NOVEL NEXT Chapter 15: Epilogue
The ground floor of police headquarters was quiet. Behind the desk sat Senior Constable Pauling, a grizzled veteran of the force whose primary job now was to keep order inside the building. He looked up when he saw Inspector Galbraith, looking at him with a hint of curiosity.
"What are you hanging around here for?" Pauling asked lazily, pulling a newspaper out of the drawer. "Shouldn't you be upstairs with the others?"
Galbraith chuckled nervously as he came closer, leaning his elbows on the counter as if trying to hide an inner tremor.
"Listen, Frank, do you... believe in spirits?"
The old man froze, then slowly put the newspaper down, as if considering the question. His eyes glittered with a hint of mockery.
"Well, well. Are you seriously asking me this?"
"I'm just... curious," Galbraith tried to justify himself, feeling his face flush.
Pauling laughed, loudly and with a kind of malicious pleasure.
"Oh, boy, you made me laugh. Are you afraid that the girl in the morgue will suddenly rise from the dead and drag you to the next world?"
"It's not funny, Frank," Galbraith muttered, feeling his heart begin to beat faster.
"Well, it's very funny to me," the old man chuckled, picking up the newspaper again. "So Schaeymoure sent you to the morgue, huh? He taught you a good lesson!"
Galbraith looked down, annoyed at his own timidity. He knew he shouldn't have brought it up, but something about the eerie silence of the night and the gloomy atmosphere of the inspector's office had gotten under his skin.
"Listen, Frank," he said, lowering his voice a little, "but what if she really is... well, let's say, a witch?"
"A witch?" Pauling laughed again, this time so loudly it echoed through the hall. "Are you serious? What next, buddy? Maybe she flew on a broomstick before she died?"
"But no one knows what happened to her," Galbraith began, but then the old man waved his hand sharply, interrupting him.
"Enough! Do you believe in these idiotic tales of Stephen King? You know what, son, I have one piece of advice for you: if you're afraid of the dead, then get out of the police. The real threat is the living, every cop should know that!"
Galbraith gritted his teeth, knowing that his attempt to seek Pauling's support had failed. But inside, his thoughts continued to swirl, poisoning his mind.
"But what if she really is a witch?" flashed through his mind. "What if her restless spirit now wanders our sinful earth?"
He suppressed a shudder, said good-bye to Pauling, and walked out of police headquarters. The cold night air immediately stung his face. Darkness had fallen over Portland: the streetlights cast a feeble light on the wet asphalt left by the recent rain, and the occasional car cut through the silence with a steady hum of its engines.
He stopped not far from the exit, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and, nervously lighting one, took a deep drag. The smoke burned his throat bitterly, but it at least calmed the trembling in his hands a little.
"Why the hell did I agree to this assignment?" he thought, looking at the wet spots glinting in the light of the lanterns.
The morgue was on the other side of town, and the prospect of getting there alone, at night, made him feel sick inside. He glanced at his watch: just after ten o'clock. There was no bus at that hour, and the walk was too long.
Stubbing out his cigarette on the iron railing, Galbraith stepped out onto the edge of the sidewalk. His gaze wandered along the road until the headlights of a truck appeared in the distance.
As the car approached, he noticed writing in huge red letters on the side.
"Mailer carries everything and everywhere," the inspector said mechanically, just with his lips, reading the inscription.
The driver, a heavyset man in a baseball cap, looked tired but noticed Galbraith waving for him to stop.
"Where to, buddy?" the truck driver asked hoarsely, opening the window.
"To the morgue on Eastern," Galbraith answered shortly, trying to look confident.
The driver snorted and shook his head.
"Not the best place for a night walk, huh? Okay, get in."
Galbraith climbed into the cab, the smell of tobacco and coffee immediately hitting his nose. The trucker pulled away, and the wheels spun smoothly on the wet asphalt.
"Why are you going to the morgue at this hour of the night?" the driver asked, not taking his eyes off the road.
"Duty," Galbraith answered briefly, not wanting to go into details. "It's a job…"
"Oh, I get it, you're a cop," the driver nodded. "Well, hold on then, boy. These places are creepy at night."
