tagErotic HorrorThe Old Coroner 03: Age 25 Female

The Old Coroner 03: Age 25 Female


Age 25 Female – Sacrificed

Garrit, the old coroner, wiped tissue across his behind and stared at it. The white paper had a big blob of bright fresh blood. Around the edges of the red shape, fine lines of red followed the paper pores outside. With his head low, he inspected the sheer redness and liveliness of the liquid. The hands holding the tissue were long, skinny. And, the skin had hardened from age with a dozen creases at the finger joints.

The second wipe came up almost completely clean. The vessel rich tissue had closed quickly. The first wipe had merely collected the first spurts of blood that were quickly sealed outside of the body.

His body was lifeless and depressed resting on the stainless steal autopsy tables. Many oily smudges from body prints and foggy spots from bodily humidity were evidence of the wildly sexual rape that had taken place. His wrists and ankles with the age spots were reddened by the tight rope that had constrained him to be a passive vessel receiving a dildo up his ass from an enraged twin.

Vivid memories flashed across his mind, while his breath weakly ventilated the top ten percent of his lungs only. Grenada was her name, the red punk head with the leather jacket, who had first seduced him, made love to him, and finally raped him in vengeance. Grenada's face with the dark red lip stick and dramatic eyes burned in Garrit's memory.

Grenada was such a contrast from the lovely twin sister, Jessica. Jessica had lied peaceful on the autopsy table like a happy bubbly young woman with a soft and cheery dress. Grenada and Jessica were like Yin and Yang, identical yet polar opposites. Garrit had raped Jessica. Grenada had raped Garrit. Garrit could not go to the police.

So, he sat there for another moment. His body was tall with long limbs. The skin had become a sack draped around him with age. Especially, the chest area that was once a little chubby had shriveled up. His back was curved from years of bad posture and lack of exercise. The few gray hairs that he had left were grown long to reach around his whole had and cover as many bald spots as possible.

He knocked his knuckles against the stainless steel autopsy table to tell himself to accept the situation and clean up. The room around him was in the half light of the energy saving nighttime lighting. Six autopsy tables on wheels stood around him. A large sink with a hose could handle washing up large pieces. A fake plastic flower stood next to his desk in the corner. And, of course one wall was a giant stainless steel front. Many square doors covered the entrance to the refrigerator, where the corpses were preserved by near freezing temperatures.

The worn out large grand pa underpants went on first. The slacks worn since the last decade came next. The shirt was carefully buttoned. And, the composure returned to his face. If just his belly weren't itching him that much. He had ejaculated on himself during the rape. The cum had dried. The belly hair was matted. It felt painful to pull the body hair out of the dried frosting, yet it felt rewarding in a relieving way as well.

With big balls of brown hand drying paper, he wiped down the autopsy table. Memories of the sweet, youthful taste of Grenada's lips and the intensely, playful darting of her tongue in his mouth titillated Garrit. He remembered his hands gliding over her body, particularly the tender belly. He had never liked tattoos, frowned upon them actually. However, being allowed to touch one, he had enjoyed the tattooed thorny roses twisting around her navel button.

Faint daylight crawled outside along the hallway. The sign of daybreak was unmistakable. Another fifteen minutes and the hallway would be filled with as much daylight as possibly could seep down the stairways into the morgue basement. A further half hour, the loud crack of an electromagnet switch would preamble the lights being switched to full brightness for the dayshift of the hospital to arrive. The light was always blinding after the eyes have adjusted to the sparse nighttime lighting.

As always, the door would open with a metallic click. Even, though the door was normally opened, the sound would echo through the whole hallway and startle him. Quickly, more foot steps shuffling, noises of bags being ruffled, and people yapping would fallow. Quickly, a thick blanket of white noise would even cover up doors being slammed.

At this point, Garrit could count the minutes. The dayshift coroner would be the first person to jog down the stairs. The day coroner always let himself half fall down the stairs with the feet flinging out of the way swiftly until the whole momentum was stopped with a loud thud. The day coroner entered the morgue with a flying white doctor coat.

"'Morning, Garrit. Did any dead wake up tonight?"

"Nope, never had anyone wake up ever. And, I have done this for decades."

"Well, Mortimer, enjoy the brand new day."

