The Empty Coffin
The morgue’s fluorescent lights hummed a low, constant drone, like a trapped insect buzzing against glass. I stood at the counter, signing the visitor log with a hand that didn’t tremble. The pen scratched against the paper, and the night attendant—a kid with acne scars and too much cologne—watched me with bored eyes.
“You’re late,” he said. “Visiting hours ended at eight.”
“I’m not visiting.” I slid my badge across the counter. “I’m here on official business. Detective Holt sent me.”
He picked up the badge, turned it over, squinted at the photo. “Forensic photographer. You’re the one who takes the crime scene shots.”
“That’s right.”
He handed the badge back. “What do you need?”
“Elias Croft. Former detective. Deceased. I need to photograph the body.”
The kid’s face went blank. He tapped the keyboard, clicked a mouse, stared at the screen. “Croft… yeah, I remember this one. Came in about six months ago. House fire, right?”
“That’s what the report says.”
“Weird case.” He leaned back, crossed his arms. “Body was burned pretty bad. They ID’d him through dental records. But the file says the coffin was sealed. No viewing.”
“I’m aware.”
He shrugged. “Follow me.”
The morgue’s hallway stretched ahead, white tiles reflecting the harsh light. The air smelled of bleach and something metallic, like old pennies. The kid’s footsteps echoed against the walls, and I kept my hand on the Leica, the strap tight around my neck.
He stopped at a steel door. “Storage room four. Croft’s in the back, bottom drawer. You need anything else?”
“No.”
He unlocked the door, handed me a key. “Lock up when you’re done. I’ll be at the front desk.”
The door swung open, and I stepped inside. The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there. Rows of refrigerated drawers lined the walls, each one labeled with a name and a date. I walked to the back, my breath fogging in the air.
Bottom drawer. Nameplate: ELIAS CROFT. Date of death: March 14.
I pulled the handle. The drawer slid out with a soft hiss, and I saw the body bag. Black vinyl, zipped shut, a tag tied to the zipper pull. I stared at it for a long moment, the Leica heavy in my hands.
This was it. The man who might be The Shutter. The man whose scar matched the one I saw in the replay.
I unzipped the bag.
The smell hit me first. Not rot—the body had been embalmed—but something chemical, like formaldehyde mixed with burnt plastic. I looked inside.
The bag was empty.
No body. No clothes. No remains. Just a folded sheet, stained with something brown, and a piece of paper placed neatly in the center.
I reached in, picked up the paper. The handwriting was sharp, angular, pressed hard into the page.
*I’m not dead. I’m watching.*
My heart slammed against my ribs. I read the words again, then again, as if repetition would change their meaning. The paper was dry, the ink fresh. Someone had placed it here recently. Today.
I pulled out my phone, dialed Holt. The line rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail.
“Holt, it’s Iris. I’m at the morgue. Croft’s coffin is empty. There’s a note. It says he’s watching. Call me.”
I hung up, slipped the note into my pocket. I took a photo of the empty bag, the empty drawer, the nameplate. The Leica’s shutter clicked, and the sound echoed in the cold room.
I zipped the bag shut, slid the drawer back in. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know if it was fear or anger or something else entirely.
I walked back to the front desk. The kid looked up from his phone.
“Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “I need to see the intake records for Elias Croft. The original paperwork.”
He frowned. “That’s not standard procedure.”
“I don’t care about standard procedure. I need to see who signed for the body, who identified it, who sealed the coffin.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. Give me a minute.”
He disappeared into a back office. I stood at the counter, my fingers drumming against the wood. The clock on the wall ticked. The fluorescent lights hummed.
He came back with a manila folder, thick with papers. “Here. Don’t take anything out. You can look at it here.”
I opened the folder. The first page was the death certificate. Cause of death: smoke inhalation. Body identified by: dental records, matched by Dr. Harold Vance, county coroner.
The second page was the intake form. Signed by a patrol officer named Derek Mills. Date: March 14. Time: 11:47 PM.
The third page was a note from the coroner’s office. *Body severely burned. Dental records confirmed. No further examination required. Coffin sealed per family request.*
I flipped through the rest. Photos of the crime scene—a house in the suburbs, gutted by fire. Charred beams, melted furniture, a blackened shape on the floor that was supposed to be a body.
I looked closer at the photos. The shape was wrong. Too small. Too uniform. A body burned in a fire doesn’t look like a log. It curls, it twists, it shrinks. This shape was straight, almost symmetrical.
I pulled out my phone, took photos of every page. The kid watched me but didn’t say anything.
