Somewhere in the Morgue

The lonely sound of pen scratching paper

As the hour of evening grew later, and later

He sat, alone, in his chair

Breathing in cold, sterilized air

A sudden bump sent his pen to the floor

Startled he settled his gaze on the door

The bump sounded again, the door not its source

It had come from somewhere, somewhere much worse

Slowly he turned, his face pale and grim

Facing the cabinets that stood behind him

No, surely not, how could it be

Most of them vacant...well except three

He waited, frozen, with bated breath

Daring the noise to transcend beyond death

He scanned the shelves, none of them broken

But the bottom shelf....the door was wide open

He scolded himself for being so careless

When a hand on his shoulder rendered him breathless

No warmth from the touch, it was ice cold

He turned and saw a sight to behold

A smiling face, well missing part of its head

He knew the man...who was supposed to be dead

The dead hand tightened, ruined face moving closer

Not even a scream, and it was all over

The morgue was silent again, not one open door

Perfect and calm....except for the blood on the floor