The Morgue

June 28, 2004

Dear Diary,

It has been so long since I have been able to write an entry, but I can not seem to find time in my daily life. I was able to get a new job as a Forensic Pathologist after I was let off of my last job as a college professor. Many think of my job as grim or dark, but I enjoy it. I can at least pass the time in my lonely life with something I love to do, especially after Lindsey left me. My mother a long time ago warned me to be careful in my profession. She had always been the superstitious type now that I look back at all the memories I have of her. She was mad. Lived mad and died mad as I always say. She was always scared of me working in the morgue. Afraid I would bring home something unwanted.

My mother was always superstitious. Recently I have been looking through the old album she kept of her and me. Those were happier times for all of us. Before my father left, before mother fell into insanity and ultimately took her own life over nothing more than a black cat that she was afraid of. Later in her life, she always went on. Sitting in that stupid black chair that she refused to get rid of and spouting complete idiocy about a black cat that followed her. She would say that it was following her. That it was the thing that killed my childhood dog, Bunker. It disgusts me to reminisce about those times. I like to think about the happier times with her rather than the times when she was slowly drifting into the void of complete and udder madness.

Enough about my mother, I don't like speaking about her even if it is to nothing but a book. The reason I decided to write in my diary is because I just can not seem to get a blink of sleep after a few nights ago. My mother was afraid of spirits. Just like she was afraid of broken mirrors and that blasted black cat. Spirits. Those are the only thing my mother spouted about that I believed in my whole life. I have always been interested in them. Psychics and ghosts were in my childhood because of my aunt, who was a self-proclaimed witch. I remember visiting her and seeing that her house was filled with hanging herbs that smelled aromantic. I liked to believe that they purified the air. Rosemary and Sage were the two that I was able to identify. I also remember a book that she would not allow me to touch as well as her tarot cards. I refuse to touch or dabble in. Aunt Jessica, the witch whom I was just talking about is the one who taught me about spirits. Taught me that some are pure. Pure spirits are spirits that we see as Angels and guardians. She also taught me that some are evil. Spirits that we see as demons or poltergeists.

Just a few nights ago, I believe that there was a spirit in my home. I live on a 2-floor house on a 12-acre piece of land that I inherited from my mother after she died of her own stupidity. I may sound like the senile, old woman, but I live on my own and there is no explaining what I had seen.

I believe it was around 2-3 am when I had gotten home from work that night. It was just a few nights ago when this all happened. I was making dinner for myself, a chicken wrap with an aioli that I had made myself. After sitting down to enjoy my meal out on the front porch. It was warm outside. It was after all the middle of summer. After working all day in the morgue on a surprisingly gruesome case involving a little girl that had been severely beaten and sodomized, it was nice to unwind outside. Get rid of the horrid imagery that was still branded into my mind from the child. After all, I love children. I hate seeing things like that, since no child deserves to be treated that way or die that way. I ate my dinner and stayed outside for at least two hours as I remember watching the moon and stars meander by overhead. After enjoying that meal, I went inside to find that the lights that I had kept on before going outside to eat had been turned off. I swore that I had left them on. I decided to neglect that detail and turn the light back on. I then went into the kitchen, put my plate into the sink for me to clean later. That was when I turned around and saw it. A child, the same little girl in which I had done an autopsy on previously in the morgue just hours before. She was bloody, but I could not see any kind of wounds on her. She wore a soft pink dress that I remember cutting off of her when I did the autopsy. She came in the body bag with it on. Something I remember only because it looked like the dress I saw my niece wear on her holy communion just a few months back. The child just stood there as I backed up, unfazed by my expression of what I imagine as pure horror. She did not move, just stood and stared at me. She looked soulless. I must have fainted at the sight of her because I woke up the next day, yesterday, on the kitchen floor with a very large knot on my head. I was unharmed otherwise.

That child is the reason I am unable to sleep. I have not been able to get a blink of sleep ever since I saw her and so I sit in my room writing to a book whose pages do not talk. I do not know why that child followed me home, but I guess my mother was right about me bringing things home from the morgue. I should not have brought home the eyes of that little girl, but they reminded me so much of my mothers when she was actually happy. How could I resist?