“Who requested the coffin be sealed?” I asked.
He checked the file. “Next of kin. A sister. Name’s redacted.”
“Redacted?”
“Yeah. Someone blacked it out with a marker. Happens sometimes. Privacy reasons.”
I stared at the black rectangle on the page. Someone had gone through this file after it was filed. Someone had made sure the sister’s name was hidden.
I closed the folder. “Thanks.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I walked out of the morgue into the rain. The parking lot was empty, the streetlights casting yellow pools on the wet asphalt. I stood under the awning, the Leica pressed against my chest, and tried to think.
Croft wasn’t dead. He had faked his death, planted a body, bribed or blackmailed the coroner, and walked away. Six months ago. The same time the murders started.
I pulled out the note again. *I’m not dead. I’m watching.*
I looked around the parking lot. The rain fell in sheets, blurring the streetlights. The shadows between the cars seemed deeper, darker, alive.
I got in my car, locked the doors, and drove.
---
Holt’s apartment was a ten-minute drive from the morgue. I parked outside, killed the engine, and sat in the dark. The rain drummed against the roof, a steady rhythm that matched my heartbeat.
I called him again. Voicemail.
I texted: *At your place. Need to talk. Now.*
I got out, walked to the door. The building was old, brick, with a buzzer system that hadn’t worked in years. I used my key—he’d given it to me after the second murder—and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
His door was ajar.
I stopped. The hallway was silent. The only light came from a flickering bulb at the end of the corridor. I pushed the door open with my foot.
“Holt?”
No answer.
I stepped inside. The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn. I fumbled for the light switch, found it, flipped it.
The living room was trashed. Couch cushions slashed, books thrown off the shelves, drawers pulled out and dumped on the floor. A chair lay on its side, one leg broken.
“Holt!”
I ran to the bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. The kitchen. Empty.
But on the kitchen table, a single photograph.
I picked it up. It was a Polaroid, still slightly damp. The image showed Holt, tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth. His eyes were wide, terrified. Behind him, a wall of mirrors, all shattered.
And in the corner of the photo, a reflection. A figure in a mirror-mask, holding a camera.
I turned the Polaroid over. On the back, written in the same sharp handwriting:
*You have one hour, Iris. Bring your camera. Come alone. Or he dies.*
Below the message, an address. The abandoned camera factory.
I stood in the kitchen, the Polaroid in my hand, the rain hammering against the window. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
*Tick tock.*
I shoved the Polaroid into my pocket, grabbed my Leica, and ran.
---
The factory loomed at the edge of the industrial district, a skeletal structure of rusted steel and broken glass. The parking lot was empty, the gates hanging open. I drove through, my headlights cutting through the rain, and stopped in front of the main entrance.
I killed the engine. The silence was immediate, oppressive. The only sound was the rain, dripping from the roof, pooling on the asphalt.
I stepped out, the Leica around my neck, a flashlight in my hand. The factory’s doors were open, a black mouth waiting to swallow me.
I walked inside.
The main hall was vast, cavernous, filled with the ghosts of machinery. Conveyor belts hung from the ceiling like dead vines. Workbenches were overturned, their surfaces coated in dust. The air smelled of rust and decay and something else—something chemical, like developer fluid.
I swept the flashlight across the room. The beam caught a chair in the center, empty. Beside it, a table with a single object: a roll of film.
I walked to the table, picked up the film. It was unmarked, but the canister was old, scratched, the same model my sister used.
I heard a sound behind me. A footstep, soft, deliberate.
I turned.
The Shutter stood at the edge of the light. His mirror-mask caught the beam, reflecting it back at me in a thousand fractured pieces. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. In his hand, a camera—a twin to mine.
“Iris,” he said. His voice was distorted, like it was coming through a broken speaker. “You came.”
“Where is Holt?”
“Safe. For now.” He took a step closer. The mirrors on his mask shifted, catching the light, throwing it across the walls. “You brought your camera.”
“You knew I would.”
“I counted on it.” He stopped a few feet away. “You’ve seen what it can do. The replay. The final sixty seconds.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your sister saw it too,” he said. “She was the first to understand. The first to try to stop me.”
“You killed her.”
“I did what was necessary.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “She found my darkroom. She saw the photos. She knew what I was doing.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m an artist.” He raised his camera. “And you’re going to help me finish my masterpiece.”
He pressed the shutter. The flash exploded, blinding me.
I stumbled back, my hands over my eyes. When I opened them, he was gone.
But on the table, next to the roll of film, a new note.
