Once, the chief doctor of the city hospital decided to break the dull routine and organized a corporate party in a luxurious restaurant. The fun was at its peak when he unexpectedly announced that the morgue attendant would be joining them. His decision caused confusion but genuine amusement—because this woman had always kept to herself. Silent, with a mysterious gaze, she appeared and disappeared like a shadow, as if she didn’t belong to the world of the living. Among the staff, there were jokes that she communicated better with the deceased than with people.
And so, the day before the celebration, the invitation was found on her desk. She took it without saying a word, only nodding her head. No one expected her to come. But everyone was wrong.
In the evening, in the hall full of guests, there was lively excitement. Doctors, nurses, administrators—all were in a festive mood, drinking, laughing, exchanging gifts. The conversation returned again to the unusual guest. The chief doctor proudly repeated that he had “invited a guest from the morgue,” and everyone awaited the moment with a slight mockery, anticipating laughter and surprise.
Then, around nine o’clock in the evening, the restaurant doors slowly opened. The music stopped. The murmur of voices faded. Everyone froze.
She stood in the doorway. But this was a completely different woman. Not the silent attendant in an old coat, but an elegant, almost ghostly figure in a floor-length black dress. Her hair was styled flawlessly, her face pale as porcelain, eyes cold as ice. A light mist seemed to trail behind her, and the air in the hall grew dense, oppressive.
Without saying a word, she walked through the hall, between tables, as if invisible, and stopped in front of the chief doctor. He wanted to say something but could not utter a sound. His face went pale, his hands trembled.
— “And you’re still joking…” she whispered right into his face.
His heart froze. Time seemed to stand still.
— “Not everyone returns from the other side. But I came,” her voice was firm, confident. “You called me yourself.”
With these words, she turned and left. The doors closed behind her, and at that moment, the music resumed—not joyful, but tense, strained. People exchanged glances; some began whispering, others just sat stunned with fear.
The chief doctor never organized corporate parties again. The attendant never appeared again either. And new employees began working at the morgue—the old one was never seen again. Although her signature remained in the visitor log for another week.
A week passed after that strange evening. The chief doctor pretended nothing had happened, but inside him, anxiety grew. At night, he was tormented by nightmares—the same dream: a dark morgue, footsteps echoing off the walls, and she—standing by the last door, calling his name:
— “It’s time…”
He woke up in a cold sweat, checked the windows, locked the doors, swallowed sleeping pills. But even during the day, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Sometimes a silhouette flashed in the window’s reflection, sometimes a familiar figure in a white coat flickered in the corner of his eye.
Everyone who had been at that evening felt the change. The hospital seemed covered with a layer of anxiety. Patients complained of an unexplained coldness, the morgue’s light kept flickering, alarms sounded though no one entered.
One of the guards said he saw a figure in white at night going to the morgue. He tried to catch up, but after turning the corner, he found no one. Only the morgue door was ajar. In the morning, he was found unconscious, his face twisted in horror.
The chief doctor realized: it was time to leave. He came early in the morning to sign his resignation. But in his office awaited a folder. On it was a note:
“You called me yourself.”
With trembling hands, he opened it. Inside were documents—in his name. Under the “time of death” column was tomorrow’s date.
He never left his office again. No one saw him after that.
A few days later, strange things began in the hospital. One of the new attendants, who was on the night shift, didn’t come out in the morning. His body was found in the refrigerated chamber. No signs of violence or illness. Only a strange, almost insane smile on his face.
A young paramedic, who had previously not believed in superstitions, decided to check the archives. At night, he sneaked into the old wing of the hospital and opened the morgue’s visitor log. On the last page he saw:
“Anna S., attendant. 23:00. Entry.”
The signature was neat, confident, but the handwriting seemed from another century. His heart stopped. He remembered: Anna S. died nine years ago in a car accident. She was identified only by a pendant shaped like a small skull. And exactly such a pendant was on the woman who came to the corporate party.
In the morning, he told the head nurse about it. She turned pale, crossed herself, and whispered:
— “It wasn’t you who said that. It was me who didn’t hear. If you want to live—forget it.”
The paramedic quit two days later.
Forty days after the corporate party, on the stormiest evening, the chief doctor was suddenly seen at the morgue entrance. Alive. Aged. In his eyes—a deep, unbearable silence. As if he had been somewhere where no light exists.
He was taken by ambulance. He said nothing, only repeated:
— “I understood everything… I understood everything…”
He was placed in a psychiatric ward. After a few days, he spoke for the first time.
— “I woke not in my office, but in a long white corridor filled with whispers. At the end stood Anna. She did not threaten. She was not angry. She just looked at me with sadness.
— ‘You forgot why you became a doctor,’ she said. ‘You laugh at what is sacred. At life and death. And I came to remind you. I don’t want revenge… I want you to wake up.’”
And he woke up—not only in reality, but inside himself.
After discharge, he left the city. He became a rural doctor in a distant village. Now he healed with soul, respect, and gratitude. He never spoke of the past, but on his desk always lay a photo of a young woman in a white coat.
And the city hospital became easier. As if a shadow had disappeared. Attendants stopped fearing night shifts, the morgue lights no longer flickered, and no one heard strange footsteps in the empty corridors.
But the legend remained. Only now it sounded differently:
If you forget why you heal—maybe she will come to remind you. Not to scare you… but to save you.
And since then, an unspoken rule exists in the hospital:
No one jokes about the morgue. And no one—under any pretext—invites attendants to parties. Especially those who don’t smile… and always wear an old pendant.
