THE MORTUARY
A Dream: Lying on a slab, in a mortuary. A pillar covered with names. Racks of skulls. A symbol. A woman. A ghost.
I awoke, on a slab, in what was obviously a mortuary. As I levered myself up, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A floating skull. No, I realized as it spoke: a floating, talking, skull.
"Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure." I was confused, and had trouble focusing on what the skull was saying.
"Wh...? Who are you?"
"Uh... who am I? How about you start? Who're you?"
"I... don't know. I can't remember." I realized that I didn't remember anything about myself.
"You can't remember your name? Heh. Well, NEXT time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name's Morte. I'm trapped in here, too."
"Trapped?"
"Yeah, since you haven't had time to get your legs yet, here's the chant: I've tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt." I needed to orient myself, and find out from the skull where I was.
"We're locked in... where? What is this place?"
"It's called the 'Mortuary'... it's a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider." Could I have died? Did that explain the lack of memories?
" 'The Mortuary?' What... am I dead?"
"Not from where I'm standing. You got scars a-plenty, though... looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reason to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job."
"Scars? How bad are they?"
"Well... the carvings on your chest aren't TOO bad... but the ones on your back..." Morte paused. "Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something..."
I looked down at myself, and realized the truth about the scarring. They covered every visible bit of skin. There was a tattoo on my arm as well, the same one from my dream. I wondered what was on my back, though.
"Tattoos on my back? What do they say?"
"Heh! Looks like you come with directions..." Morte cleared his throat. "Let's see... it starts with... 'I know you feel like you've been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTER yourself. Among your possessions is a JOURNAL that'll shed some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he's not in the dead-book already.' "
"Pharod...? Does it say anything else?"
"Yeah, there's a bit more..." Morte paused. "Let's see... it goes on..."
'Don't lose the journal or we'll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they'll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.'
"No wonder my back hurts; there's a damn novel written there. As for that journal I'm supposed to have with me... was there one with me while I was lying here?"
"No... you were stripped to the skins when you arrived h...

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