THE BOSS WHO DRANK THE DEAD
I worked in a mortuary for three years. What I saw there still follows me today.
My boss was never like other men. He never wore shoes — not once. Whether the floor was icy cold, wet with blood, or crawling with flies, he walked barefoot like it gave him strength. His feet were always dirty, cracked, yet he seemed proud of them, like they were his weapon.
Every corpse we washed, he gave one rule: “Keep the water safe. Bring it to my office.” No matter how filthy, no matter the smell, no drop was to be wasted. At first I thought maybe he needed it for cleaning, until the night I saw the truth.
He closed his door, lit a single candle, and sat cross-legged on the ground. The jar of water was thick and cloudy, with strands of hair, bits of skin, and streaks of blood swirling inside. He dipped his feet into it, whispering words that made my stomach twist. Then, without hesitation, he scooped some into a cracked enamel cup and drank it.
The sound was unforgettable — slow gulps, heavy, as though the liquid resisted going down. His lips trembled, his eyes rolled back slightly, and he sighed as if relieved. That night I realized: he wasn’t drinking water. He was drinking death.
His office was lined with jars. Some pale like milk, others red, some black at the bottom as if something inside had rotted. Sometimes they bubbled quietly on their own, like something inside was still alive. Passing his door, you could hear him murmuring, answering voices that no one else could hear. I swear I heard laughter one night — faint, but not his.
And then there was his smell. That smell. Not exactly rotten, but heavy. Like wet grave soil mixed with rusted metal and something sour. It clung to him wherever he went. Corpses smelled cleaner than he did. We all noticed, but no one dared speak. He was kind, after all. A man of few words, always willing to help, always giving. But his kindness didn’t erase the smell of the grave that followed him.
I began to notice the dead reacted to him too. When he touched their faces, sometimes the jaws twitched. Sometimes the fingers curled as if reaching for him. Once, I saw an eyelid tremble even though I knew the man had been gone for days. He just smiled and whispered, “They know me.”
Now I understand why his children never lacked, why his house stood tall, why contracts kept coming his way. His wealth was not earned. It was fed. Fed by the dead.
And maybe I should have kept silent. Because ever since I left the mortuary, I haven’t been free.
At night, I wake to that same heavy odour in my room. It fills my lungs until I choke. Some nights, I hear dripping water by my bed. When I open my eyes, I see wet footprints leading from the door to my mattress.
Last week, I woke coughing and spat into my hand — and what came out wasn’t spit. It was water. Cloudy, with a strand of hair floating in it.
Two nights ago, I dreamed I was lying on the mortuary floor, surrounded by jars. He stood barefoot over me, whispering the same words I once heard through his office door. But when I woke, my feet were wet.
Now I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know if I exposed him… or if I’ve become part of what he was feeding.
⚠️ Not every rich man is alive. Some are carried by the dead they drink. And once you speak their truth, the dead come looking for you too.
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