The trucker's words did not inspire confidence, and Galbraith felt anxiety rising again. The truck sped along the night road, the engine roaring, and the cabin was silent, broken only by the occasional heavy breathing of the driver. Galbraith sat next to the trucker, watching the road disappear into nothingness, swallowed by the black night and fog. The truck's brakes barely squealed as it made its way along the wet, mirror-like roads, and everything seemed equally endless to the inspector.
"Listen, have you been doing this for a long time?" the trucker finally broke the silence, not taking his eyes off the road. "Like, night patrols?"
Galbraith was a little taken aback by the question, but answered:
"Yes, quite a long time ago, I can say I'm already used to it."
The truck driver grinned, looking sideways at him.
"Used to it? You can't imagine what it's like. This job is just nerve-wracking. Especially at night."
Galbraith raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the trucker didn't elaborate, just shook his head.
"Milk outside the window," he said, pointing at the fog that wouldn't let go of the road. "Just imagine, you drive for two hours, and all these lines, signs, edges of the road dissolve and everything becomes the same. You look into this milk, into the whitish emptiness, and you understand that you don't know where you are anymore. A strange feeling, as if you're not on the road, but in some kind of ominous dream.
Galbraith was silent, but familiar images were beginning to flicker inside him. He shrank a little in his seat, trying to hide his discomfort.
"You know," the truck driver continued, "I usually don't like to drive alone at night. I like it best when I have a partner. But sometimes you have to drive without one. And then there's this fog. At first you think everything will be fine, until it starts to feel like you're not driving on the highway, but somewhere in the void. To some border where neither day nor night exists. Do you know what that feels like? So, you're driving in this milk, in the dark, and suddenly something starts to creep up on you. It seems like there's nothing, but you feel the pressure on your head growing, and it feels like you're not driving, but hanging somewhere in the middle of nowhere."
Galbraith coughed nervously, unsure of how to respond. He tried to push away thoughts of the dead girl's night watch, which might have been connected to something much darker.
"What strange things did you see?" he finally decided to ask, trying to hide his anxiety.
The truck driver glanced at him for a long moment, then looked back at the road.
"When the fog gets so thick that you can't even see the headlights," he began, his voice becoming a little quieter, "it starts... like you're seeing things that aren't there. You know how it is? Some shadows, shapes, like people or figures, start appearing far away in the fog. And you can't tell if they're real or if your brain is just playing tricks on you. I heard someone even claim that they were creatures from another world, or maybe from... another state. But I always thought it was just fatigue.
Galbraith slumped in his seat, unsure whether he should continue this conversation. Every word the trucker said only increased his own anxiety.
"I heard... and sometimes I thought that these thoughts were not just nonsense, but something more. What if... what if this fog is not just the weather? What if it is something alive that takes people and their souls," the trucker continued, getting deeper and deeper into his thoughts. "You don't know how far you can go when you drive alone on night roads. Sometimes it seems that you yourself become a part of this fog. And so you drive and drive until it begins to seem that you yourself are not quite alive. At first you think that everything is fine, but then... then you start to feel uneasy."
Galbraith paused, his stomach tightening as if someone were squeezing it with hands, and a crushing anxiety filling his stomach. The trucker's words were becoming increasingly unclear, as if his thoughts themselves were merging into a jumble of dust beyond which he could not see the road. The fog, thick and endless, was spreading beyond the window, swallowing up the road and the light. It seemed as if the world beyond the glass was becoming more distant, blurry, and reality itself was losing its meaning.
A quarter of an hour later, when the fog had become particularly thick and seemed almost tangible, the truck braked abruptly. Galbraith had not expected this and almost crashed into the dashboard, barely managing to cling to the seat. His heart began to beat faster, and he climbed out of the cab, breathing heavily. Without a word, the trucker shook his head slightly, and then sharply turned the wheel, moving again towards the road. Galbraith remained standing, as if spellbound, unable to move.
The back of the truck disappeared into the thick milk of fog, and with each meter the silence grew deeper, the sound of the engine became fainter. Soon even its faint hum dissolved into the emptiness of the night, leaving Galbraith alone with this obscurantism. The fog swallowed everything, as if by itself, as if the world had ceased to exist.
