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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.

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

Rebecca realized with a jolt of horror that the sigil wasn't on the bodies. It was etched into the palm of her own hand, glowing a bruised purple. The "free download" of her soul was complete; the mortuary wasn't her workplace anymore. It was her cage. As she reached for the carotid artery, the lights flickered

She peeled back the sheet on the gurney. Nothing. She checked the woman in cold storage. Nothing.

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. Rebecca froze

"I am the rot in the floorboards, Rebecca. I am the shadow in your mother's eyes."

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. A wet, slapping sound echoed from the hallway

"Just another night, Becky," she whispered, her breath hitching.