often than not. They refer to the high cost, to old grievances. On the state, which is "obliged". Children refuse to bury their parents. Sisters are brothers. Brothers are sisters. "Refuseniks" are collected and taken to the cemetery by Svetlana. It happens, then they call the morgue to find out where the "dear" grave is. More often than not.
Although sometimes this happens. It was on Monday. The day, as said, is a difficult one for the morgue. There were so many corpses that there was nowhere to put them. So I had to sort it out. Those who were waiting for relatives behind the wall, the orderly laid down on the tables, prepared for autopsy. And the one who is unidentified - on the floor, under the sink. And here, out of nowhere, a guy runs in. Usually the door is locked, but here they forgot. He ran to one corpse, to another, then threw himself under the sink. He grabbed the dead man, hugged him, and began to cry. It turns out that this is his father, two days ago he disappeared. The guy knocked off his feet, looking for. Found…
Sasha felt uncomfortable. Although what is his fault? There is nowhere to put the corpses. There is only one refrigerator in the morgue. Designed for six gurneys. There is a second one, but the refrigeration equipment practically does not work in it. But it is also loaded to capacity. It is cold in the cold season and in the morgue. Corpses do not deteriorate. In the summer, everything is different. Corpses deteriorate before our eyes. Stink, stench. Open windows don't help. How many curses and insults the morgue workers heard on those hot days! Relatives shouted, cried and left, and the employees here - from bell to bell. Is it easy? Is it easy to scoop things and other rags of homeless women? Employees sweep, wash, do whatever is supposed to be done. And then they take them out to the trash bin, where the same homeless people stand waiting to put on the worn-out clothes that have just been taken off the homeless dead man. Homeless people are in demand for any rags, so they are on duty at the morgue in the hope of "profit". This is how the infection spreads: from the dead to the living.
I was surrounded by corpses. As an undertaker in a morgue, I certainly got used to it. It scared me a little when I first got the job. But in the end, you get used to it, and you just feel like in the office. After a while, I began to talk to them as if they were living patients, which is also normal for my profession.
You might think it's annoying to work with dead people all the time. After all, so many scary stories about the morgue everyone has heard in real life. But I really enjoy it, in fact I find it quite peaceful. Yes, this is much better than dealing with the violent emotions of some of the living. The dead have no complaints, they all behave like model patients.
My name is Mark and I've been doing this for almost ten years. I work in a funeral home, in a morgue. The cemetery has graves with dates dating back to the eighteenth century. The building itself is an old Victorian mansion refurbished in the early nineteenth century. Architectural elements of that time appear in the old masonry, giving the place itself a special atmosphere of an earlier time.
Our scary morgue story begins at the end of December. In winter, when the ground freezes over, you will have to wait until next year to bury the bodies. So until then, the coffins will be temporarily placed in the old morgue in the cemetery for storage until spring. It was my job to roll them out and place them in their temporary home. We usually tried to do this in the evening, as the sight of the coffins being moved made people feel a little uncomfortable.
I remember how cold it was as I pushed the coffin cart across the road to the cemetery. I hated this time, it was always so cold and the cart was heavy and never wanted to ride in the snow. I would have made it to the old building exhausted and out of breath, all I had to do was to place the coffin on the counter and make my way back.
Sometimes, when I was loading coffins into the old morgue building, I heard the loud creak of old planks, accompanied by the feeling that I was being watched. The dead never bothered me, but there was something in this old building ... There were no windows, and the air inside was rotten and musty. The moldy smell was so strong it was almost unbearable.
I guess I'm not the only one who didn't like this place. I was working on embalming one of my patients. As I said earlier, talking with the dead is common for me, although it is a one-way conversation. When I was working on the dead man, I explained to him what I was going to do with him, that he would wait in a special room until the ground thawed. And that was the first time my imagination got the better of me because I swear to you, I heard him tell me not to take him there. I laughed to myself, because after all, what difference does it make to the dead where they rest. And in general, being buried in the mud is not better than lying in an old building.
Then spring came, and with it the earth thawed. This meant it was time to start moving the coffins to their permanent location in the cemetery. It was a grueling task despite the ice and snow obstacles disappearing. These coffins and their eerie contents weighed a lot, and moving them around on our own was hard work, regardless of the weather.
But the most scary story about the morgue just beginning…. It was early in the morning at the end of March, I don't remember the exact date. It was still quite cold despite the deceptive sight of fresh green grass. I grabbed my cart and started the long walk to the storage building next to the cemetery. I trudged along the path, silently indignant that I had to complete this terrible task. I had another job, but I needed to get it over with.
When I opened the iron door, it made a loud creak and I pushed the hearse inside. I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to enter, as the building still gave me an uneasy feeling. I put the hearse next to the rack and began to move the coffin. The old building creaked loudly as I worked. First one end, then the other, I finally put it back in place on the hearse as my imagination kicked in again. I thought I heard a whisper saying "get out." Looking back, I saw nothing there and waved it off. It was then that I heard a voice loudly shouting "go."
When fear replaced rational thinking, I quickly pushed the cart out the door following it. I felt better just back outside and everything I heard quickly became unimportant. Maybe I thought it was a ghost, and he just wanted to be left alone. As I pondered these thoughts in my head, I heard another loud creak, followed by a loud crash.
At first I was scared to return. It was so loud, it took me a few seconds to realize that I was okay. When my heartbeat began to calm down, I finally looked around. The old warehouse building has been reduced to rubble. All that remains now is a shapeless mound of broken planks, glass and nails. If it had happened a minute earlier, I would have died right there and now. Then I started thinking, is that why I heard this voice? Did my dead friends try to warn me that the old house was about to collapse? I think about it a lot, and there are too many coincidences to come to any real conclusions. But one thing I've learned for a lifetime - if the place is creepy and it gives me goosebumps, I stay away.
