The Corpse's Whisper

The air was thick with the scent of embalming fluid, a stale reminder of the solemnity that permeated the old mortuary on the outskirts of the city. It was a place forgotten by time, a relic of a bygone era where life and death danced in eerie harmony. The curator, Mr. Chen, was an elderly man with a weathered face that told tales of a life spent in the shadow of death. His hands, rough and calloused from years of handling the deceased, were now trembling as he adjusted the dim lights of the room.

The mortuary was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the ancient wooden doors and the distant hum of the city life beyond. Mr. Chen had been working here for decades, a man of few words and fewer friends. He had chosen this solitary existence, content to be the keeper of the silent dead. But tonight, something was different.

As he moved between the rows of caskets, his gaze fell upon an unmarked one at the far end of the room. It was an oddity in a place where every body had its own story, but this one seemed to beckon him. The lid was slightly ajar, and through the crack, he could see the outline of a face, long and pale, as if it had been carved from ice.

Curiosity piqued, Mr. Chen approached the casket. He reached out to push the lid open, but as his hand made contact, he felt a strange, cold sensation that seemed to seep through his skin. His heart raced as he pulled his hand back, and he saw that the lid was no longer ajar; it had been sealed shut by some unseen force.

"Odd," he muttered to himself, but as he turned to walk away, he heard a whisper. It was faint, almost inaudible, but it was there, clear as a bell. "You must know, Mr. Chen," it said, the voice echoing in the empty room.

The curator's eyes widened in shock. "Who's there?" he called out, but the whisper stopped, leaving him alone in the silence once more.

For the next few days, the whisper returned, each time more insistent, more urgent. It was a voice that seemed to come from the very walls of the mortuary, a voice that Mr. Chen could no longer ignore. He began to investigate, searching for any clue that might explain the origin of the whisper.

He pored over old records, looking for any mention of the unmarked casket, but there was nothing. The more he searched, the more he realized that the mortuary was shrouded in mystery, a place where the line between the living and the dead was blurred.

One evening, as the moon hung low in the sky, Mr. Chen found himself drawn back to the unmarked casket. This time, he brought with him a small, portable recording device. He placed it near the casket and stepped back, waiting for the whisper to return.

As the minutes ticked by, he heard nothing. Just as he was about to give up, the whisper came, clearer than ever before. "You must know, Mr. Chen. The truth is hidden in plain sight."

The curator's eyes were wide with fear as he reached for the recording device. He pressed the play button, and the voice echoed through the room once more. "The truth is hidden in plain sight," it repeated, but then, something else was added. "The flesh eaters feast in the dark halls."

Mr. Chen's mind raced as he pieced together the puzzle. The phrase "flesh eaters" was a term used by the mortuary staff to describe the decomposing bodies they handled. "Dark halls" could only mean the labyrinthine corridors beneath the mortuary, a place that was rarely visited.

With renewed determination, Mr. Chen descended into the bowels of the building, flashlight in hand. The corridors were cold and damp, the walls lined with cobwebs and the occasional relic of a bygone era. He pressed on, his heart pounding in his chest, until he reached a door at the end of the hall.

The door was slightly ajar, and as he pushed it open, the stench of decay hit him like a physical blow. He stepped inside, his flashlight cutting through the darkness, and there, in the dim light, he saw it.

The unmarked casket was there, but so were the other bodies, each one decomposing at an alarming rate. And in the center of the room, there was a pedestal, upon which rested a small, ornate box.

Mr. Chen approached the pedestal, his hands trembling. He opened the box, and inside, he found a journal. He opened it, and his eyes widened as he read the entries. It was the diary of a reclusive scientist who had been conducting experiments in the mortuary, experiments that had gone tragically wrong.

The scientist had been trying to create a serum that would bring the dead back to life, but instead, he had unleashed something far more sinister. The flesh eaters were not just decomposing bodies; they were the result of his experiments, creatures that fed on the flesh of the living and the dead alike.

As Mr. Chen read the final entry in the journal, he realized the truth. The whisper was the voice of the scientist, calling out for help. But it was too late. The flesh eaters had spread, and the city was under siege.

With a heavy heart, Mr. Chen left the underground chamber and made his way back to the surface. He knew that he had to warn the city, but as he stepped out into the night, he saw the first signs of the flesh eaters' advance. The creatures were everywhere, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light.

Mr. Chen's journey through the city was a race against time. He encountered survivors, some of whom were infected, others who were fighting back. He saw the terror in their eyes, the hopelessness that gripped them as they realized that their world was falling apart.

In the end, Mr. Chen found himself at the edge of the city, watching as the flesh eaters overran what was left of human civilization. He watched as the last of the survivors were devoured, and then he turned away, unable to bear the sight.

He wandered the desolate streets, a ghost among the living dead, until he reached the mortuary. There, he found a small, unmarked grave. He knew that it was the resting place of the scientist, the man who had started this nightmare.

Mr. Chen knelt beside the grave, his hands trembling as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out the journal and placed it on the ground. He whispered a silent prayer, and then he left, never to return.

The Corpse's Whisper was a tale of secrets, of science gone awry, and of the terrifying consequences that follow when the line between life and death is blurred. It was a story that would be told for generations, a cautionary tale of the dangers of playing God in the realm of the dead.