The Case Of The Roosevelt Morgue

The smell of formaldehyde and antiseptic was the usual greeting at the Roosevelt Morgue, a familiar comfort for Doctor Spellding. Today, however, it was overshadowed.

It began on a Thursday morning, just after 6:15 AM. The automated coffee machine was a godsend, its gurgle a soothing start to the day. But the peace shattered with a blood-curdling scream echoing down the hall. My coffee cup clattered, scalding my hand, but the pain was secondary to the sound.

Another scream followed as I ran, a fleeting thought of an attack turning to cold dread. Rounding the corner, I stopped. On the floor lay Jimmy, the med student janitor, grotesquely mutilated. Blood slicked the tiles, intestines spilled beside his torn body, and his throat bore a gaping, jagged wound. Samantha, my assistant, huddled in the corner, sobbing, her knees clutched to her chest. The morgue, usually a place of quiet reverence for the dead, was now a scene of savage horror.