The day went fast. At Chester Street Morgue in Whitehaven town centre which was located on the High Street next door to Keller’s Undertakers, Colin Ferguson was doing his nightshift. Basically, this entailed an entire night spend overseeing new arrivals and keeping the peace, whereby he sat in the tiny office mostly watching movies on his Kindle Fire. He could proudly boast he’d downloaded more than 300 movies on his SD Memory card. Tonight, he decided to watch the remake of Halloween, a movie that was two or three years old, yet classic Horror Gold nonetheless. It was a franchise that he never got tired with, since Michael Myers was his ultimate movie hero—despite the fact Myers was a knife-brandishing, faceless, deranged serial-killer who murdered in gory fashion. But well, everybody had to have heroes, so it just happened that good old Mike Myers was Colin Ferguson’s all-time greatest—fucking A!
Outside it rained, battering the roof of the Morgue this night.
It was good weather if your first name was Daffy or Donald.
It was a fact that Colin normally caught forty winks during daytime hours when he was doing a nightshift, but this evening he felt tired and sluggish because he’d spent most of the day at home in the living room watching the European Athletics Championships from Glasgow. Colin was a massive athletics fan as well (as well as accomplished horror film critic) and loved all track and field events. Another one of his heroes he idolized was Mo Farah who it transpired was somebody he held in esteem like the British distance runner and world record owner was akin to the likes of Einstein or Jesus Christ.
Presently, Colin was chewing on a cheese and ham baguette and getting crumbs everywhere. The tile floor in the office was spattered with them. Scolding himself, he thought, messy bastard, and chuckled as he wiped Daddy’s brown sauce from his lips. Nothing beat Daddy’s sauce on cheese…
Looking through the overview window into the Morgue’s main sector, there was no movement (of course, what did he expect?), just the naked woman on the white marble slab who was brought in this afternoon. It was his understanding there would be a church ceremony held in her honour in a couple of days before her cremation. He also understood the deceased woman’s husband, one George Carpenter, had visited the Morgue earlier that afternoon just to lament his late wife, Lillian.
His chewing on the bread dramatically slowed as he imagined what a woman like Lillian must have been like in the bedroom with hubby George. One thing was for sure, she had a nice pair of knockers, and even a neatly trimmed bush. He bet she’d been a right goer.
Colin pondered whether or not he’d be caught entering the main room, getting his cock out, and fucking that lovely corpse?
He had a packet of rubbers in his jacket pocket as well. He could just nip in and out, nobody would know. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fucked a corpse. He did it quite often, in fact, since most deceased women that entered the Morgue he’d fantasize about and masturbate over, or else he was more likely to unleash the beast and cram it into the cold, dead crevice.
As he sat in the chair with his feet up on the desk, he never noticed Lillian Carpenter sit bold upright on the slab and twist her head to look towards the main office window, for he was too engrossed in the antics of pin-up poster boy for horror fans, the demonic Michael Myers. Neither did Colin notice as the grey, mouldy body clambered off the white marble slab and sauntered across the main room floor towards the office door. The corpse glided with grace and ease, silently and—as far as Ferguson was concerned—invisibly.
Suddenly, Colin looked up from his movie. He looked through the overview window into the main-sector room. Yes, she was still there, he saw…still grey-skinned, plump and sexy, ready for a good hard fuck. He knew by the morning he’d have sown his wild outs with this alluring corpse. Her tits, for a dead woman, still looked amazing, and he could have bet money her crack was tight.
With a rubber on his cock, he thought, why worry about a cold vagina?
In her day, Lillian Carpenter had been (and still was) a good looking woman. Not knowing even how she came to be here, or indeed die so young, Colin pondered this as he ogled her naked body in the next room, asking again why and how she came to be in this position in the first place, lying as a corpse in the town’s morgue…? He never paid much attention to TV news bulletins since he was too busy as he spent the majority of his hours watching silliness on YouTube, his downloaded movies, or jerking off over videos of underage sex on Porn Hub. Who needed literature when you had an entire education on the internet?
He grinned, “Won’t be long now, honey bee…”
By morning, he’d fuck a corpse. But then again, he certainly would not.
As Michael Myers suddenly slashed a young woman’s throat and jugular with a sharpened kitchen knife, Colin chuckled and laughed because he adored this kind of weird shit—and besides, what wasn’t to adore? He was one bloke like so many who recognized over the decades that horror movies were getting more and more sophisticated and intelligent in their styles of committing gross murderous acts, and hardly not just intelligent—but innovative and original. They’d come on in leaps and bounds since the days of VHS horror flicks in 80s video shops. Now, these films attracted more discerning viewers, ones that demanded more, those who showed faith in new directors and writers, which transpired was the genre’s life-blood. Despite his perversions, Colin—in fact—championed the horror genre, kept it fresh and motivated and inspired those in charge of production. However, it was just a sorry factor he fucked dead people.
Horror fans came in all shapes, forms and sizes.
“Holy fuck…!” Colin screamed, getting up out of his chair as he found himself in the office confronted by a grinning dead woman. His eyes widened and his heartbeat drastically quickened. “Please, please…” he begged, “…I mean you know harm, I wasn’t really going to fuck you…honest, I wasn’t…But you’re dead, you’re fucking dead!”
The woman said nothing. Lillian Carpenter reached out her right hand which grasped the man’s throat, as if to choke him, or at least this was the impression.
However, he didn’t choke. In fact, something much nastier occurred in this dingy, grey office in Whitehaven town centre, as Colin Ferguson gasped his last breath of oxygen as he felt the very life and blood sucked from him. It couldn’t be happening, this shit couldn’t be real.
Blood issued from between his lips as Lillian Carpenter’s molten hot right hand squeezed Colin’s throat, so hot it melted the flesh and roasted his juddering Adam’s apple, sending it lower in his gullet. His skin melted like hot plastic, oozing dirty, crisps of destroyed flesh, whilst blood squirted from the huge wound, shooting out in festooning arcs and splattering the walls and ceiling of the office.
Colin Ferguson’s last example of mortal existence was looking into the dead woman’s yellow, luminous eyes, as she gasped and breathed in fast rasps, ones that signified the excitement of a fresh kill, like that of a hungry wolf about to feast on a cornered lamb. He coughed and spluttered thick bile and blood as he attempted to scream in agony at the terrific burning heat. His entire neck was melting, so that shortly his neck would no longer be a part of him.
All of a sudden, his neck no longer there, Colin’s head lolled and fell off, disconnecting with the burnt neck, and fell to the floor. It hit the tiles with a monotonous thud and splat, as it squelched upon contact with the grey marble. Shortly, his once upright body, followed.
Lillian Carpenter’s face registered no expression. There was neither joy or sadness in those blank, dead eyes, as neither was there any minor glint of remorse or even momentary glee at her kill which lay slumped and collapsed at her feet. Naked still, and seemingly careless in her guise as walking corpse, she turned around in the tiny room and walked towards the door. Eventually, she would leave the building, emerging into the night air, and the pissing down rain and heavy winds. Another storm brewed for this vicinity in West Cumbria.
For this walking dead woman, the heavy downfall of rain from the skies bathed her flesh and cleansed her arms and hands of her victim’s blood.
For Lillian, it was like when she lived and thrived, for once again the High Street beckoned.


Carter Ward—Space Rat by Gregory KH Bryant.


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