The inspector stood on the pavement, peering at the dark outlines of the trees, barely visible in that thick fog. He was alone. The place was dark and empty, and in that loneliness there was a sense of menace creeping up from the very edges of the city. His shoulders shook with the cold, and after standing there for a few moments longer, he hurried toward the morgue.
Every step he took seemed to echo in the silent night. In the misty darkness, where every object lost its outline and became part of something larger, Galbraith suddenly felt the tension growing. He had a strange feeling that this whole world around him was just a projection of something that did not belong to reality at all.
"Delia Yonce... what if she was right? What if..." thoughts about the girl, her oddities, her death - all this washed over the inspector, and he tried to push them away, not giving himself complete control over the situation.
His steps grew faster, as if it could escape from him - from what was pulling him restlessly into this night. But the anxiety did not leave him, and the tension grew with each step.
Finally he stopped, looking at a dark shape emerging in the thick fog. He was standing in front of an old cemetery. There was no fence, just rows of rectangular, neatly aligned tombstones, hidden in the shadows of old trees. The darkness of the place enveloped him like a fog, and Galbraith felt a chill run over his skin, making him shiver a little. It was as if time had stopped here, and the sensation made his heart clench.
The fog was light, almost imperceptible, like smoke, but still penetrating, refracting the light of the lanterns through its gaps. Everything around him became painfully strange, and Galbraith felt goosebumps run up his neck. The sky was heavy, like an ominous veil, and the ground on which he stood seemed black as coal, as if it were carrying away all that was alive and bright, as if the cemetery itself were some strange repository of lost souls.
"Why am I here?" the inspector thought, trying to find an excuse for his presence here.
He knew this cemetery was old, abandoned, but why did it seem so ominous now, so alien and wrong? Why was it that here, in this place, his anxiety was becoming unbearable, as if something invisible had been stalking him from his very last steps? He continued to stare at the darkness between the tombstones, and thoughts of Delia Yonce, her strange behavior and death, began to blur like smoke in a fog. Finally, Galbraith sighed and rubbed his palms together, trying to suppress the inner trembling.
"Well, where to next?" he thought. "It's time for me to go..."
And with these thoughts he moved forward, towards the morgue, which was a few steps away. It was a small, dilapidated barracks, seemingly abandoned and forgotten. Its whitewash was peeling, there were patches of mold on the walls, and the back wall merged with a thicket of bushes that seemed to swallow up part of the building, hiding it from the outside world. The place looked like nothing more than a miserable relic of a bygone era, and Galbraith felt his feet refuse to move any further.
He looked up at the two small windows that glowed dimly on the north side. There was no one in sight, but in the darkness their panes seemed like glass eyes watching him. Galbraith paused as he approached the door. Something about the half-open structure, its old, battered wood, disturbed him. The wooden frame, as if awaiting his arrival, did not inspire confidence. Suddenly, before he took a step inside, he felt a chill seize his body. For a moment he stood there, breathless with anxiety, unable to bring himself to enter. This morgue, this mess, this obscure silence - all this caused him unimaginable anxiety.
It was as dark as a dungeon inside. Galbraith, realizing that he should probably approach with caution, pulled out his night-watch lantern. He clutched it tightly in his hands and pointed the beam out the window, hesitating to enter the dark barracks. The light from the lantern was scattered across the narrow window frame, illuminating the dark space inside. In the dim light of the beam, Galbraith saw that in the center of the room stood a coffin lined with wood shavings. A wreath of pine needles, entwined with mourning ribbon, rested on its edge. The ribbons curled like tears around the wood, giving the coffin a heavy, depressing appearance. In the corner, standing upright, was the lid of that very coffin.
But what struck him most was what was lying on the floor. A young girl with long black hair flowing across the floor like a waterfall, motionless. Face down. There was no sign of life, just a shadow of her body, blurred in the dim light. Galbraith felt a chill run down his spine. Could this really be Delia Yonce? But how? Why? The inspector stood motionless, unable to tear himself away from the scene. He was sure it couldn't be real. Someone must have thrown her body out of the coffin, arranged all this. But his thoughts were confused, and a cold shudder ran through his entire body.
