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The room plunged into darkness. When the emergency red lights kicked in, the elderly man on the table was sitting up. His jaw hung at an impossible angle, and his eyes had been replaced by swirling, oily voids. He raised a finger, pointing not at her, but at the incinerator.

As she reached for the carotid artery, the lights flickered. Across the room, the lid of a storage cabinet creaked open. It didn’t swing; it pulsed, as if something inside was breathing. Rebecca froze. She remembered Mr. Delver’s warning: The demons don’t want the dead; they want the vessel that’s still warm. The room plunged into darkness

She peeled back the sheet on the gurney. Nothing. She checked the woman in cold storage. Nothing. He raised a finger, pointing not at her,

The fluorescent lights of the River Fields Mortuary hummed at a frequency that felt like a needle pressing into Rebecca’s skull. She had taken this apprenticeship to face her demons, but tonight, the demons were literal. It didn’t swing; it pulsed, as if something

Then, she heard it—a voice coming from her own throat, but not her own words.

She grabbed her clipboard, her hands shaking so hard the pen skittered across the floor. She needed to identify the mark. Every demonic possession left a sign—a sigil hidden in the folds of skin or behind an eyelid. If she didn't find it and burn the right body before the shift ended, she wouldn’t be leaving through the front door.

A wet, slapping sound echoed from the hallway. Slap. Drag. Slap. Drag.