The day coroner was focused on a clipboard. Garrit shuffled out of the room. That's it. The once in a generation event of a young hot girl raping an old dude had happened. And, everything continued as if it had never happened. Garrit continued shuffling to the stairs. He was happy that he hadn't been asked about the rope burns on his wrists.

Standing outside the front door, Garrit basked in the golden early morning rays of the sun. A big oak tree had brightly green leaves. Birds were chirping their little heads off and catching the early worms. Author note to self: If you are re-born as a worm, be a late worm. The early birds are too hungry.

Garrit bounced on his feet once to make up his mind to turn around. He had to find out a little more. Back in the hospital building, he walked up the wide stone stairs that were supposed to absorb a rush of people. The lighted above ground part of the hospital was unfamiliar to him and made him a little uncomfortable.

On the second floor, there was a long row of gray cubicles. The cubicle walls were just a little lower than his chin. So, he could see a few curly hair tops, bald spots, and even a baseball cap. The atmosphere in this part of the hospital was stiff, because human resources was mostly here. People wore prim and proper business dresses and shirts that were utterly out of fashion.

He knocked against the soft clothed wall of the cubicle. His supervisor looked up. She was a woman with hazel brown hair that puffed up on top of her head in a curvy way. She wore a green felt jacket with way too many buttons, pockets, and accents. The jacket was also a bit too small. Garrit stifled an impulsive laugh, because she reminded him of a leprechaun.

"Garrit, what brings you up here? Don't tell me, you want to vacation?"

"No, no, miss. I was curious, if you had any more information about the late visitor yesterday."

"What visitor?"

"You, you brought, a young woman last night, who claimed to be the twin sister of our Jane Doe from a few years back."

"Garrit, you know that such a visit would be against hospital policy. I would never bring a visitor into the morgue."

"I, I must have been mistaken. Maybe, a dream that I had."

"Oh, old boy, Garrit. Did you take a nap again? Just make sure that you sit down. We all still remember, when you feel and caught yourself a black eye."

The supervisor laughed amicably. Garrit rubbed his forehead trying to make sense. Had he gone insane? Had he imagined everything? He could still see the rope burns on his wrist. For now, he smiled at his boss, turned and walked away.

He walked very slowly towards the stairs. He had to find the woman. He had to find her to proof to himself that he hadn't gone Alzheimer yet. How do you find a woman? Ah, the tattoo. The tattoo might help. He sombered down to the morgue again to meet the daytime coroner.

The daytime coroner had already slapped nitrile gloves on. His fingers were delicately leading a scalpel through a dead body freshly delivered by the police.

"Hey, I had a question for you."

"Garrit, for you always. What is it?"

The daytime coroner looked up and seized up Garrit with his working glasses.

"You have this penchant for the occult."

"Oh, yes, Garrit. I love reading about demons and exorcisms. Though, I am sorry to disappoint you. Everything that I have tried has been a failure. I am afraid that ghosts don't exist." The day time coroner smiled playfully out of the corner of his mouth.

"Well, I saw a symbol on a tattoo. Could you identify it? It's the thorny stems of roses braided into a circle."

"You are in luck. If it is 13th century, I happen to have a book with me. Take a look at the desk. Flip through it and see, if you find it."

The dayshift coroner's fingers were covered with dark blood. The palms were still mostly clean. He lifted both hands in the air to signal that he couldn't touch anything. Garrit walked over to the desk.

The book was a large swine leather bound epitome. It lay crossways on the desk. The cover had no imprints. Probably a sleeve had come off. The book weight about six pounds. The pages felt heavy and coarse.

Garrit flipped through demons that looked like childish stick figure drawings with the head blackened out. Other drawings were very elaborate. A public square contained a crowd of people pressed together. Every individual had a different expression of agony. Tongues were sticking out. People crouched in fear on the floor. A giant headed dragon loomed over them. The dragon had a tongue that was styled like a banner flying in the air.

There it was. A page with a circle woven of thorny rose stems.

"Look! Look! I got it."

Garrit was more excited then he wanted to appear.

The day coroner raised his eyes and walked over with his hands poised vertical to avoid dripping blood everywhere. He leaned over and took a sideways look. Recognizing the drawing, he immediately moved a step away.

"Garrit, are you sure that it is that one? You must have seen something similar."

"No, I am sure. It was exactly like that one. The tattoo was like that."