*Develop this. See the truth. Then decide if you want to save him.*
I picked up the film. My hands were shaking.
I had one hour. One roll of film. And a killer who was always watching.
“You’re late,” he said. “Visiting hours ended at eight.”
“I’m not visiting.” I slid my badge across the counter. “I’m here on official business. Detective Holt sent me.”
He picked up the badge, turned it over, squinted at the photo. “Forensic photographer. You’re the one who takes the crime scene shots.”
“That’s right.”
He handed the badge back. “What do you need?”
“Elias Croft. Former detective. Deceased. I need to photograph the body.”
The kid’s face went blank. He tapped the keyboard, clicked a mouse, stared at the screen. “Croft… yeah, I remember this one. Came in about six months ago. House fire, right?”
“That’s what the report says.”
“Weird case.” He leaned back, crossed his arms. “Body was burned pretty bad. They ID’d him through dental records. But the file says the coffin was sealed. No viewing.”
“I’m aware.”
He shrugged. “Follow me.”
The morgue’s hallway stretched ahead, white tiles reflecting the harsh light. The air smelled of bleach and something metallic, like old pennies. The kid’s footsteps echoed against the walls, and I kept my hand on the Leica, the strap tight around my neck.
He stopped at a steel door. “Storage room four. Croft’s in the back, bottom drawer. You need anything else?”
“No.”
He unlocked the door, handed me a key. “Lock up when you’re done. I’ll be at the front desk.”
The door swung open, and I stepped inside. The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there. Rows of refrigerated drawers lined the walls, each one labeled with a name and a date. I walked to the back, my breath fogging in the air.
Bottom drawer. Nameplate: ELIAS CROFT. Date of death: March 14.
I pulled the handle. The drawer slid out with a soft hiss, and I saw the body bag. Black vinyl, zipped shut, a tag tied to the zipper pull. I stared at it for a long moment, the Leica heavy in my hands.
This was it. The man who might be The Shutter. The man whose scar matched the one I saw in the replay.
I unzipped the bag.
The smell hit me first. Not rot—the body had been embalmed—but something chemical, like formaldehyde mixed with burnt plastic. I looked inside.
The bag was empty.
No body. No clothes. No remains. Just a folded sheet, stained with something brown, and a piece of paper placed neatly in the center.
I reached in, picked up the paper. The handwriting was sharp, angular, pressed hard into the page.
*I’m not dead. I’m watching.*
My heart slammed against my ribs. I read the words again, then again, as if repetition would change their meaning. The paper was dry, the ink fresh. Someone had placed it here recently. Today.
I pulled out my phone, dialed Holt. The line rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail.
“Holt, it’s Iris. I’m at the morgue. Croft’s coffin is empty. There’s a note. It says he’s watching. Call me.”
I hung up, slipped the note into my pocket. I took a photo of the empty bag, the empty drawer, the nameplate. The Leica’s shutter clicked, and the sound echoed in the cold room.
I zipped the bag shut, slid the drawer back in. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know if it was fear or anger or something else entirely.
I walked back to the front desk. The kid looked up from his phone.
“Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “I need to see the intake records for Elias Croft. The original paperwork.”
He frowned. “That’s not standard procedure.”
“I don’t care about standard procedure. I need to see who signed for the body, who identified it, who sealed the coffin.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. Give me a minute.”
He disappeared into a back office. I stood at the counter, my fingers drumming against the wood. The clock on the wall ticked. The fluorescent lights hummed.
He came back with a manila folder, thick with papers. “Here. Don’t take anything out. You can look at it here.”
I opened the folder. The first page was the death certificate. Cause of death: smoke inhalation. Body identified by: dental records, matched by Dr. Harold Vance, county coroner.
The second page was the intake form. Signed by a patrol officer named Derek Mills. Date: March 14. Time: 11:47 PM.
The third page was a note from the coroner’s office. *Body severely burned. Dental records confirmed. No further examination required. Coffin sealed per family request.*
I flipped through the rest. Photos of the crime scene—a house in the suburbs, gutted by fire. Charred beams, melted furniture, a blackened shape on the floor that was supposed to be a body.
I looked closer at the photos. The shape was wrong. Too small. Too uniform. A body burned in a fire doesn’t look like a log. It curls, it twists, it shrinks. This shape was straight, almost symmetrical.
I pulled out my phone, took photos of every page. The kid watched me but didn’t say anything.
“Who requested the coffin be sealed?” I asked.
He checked the file. “Next of kin. A sister. Name’s redacted.”
“Redacted?”
