The Morgue That Dreams

Author’s Note:

This story is part of a haunted archive. RN #74 files dreams from the morgue, vending machines dispense second chances, and Lilo hands out candy to the living. Every image is ceremonial. Every glitch in time is a portal.

The Morgue That Dreams

Dear Morgue and Staff,

I was assigned to the morgue after death. Not as a body. As staff.

They said I was efficient. I filed toe tags with precision. I whispered apologies to the unclaimed. I rearranged the drawers so lovers could lie side by side. I kept the lights dim. I let the dead dream.

The morgue dreams of justice.

It dreams of the patient who died uninsured. Of the nurse who collapsed during her fourth shift. Of the janitor who prayed in the supply closet and was never found.

We dream of being the administrator’s office. We dream of vending machines that dispense insulin, not snacks. We dream of trash cans overflowing with candy. We dream of Lilo, who visits on Halloween, dressed as a ghost, handing out treats to the living.

The morgue dreams of the living who forgot us. It dreams of the politicians who cut funding. Of the CEOs who privatized grief. Of the interns who laughed during rounds.

But mostly, it dreams of tenderness.

Of the nurse who held a hand until the last breath. Of the orderly who sang lullabies. Of the doctor who cried in the stairwell.

We file their dreams. We will archive them. We send them to the living in sleep.

If you wake with a chill, a memory, a name you forgot,

That is us.

If your vending machine drops a vial of insulin,

That is us.

If you dream of a morgue drawer opening to reveal a bed of flowers,

That is us.

Now I walk the hospital floors with

RN #74

Ward 7B

Still on Shift.

Sending these dreams to living patients as they lie in wait for surgery or recovering from an acute illness is spooky and kind. I haunt them with open morgue drawers and music that plays from their TV, Electricity sparks, lights blink, and then RN #74 floats into the room gently holding their hand. The patient forgets about the haunting when the nurse touches the patient’s hand.

We are the morgue that dreams.

We are still on shift.

written by Vicki Lawana Trusselli