YOU'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE
721 Words
The morgue was colder than it should’ve been.
Ellis had always hated this place — the gleaming tile floors, the industrial hum of the refrigeration units, the lingering chemical stench of formaldehyde and bleach. But tonight, it felt different. Too quiet. Too clean. Like the room was holding its breath.
He stood outside Locker 13 with the medical examiner, Dr. Evelyn Roarke — pale, sharp-eyed, always too calm for someone who spent her life with the dead.
“You’re sure it’s him?” she asked, flipping through the clipboard in her hands.
“I saw him die,” Ellis said. “Twice now.”
Roarke gave him a sidelong glance. “Most people don’t get a sequel.”
She pulled open the drawer, and there he was.
Wesley Carter. Again.
Same facial scar. Same tattoo behind the left ear. Same crooked front tooth.
No sign of decomposition.
Still fresh.
Roarke adjusted her gloves and peeled back the sheet further. “Clean slice to the carotid. No hesitation marks. Killer knew what they were doing. Carved something into his chest, too. You see this?”
“I saw the word,” Ellis said. “REMEMBER.”
“Right. But not just that.” She pulled the sheet down lower.
And there, faint and just beneath the skin like an old scar, was another word. Almost invisible.
“AGAIN.”
Roarke looked up at him. “You didn’t mention this earlier.”
“It wasn’t there before.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Bodies don’t change once they’re in the freezer.”
Ellis didn’t respond. He just stared at the faint word — AGAIN — like it was accusing him.
He took a step back.
Roarke watched him carefully. “Are you okay, Ellis? You look like hell.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“You look like you haven’t existed.”
That gave him pause.
“What did you say?”
She frowned. “What?”
“You said I look like I haven’t existed.”
Roarke blinked. “No, I said you look exhausted.”
“No. You said—” He stopped.
Did she? Or had he just heard it that way?
The buzzing was back. Not a sound. Not even a feeling. Just… pressure. Right at the base of the skull. Like something trying to push through.
“Maybe you should get some rest,” Roarke said. “Your hands are shaking.”
Ellis looked down.
They weren’t.
Back at the precinct, Ellis found Calloway at his desk, reviewing building security footage from the apartment where Carter had been found.
“Something’s off,” Calloway said, not looking up.
“Understatement,” Ellis muttered.
“No, I mean with the tape.”
He rewound it, paused, zoomed in on the hallway outside Carter’s apartment.
Timestamp: 2:14 AM
A man walked past the camera. Hood up. Face turned.
“Now watch this,” Calloway said.
He fast-forwarded ten seconds.
The same man walked past the camera again. Same gait. Same clothes. Same timestamp.
2:14 AM.
“Loop?” Ellis asked.
“Checked that. It’s not a glitch. He passes three more times. Then disappears.”
He rewind again, paused on a single frame.
And even though the figure’s face was turned, obscured by shadow, Ellis’s breath caught in his chest.
He knew that jawline.
He knew those shoulders.
He was looking at himself.
That night, Ellis didn’t mean to fall asleep. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the manilla folder for the hundredth time, when his body finally shut down.
And the dream came again.
The hallway.
White walls. No doors. No end. Just the sound of something heavy being dragged behind him, though he couldn’t see it.
Then — a voice.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just close. Inside his head.
“You died. You just don’t remember.”
He turned. No one there.
He looked down at his chest.
Something was carved into his skin.
He couldn’t read it.
Then—
He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, heart hammering.
He was still in his clothes. The folder was still on the bed. But the paper on top — the death certificate — had changed.
His signature was still there.
But the name wasn’t Wesley Carter anymore.
It was Ellis Granger.
- Writer