"Garrit, nobody would make a tattoo like that. What you see is a demon code. No tattoo artist goes near that."

"Nonsense! Those kids tattoo anything."

"Those kids may tattoo roses. However, this precise drawing is secret knowledge. It requires a scholar to know about it. And, no scholar would dare mess with it."

"Why are you so pale? It's just a drawing!"

"What you see is a demon code. You are familiar with 666 being the number of the beast. Many demons have numbers assigned. The drawing has a demon number hidden. See there are three stems. There are seven thorns. There is one rose bud. The number of this demon is 3-7-1."

"Ha, so come on. Tell me about 371."

"371 is powerful female demon. She is kind of like a succubus. A succubus is a female demon that seduces men and steals their soul. This female demon is as seductive as a succubus. However, she is not after souls. Her goal is the destruction of mankind."

"Wow! How can I meet her?"

"You mean, how can you summon her? Only a fool would do that. There was actually news about 371 recently. Some of those crazies in the grave yard tried to summon her. I think a lovely lady was killed during their barbaric summoning ceremony. It was quite a story. So, why are you so hot on that drawing?"

"I saw a tattoo on somebody. It really caught my eye."

"Well, Garrit, it was good chatting with you. I have to continue my autopsy. You know the police are antsy. Feel free to peruse the book."

Garrit slowly walked out of the morgue. His feet shuffled over the linoleum with the fake tile pattern: White and gray specks as the tile, dark gray lines to mark the boundary of the tiles, and a mahogany colored wood board at the exit of the morgue. His eyes glazed over with the sight lowered as he was thinking. The steps up to the ground floor were made of smooth raw rock. The impurities and reflective minerals patterned the steps. Each step was made to overhang a little. The overhang was carefully chiseled to be a smooth arc.

Outside, the freshness of the air hit Garrit for a moment. And, he knew what to do. The cemetery over the hill was his goal. He walked past the few pedestrians that had missed the morning rush to work: young mothers, old retirees, and funky looking artists. He carefully eyed each blue street sign to find his way. He counted the streets.

There was the cemetery: A green lawn with gray and black tombstones. Trees and bushes grew left to their own devices into shapes that they and the storms had negotiated without human involvement. Beneath the trees a rain of dead leaves from whenever. The leaves and slick dirt had created slides. Long human steps from slipping, sliding, and stemming up the hill had scared the ground.

The lower part of the cemetery had tender quaint bouquets of half wilted flowers placed on top of tomb stones, bare tomb stones with only a name, a date range, and a templated phrase: "Beloved uncle, rest in peace." The upper part of the cemetery under the bushes was littered with discarded potato chip wrappers, broken beer bottles, and crushed beer cans. The odd discarded sock and shredded jacket made it look as almost a human den for a pack of homeless.

Garrit stepped onto the thick grass bowing under his soles. With both arms, he pulled himself up the slope with the help of brittle dying bush branches. There was a little clearing with tomb stones in overgrowing knee deep grass.

A blond bearded man lied on a grave. His hair was thick with blond straight hair. The beard was thick as that of a Viking. Acne scars ran across his face. The man lied on his back like a snow angel. His face was intently listening. His coat had fallen open to expose a wooly sweater beneath.

Over him stood a tall and skinny man with an extreme slouch in the shoulders. His hair was almost black and low as his shoulder blades. He wore a gray army jacket that hung low to his knees. He held a clear bottle of cheap vodka in his hand with only two fingers barely holding it. His face looked hurried and uncomfortable.

The blond man raised his head: "Is this your daddy?" He spoke with a thick cockney accent.

"No, this is not my daddy," replied Garrit matter of fact. "What are you doing here?" Garrit closed the distance to the two grave desecrators.

"This is Lord Richard. He is pleased to meet you. I have been trying to communicate with him. See, he is rumored to have been turned a vampire. So, I thought that perhaps, he could turn me." The blond man sat up. It was now apparent that he was wearing a chain of dandelions in his hair.

"Isn't that vampire business rather nonsense?"

"You might have a point there, mister. Being that we spent the last 24 hours here and nothing happened, you might have a point."

"We should get out of here," interjected the dark haired one.

"Na, he is cool. I sense that he came here to meet us. Perhaps, he's got a possessed house or something," replied the blond haired one.

"Well, I beg you to ask a question about a certain demon. I understand that you folks research all kinds of fairytales, even the historic ones, not only the Harry Potter kind," said Garrit.