“Yeah. Someone blacked it out with a marker. Happens sometimes. Privacy reasons.”
I stared at the black rectangle on the page. Someone had gone through this file after it was filed. Someone had made sure the sister’s name was hidden.
I closed the folder. “Thanks.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I walked out of the morgue into the rain. The parking lot was empty, the streetlights casting yellow pools on the wet asphalt. I stood under the awning, the Leica pressed against my chest, and tried to think.
Croft wasn’t dead. He had faked his death, planted a body, bribed or blackmailed the coroner, and walked away. Six months ago. The same time the murders started.
I pulled out the note again. *I’m not dead. I’m watching.*
I looked around the parking lot. The rain fell in sheets, blurring the streetlights. The shadows between the cars seemed deeper, darker, alive.
I got in my car, locked the doors, and drove.
---
Holt’s apartment was a ten-minute drive from the morgue. I parked outside, killed the engine, and sat in the dark. The rain drummed against the roof, a steady rhythm that matched my heartbeat.
I called him again. Voicemail.
I texted: *At your place. Need to talk. Now.*
I got out, walked to the door. The building was old, brick, with a buzzer system that hadn’t worked in years. I used my key—he’d given it to me after the second murder—and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
His door was ajar.
I stopped. The hallway was silent. The only light came from a flickering bulb at the end of the corridor. I pushed the door open with my foot.
“Holt?”
No answer.
I stepped inside. The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn. I fumbled for the light switch, found it, flipped it.
The living room was trashed. Couch cushions slashed, books thrown off the shelves, drawers pulled out and dumped on the floor. A chair lay on its side, one leg broken.
“Holt!”
I ran to the bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. The kitchen. Empty.
But on the kitchen table, a single photograph.
I picked it up. It was a Polaroid, still slightly damp. The image showed Holt, tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth. His eyes were wide, terrified. Behind him, a wall of mirrors, all shattered.
And in the corner of the photo, a reflection. A figure in a mirror-mask, holding a camera.
I turned the Polaroid over. On the back, written in the same sharp handwriting:
*You have one hour, Iris. Bring your camera. Come alone. Or he dies.*
Below the message, an address. The abandoned camera factory.
I stood in the kitchen, the Polaroid in my hand, the rain hammering against the window. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
*Tick tock.*
I shoved the Polaroid into my pocket, grabbed my Leica, and ran.
---
The factory loomed at the edge of the industrial district, a skeletal structure of rusted steel and broken glass. The parking lot was empty, the gates hanging open. I drove through, my headlights cutting through the rain, and stopped in front of the main entrance.
I killed the engine. The silence was immediate, oppressive. The only sound was the rain, dripping from the roof, pooling on the asphalt.
I stepped out, the Leica around my neck, a flashlight in my hand. The factory’s doors were open, a black mouth waiting to swallow me.
I walked inside.
The main hall was vast, cavernous, filled with the ghosts of machinery. Conveyor belts hung from the ceiling like dead vines. Workbenches were overturned, their surfaces coated in dust. The air smelled of rust and decay and something else—something chemical, like developer fluid.
I swept the flashlight across the room. The beam caught a chair in the center, empty. Beside it, a table with a single object: a roll of film.
I walked to the table, picked up the film. It was unmarked, but the canister was old, scratched, the same model my sister used.
I heard a sound behind me. A footstep, soft, deliberate.
I turned.
The Shutter stood at the edge of the light. His mirror-mask caught the beam, reflecting it back at me in a thousand fractured pieces. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. In his hand, a camera—a twin to mine.
“Iris,” he said. His voice was distorted, like it was coming through a broken speaker. “You came.”
“Where is Holt?”
“Safe. For now.” He took a step closer. The mirrors on his mask shifted, catching the light, throwing it across the walls. “You brought your camera.”
“You knew I would.”
“I counted on it.” He stopped a few feet away. “You’ve seen what it can do. The replay. The final sixty seconds.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your sister saw it too,” he said. “She was the first to understand. The first to try to stop me.”
“You killed her.”
“I did what was necessary.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “She found my darkroom. She saw the photos. She knew what I was doing.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m an artist.” He raised his camera. “And you’re going to help me finish my masterpiece.”
He pressed the shutter. The flash exploded, blinding me.
I stumbled back, my hands over my eyes. When I opened them, he was gone.
But on the table, next to the roll of film, a new note.
*Develop this. See the truth. Then decide if you want to save him.*
I picked up the film. My hands were shaking.
I had one hour. One roll of film. And a killer who was always watching.