Blackout With a Memory

Blue fluorescent light. Stainless steel. A low HUM from refrigeration units.

ROWAN PIKE, gloved, checks a TOE TAG on a body drawer: **JANE DOE 47**. He scans the quiet like it’s listening back.

On a counter: Liora’s battered FIELD RECORDER, a small spectrum dongle plugged into her laptop, a coil of wire shaped into a crude antenna.

DR. LIORA KADE adjusts knobs with surgeon focus.

If it comes in clean, we get the carrier. Not the scream— the spine underneath it.

And if it doesn’t come in clean?

Then it uses us as a microphone.

Rowan swallows. He slides the drawer open a few inches. Pale hand. Tag string tied at the toe.

Don’t. Okay? Just… don’t.

A faint, almost comical *click* from overhead lights.

Then—

The entire morgue drops into BLACK.

Silence swallows the HUM.

Liora?

In the dark, Liora’s laptop fan winds down. A final chirp dies.

LIORA (O.S.)

Stay still. Backup power should—

A SHIVER of STATIC crawls through the room, like air turning granular.

Somewhere in the darkness: a PHONE VIBRATES. Not ringing. *Receiving.*

Rowan’s eyes find a dim glow—Jane Doe’s phone on the gurney tray, screen alive though everything else is dead.

That’s not on our circuit.

LIORA (O.S.)

Rowan— don’t touch it.

The phone SPEAKER pops. White noise, then a tone like a hospital monitor trying to remember its job.

A WHISPER underneath, intimate, childlike.

WHISPER (PHONE)

Rowan Pike… you left the freezer open…

Rowan’s breath catches. He looks at the drawer—open a sliver.

That’s— that’s not possible.

The toe tag lifts, tugged by nothing. The string quivers as if hearing its name.

The phone’s static shifts into a wet, rhythmic pulse.

WHISPER (PHONE)

Answer.

Rowan steps to the drawer, fingers shaking. He pushes it closed—slow, firm—fighting resistance that isn’t physical, like closing a thought.

In the dark, Liora’s voice: a small clatter. A lighter sparks.

A flame blooms, illuminating LIORA’s face—hard, calm, terrified underneath. She holds a handheld ANALOG RECORDER with a taped-on coil antenna.

Blackout makes it loud. It wants return signal. A human loop.

Rowan keeps pressure on the drawer. The metal trembles.

How do we stop it?

We don’t. We *catch* it.

She turns the recorder on. A red LED glows.

The phone’s static surges, filling the room. The flame gutters sideways as if pushed by sound.

WHISPER (PHONE)

Rowan… open it… let her see…

Rowan’s jaw tightens. Sweat beads under his hairnet.

No.

The drawer shudders harder. From inside, a KNOCK—one deliberate tap.

Rowan, keep it from “answering.” If the body responds, it completes the circuit.

What does that mean— responds how?

Another KNOCK, closer. Like from inside the steel.

LIORA raises the coil antenna toward the phone glow, angling for signal.

Her recorder spikes with a faint, high, almost musical whine.

I’ve got the carrier… stay with me… stay—

The phone speaker cuts to a clear, impossible imitation: LIORA’S VOICE.

LIORA (PHONE)

Rowan, open it. I need to see.

Rowan flinches, eyes flicking to the real Liora lit by flame.

Don’t do that. Don’t— wear her.

That’s not me.

The toe tag string snaps taut, like a hand pulling.

Rowan clamps both palms on the drawer. His arms shake.

I’m not opening it.

WHISPER (PHONE)

Then we’ll open you.

A harsh, electrical *THWACK*—the steel drawer LURCHES outward an inch against Rowan’s strength.

Liora, eyes wide, forces steadiness. She twists the recorder dial, hunting the sweet spot.

The carrier whine steadies—sharp, pure—cutting through the noise.

Now. Talk to it. Don’t answer— *taunt.*

What?

Give it fear without giving it access.

Rowan swallows hard, leans close to the crack of the drawer like addressing a coffin.

You want a loop? Here’s one—

You can’t make me open it.

The static HESITATES—listening.

ROWAN (CONT’D)

Because you’re not a person. You’re a bad recording. A glitch that learned one trick.

The drawer stops pushing. The phone hisses, offended.

LIORA’s recorder LED blinks in time with the carrier.

Got you.

She presses a button—RECORD LOCK. A satisfying click.

Instantly, the room’s blackness seems to recoil. The phone screen flickers.

WHISPER (PHONE)

Give it back.

No.

The overhead fluorescents SNAP on—too bright, too normal. The refrigeration HUM returns, thick as relief.

The phone goes dead. A harmless rectangle.

Rowan releases the drawer, breathing hard. The toe tag lies still.

Liora stares at her recorder like it’s a live grenade.

We have a slice of its spine.

And it knows where we are.

A beat. Then, from somewhere deeper in the morgue—

A SINGLE MONITOR BEEPS, though no monitor is plugged in.

Both of them freeze.

It’s expanding.

Rowan’s eyes go to the rows of drawers—hundreds of silent doors.

Then we’re standing in its favorite room.

They exchange one look: no heroics, only necessity.

Liora pockets the recorder. Rowan quietly locks the drawer.

The beep repeats—closer, like footsteps made of sound.