And then, when he was about to check again whether he had fallen into some kind of nightmare, the girl suddenly slowly moved her legs. The inspector froze, not believing his eyes. He closed his eyes, trying to understand what was happening, but the body on the floor, still motionless, suddenly shifted. Galbraith felt his mouth go dry and his throat tighten. Maybe this was just a hallucination? Maybe it was just his mind, confused by fear and lack of sleep? But the girl continued to move, slowly and with obvious effort, as if she was trying to get up or crawl.
His breathing became rapid and he knew he couldn't stay here. He shone the torch, trying to get a better picture, but her movements were becoming more and more obvious, her body continued to twist and her limbs twitch as if she were trying to get out of her position. Galbraith hesitated for a few seconds, unsure whether to enter the room or not. He didn't know what to expect. This girl who lay there motionless now looked like something strange, not alive but not dead either, something in between.
Suddenly she rolled over onto her stomach, then pulled her arms toward her and began to crawl, slowly and strangely, as if her muscles were not entirely under her control. The inspector could not look away, but his heart began to beat faster and faster, and the thought of coming closer became more and more unbearable.
She moved toward the window. Slowly, as if she didn't know what she was doing. The light from the lantern grew dimmer and dimmer as she finally reached the wall and stood right under the window. Galbraith couldn't see her clearly anymore, the shadows were too thick, and her figure was now hidden in the darkness right next to the wall. He didn't know what to do. Should he stand and watch? Or run for help? This couldn't be real. Or could it?
Galbraith leaned closer, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of his chest. He knew what he was seeing was impossible. But she was there, right under the window, her body moving strangely now. Her legs were splayed out, as if she were trying to stand up but couldn't. She was swaying drunkenly, her movements chaotic, clumsy. It was as if she were stumbling, trying to keep her balance.
At that moment, she began to tap her hands on the windowsill, trying to grab onto it, but her body swayed again, and she fell over. Galbraith felt something snap inside him. His mind refused to accept what was happening, but his instincts told him otherwise: this was real. And he couldn't stay away.
"Stop it!" he shouted, losing his head with fear and confusion, his voice breaking and sounding almost like an order.
But she did not answer. Of course she could not. Her eyes were empty, they did not see or react to him. They were like two glass objects, dimly reflecting the light of the lantern. Her whole face was disfigured by death, but the strange, almost unnatural movement of her body continued.
Suddenly, as if she had not heard him, her teeth clenched and she grabbed the window sill with them. Galbraith watched as her fingers gripped the frame and her body began to rise, writhing and twitching. She was not just crawling, she was somehow climbing out of the window, her hands gripping the wood as if she were trying to get out. Galbraith could not watch any longer. His mind was stunned and his legs refused to obey him. He felt the fear inside him curl up into a ball and literally tear the last of his composure out of him.
Without looking back, he threw the lantern to the ground and began to run. His steps were unconscious, his body moved on its own, as if the instinct for self-preservation had taken over him. He did not see where he was running, he did not hear anything around him except his own beating heart and heavy breathing. All he knew was that he had to run, he had to hide, far away from this evil, from this nightmare.
Without noticing how he jumped out onto the road, he continued to rush forward furiously, not paying attention to everything that was happening around him. At that moment, out of the darkness, in the flickering of dim light, a pickup truck appeared. It was racing with its headlights off, only the sidelights dimly glowing, like two ominous eyes in the night. The driver apparently did not notice Galbraith or simply did not have time to react to his presence. The pickup was moving at a decent speed, about thirty miles per hour, and despite the poor visibility, the driver clearly did not have time to adapt to the situation.
Galbraith, realizing he had no time to react, kept running, not thinking about what he was doing. By the time he reached the hood, it was too late. The driver slammed on the brakes, but the tires skidded on the wet road, sending the truck spinning. The car, unable to maintain its course, skidded off the side of the road and slammed into a tree with a loud thud, leaving the air filled with the smell of burning rubber and broken metal.
At the moment of impact, the bumper of the pickup truck slammed into Galbraith with such incredible force that it knocked him off his feet, and his body, like a rag doll, was thrown onto the asphalt. The impact was so powerful that the inspector did not even have time to realize what had happened - his consciousness was instantly swallowed by silence, and there was around him absolute void.