"Alright, gray haired one, my name is Eric. That's Alan. Let's hear your question," said that blond haired one.

"I am seeking to meet a certain demon. Are you familiar with 3-7-1?"

"Alan, get my papers. I think that's the one that is supposed to reappear after having slept for hundreds of years. Are you some kind of news reporter?" said Eric.

"I am not a reporter. Doesn't every demon have a certain ceremony to summon it?"

Eric and Alan looked through pages that had been rolled up and folded many times. Their faces grew animated. Eric gushed: "Oh, we could summon her tonight. Her cycle is on. We even got a recipe. Our buddy at the royal library copied us the instruction out of a book in the restricted library."

"Could I buy a copy of that from you gentleman?"

"Unnamed stranger, we could certainly sell you a copy. However, you would be upset. You require a young girl as a sacrifice. Not to disrespect you, you don't look like you have any young girl friends that would be willing to sacrifice themselves."

"I see it is a blood kind of thing. I was a fool for coming here." Garrit turned away to leave defeated.

"Hold on old man, we happen to have a young girl friend with a penchant for dark magic. We also happen to like demon rituals. Maybe, we can work something out."

"You aren't really going to murder that lovely woman?"

"No, old man, it's a metaphoric sacrifice. Well, actually the appearing demon is supposed to consume her soul. So far, no demon has shown up. That way, we were lucky to use the same friend for multiple sacrifices."

Garrit laughed a harsh laugh: "That is good to hear. My name is Garrit. What do you lads want in exchange?"

"Garrit, you are an old man. You surely must have many dead friends, no disrespect. Do you happen to have one in the morgue? We need a way to access the morgue. Only the place of freshly dead has the right energy to attract 3-71. She was a very blood lusty demon a thousand years ago. We hear that she came back to destroy humanity this time around."

Garrit laughed even harder: "I am the coroner lads. I OWN the morgue, metaphorically speaking. During the nightshift, there is nobody around to bother us. The only trick is to sneak you in before the security guard shows up."

Alan and Eric high-fived each other. They packed up there belongings from spending the night in the cemetery. The three walked down the slope with careful steps, always one foot leading and feeling, while the other foot held the body weight and followed.

"Shit," exclaimed Alan.

Eric looked up and verified, "Shit!"

The priest stood in his black uniform and a red cap in front of them. The priest's face was distorted with rage and anger. He held a big stick that was smoothly carved and stained in one hand: "You bastards are desecrating the graves again. Hold on, who is this?"

The priest squinted and looked at Garrit. Garrit instinctively looked away. Realizing that looking away only made little children disappear, he looked back at the priest. The priest had an ornate gold medallion and cross hanging around his neck. The medallion was studded with pink precious stems.

After thinking it over for a quiet second, the priest decided to turn pale and dropped to his knees: "Dear lord, you are my guiding light. With a thousand traps to the right and ten thousand to the left, you are my safety and refuge. May your power come down to put the demon in its hellish prison."

With an intense scream directed at the three, the priest yelled: "Go away, that man is being followed by a demon. Go away. Take that demon away."

Eric caught the moment the first. He bumped Alan on the chest with his fist and started running. Garrit picked up his long legs and started running as well. It had been a decade since the last time that he had been running. He felt very fragile running. The steps were so large and unstable that he feared falling. However, the sense of finding out that he didn't fall was exhilarating. A rush of adrenaline put a red tint in his cheeks that hadn't been there in a decade. He loved it. He loved running out of a cemetery. He loved the feeling of being caught and getting away.

Outside the cemetery fence, save behind a street corner, they hugged each other, while they leaned forward and coughed out their strained lungs. The physical touch signed a pact of brotherhood. The generational divide between the young drop outs and the old nearly retired coroner had disappeared. Layers of sweet covered their backs and bellies under the clothing. Smirks twitched among their lips for having gotten away, not that the priest had come after them.

"We got hell of a lucky with you, Garrit. That priest was totally freaked out by your mere presence. We did a lot of crazy shit in that cemetery. That priest was fazed by nothing. We had naked orgies. We once butchered a live cow. But you, the tall old man, you freaked him out that nearly his pump gave out!" admired Eric.

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bycowboy109© 1 comments/ 10673 views/ 10 favorites

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