I Work in a Morgue. Our Janitor Has a Terrifying Secret.
I’m a forensic pathologist. I work in the morgue of a large county hospital. Forensic science is my passion, and after years of intense schooling, I’ve finally landed my first real job in the field. The work isn’t glamorous, but it’s important. I examine the deceased, determine causes of death, and help bring closure to families. The environment is sterile, clinical, and often silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of chemicals.
There are only three of us working in the morgue during the day: the senior medical examiner, myself, and the janitor.
The janitor is an elderly man. His back is hunched, and his skin is a network of deep wrinkles, like dried leather. He wears the standard gray maintenance uniform, and he drags a mop bucket through the long, echoing hallways. He never speaks, never makes a sound, and keeps to himself. I assumed he was just another quiet, tired soul stuck in a job he didn’t enjoy.
But there’s something… strange about him.
The morgue has a small viewing room where families come to identify their loved ones. It’s one of the hardest parts of my job. I’ve seen the raw grief in that room—a mother collapsing to the floor, a father screaming for a mistake to be made. It's heart-wrenching. People become shells of themselves, wailing in agony.
But I began to notice something odd. Whenever the janitor was around, this chaos would… stop.
The first time I saw it, a couple came to view their son. He’d died in a motorcycle accident, and the mother was in absolute distress. I could hear her cries from across the hall. It was pure pain, the kind of wail that makes your heart ache just to listen to.
I was filling out some paperwork when the janitor shuffled past my desk. He stopped by the door to the viewing room. He left his mop against the wall and entered the room without a word. I figured he was just cleaning, but then something extraordinary happened.
Within moments, the crying stopped. Not faded, but stopped—like a switch had been flipped. The mother’s wails turned to silence. I couldn’t believe it.
When the janitor came out, he didn’t say anything. He picked up his mop and continued his work like nothing had happened.
A few minutes later, the couple emerged. The mother was calm. Her face was dry. She held her husband’s hand and thanked the receptionist quietly, as if they had just gone to a peaceful gathering.
I was stunned. This was impossible. You don’t recover from the sudden loss of a child in minutes.
Over the next few weeks, I watched the same thing happen over and over again. A grieving family would arrive, devastated, uncontrollable with pain. The janitor would enter the room, and minutes later, the family would emerge calm, composed, as if the grief had been entirely erased. The transformation was uncanny. The kind of peace they left with was unnatural.
I tried to listen one day. I stood near the door, straining to hear what he was saying. All I could catch were low, rhythmic whispers, a language I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t something I could understand. Whatever it was, it seemed to work.
I asked the senior medical examiner about it one day. She didn’t look up from her paperwork but said simply, “He’s been here longer than either of us. He has a way of comforting the bereaved. Leave him to his work.”
As time passed, I began to notice another disturbing pattern: The janitor was the only one allowed to stay in the morgue after hours.
It’s a strange rule. No one is supposed to stay past six PM, when the hospital shuts down certain sections of the building. At first, I assumed it was for logistical reasons—budget cuts, energy conservation. But one evening, I stayed late to finish some paperwork.
At exactly six PM, the janitor came to my office, holding his mop. He stood in the doorway and said, “It’s time for you to go.” His voice was deep, gravely.
I explained I needed another hour to finish my reports, but he didn’t argue. He simply reached over and yanked the power cord from my computer. The screen went black instantly, erasing an hour of unsaved work.
I was angry, but as I looked into his eyes, that anger vanished. His eyes were cold—unblinking, unfathomable. There was a tension to his presence, like a predator watching its prey.
I left the office without saying another word.
The next few weeks, I watched this behavior with growing unease. The janitor was always the last one in the morgue. The doors would lock behind him, and I would hear the sounds of him moving about, cleaning up, as if he was waiting for something. Or someone.
Then, three days ago, it happened.
We received the body of a young woman who had died suddenly. Her family arrived, grieving loudly. The janitor did his usual routine, moving toward the viewing room. This time, I followed him. I wanted to know what he was doing, what he was saying to these families.
I watched from a hidden corner, straining to hear.
The room fell silent—again.
The janitor left as usual, picking up his mop. A few minutes later, the family emerged, no longer broken. Their grief had turned to calmness, a peace that shouldn’t be possible.
I decided to follow him. I waited until after hours, hiding behind a storage room, and then I followed the janitor into the morgue. I had to know what was really going on.
The cold storage room was the heart of the morgue. It’s where the bodies are kept before and after the examinations. I had never been in here after hours, and now I wished I never had.
I crept into the storage room, and the first thing I heard was a sickening sound—a wet, tearing noise. I crept closer to the door, peeking inside.
The janitor stood over the body of the young woman, her body laid out in a refrigeration drawer. But something was wrong. He was eating her. His hands were deep inside her chest, pulling out her liver, tearing into it with his bare teeth.
I froze, paralyzed by what I was witnessing. I had seen many things in my career, but this... this was beyond comprehension.
The janitor turned slowly, his black eyes locking with mine. His voice was calm, almost soothing, as he said, “You broke the rule.”
I didn’t make a sound. I ran. I had to get out of there, but his voice followed me. I stumbled through the dark hallways, my heart pounding in my chest.
I thought I was safe once I reached the elevator, but the janitor wasn’t far behind. He followed me silently, like a shadow.
At that moment, I knew. I knew I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t run from what I had seen.
The janitor was no ordinary man. He was something... otherworldly. Something ancient.
I’ve been trying to make sense of it all. I’ve been hiding in my apartment, too scared to go back to work, but I know I have to.
The janitor is the morgue.
And tomorrow, I will return. But I will never stay past six o’clock again.
This is the truth. It’s the only truth that matters now.
The janitor—he's not just cleaning. He’s feeding.
If you want a darker or more refined version, let me know!
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