"April 3rd, 2019, 9pm. About to begin autopsy of John Doe. Weight at time of recording is 150 pounds. Height at time of recording is five feet, ten inches. Caucasian male, black hair, age estimated somewhere between thirty and fifty.
The deceased arrived after police action at supposed drug den in Jamaica Plain. Based on initial observations of deceased, there appear to be bullet holes in right anterior portion of skull with significant disfigurement around right eye and orbital structure. Powder burns suggest John Doe was shot at close range.
Signs of trauma are present on both hands. Recent abrasions and contusions are present, though skin in location is already highly scarred and filthy. Nails are strange. Coloration is black without apparent application of tint. Nail beds are broad, and ends of digits are thickened. Visual examination of palms and fingers reveals deep fissured ridges along undersides of each finger and across half of the palm.
Examination of the feet after removal of shoes reveals similar disfigurements on the soles of the deceased's feet. Nails are black without sign of tint, and nail beds are broad.
Removing clothing with sheers. There is distinct foul smell but can't place at this time. Similar to rotten eggs. Pausing to turn up HVAC and apply VapoRub to upper lip.
God, this reeks. Note to self - edit this out.
Clothing now fully removed. Initial observation of abdomen and chest show pronounced emaciation. Skin appears to be dry and tight over lean muscles beneath. No hair growth below the neck. No...
This is a man, right? Where the hell is his... Note to self - edit this out.
Genitals not present. Without presence of breasts, will still refer to deceased as male. No sign of surgical removal.
Turning deceased over to examine...
What the FUCK.
Edit that... the fuck.
He has a tail.
He has a tail. The deceased has a tail.
Um. Deceased has a tail, estimated to be, um... four feet in length. Appears to be flexible. End of tail has a fleshy spade-shaped tip. Underside of spade... oh Christ... has same deep ridging as palms and soles of feet.
Fuck. Okay, what the fuck.
Wait, is this a fake?
Edit this out.
No sign of surgical attachment of tail. This can't be real.
Should I̬... shit, should I get someone down here? Someone from MIT? What the hell would anyone at MIT care. Fuck, which college has a department for THIS?
Calm down, Ron. You can do this.
Edit this out.
Continuing examination. While abdomen and chest are emaciated, back contains excess musculature. Spine is curved forward at... let's see, T1, T2, and T3. Odd bony protuberances through skin at T1, T2, and T3.
Back of skull appears surprisingly intact given trauma. Exit wound is five centimeters.
Wait. It's bleeding.
Exit wound is shrinking.
Four centimeters.
Three.
What the fuck? Rapid healing appears to be occurring right now as I'm watching. Healthy flesh is filling in. This is fascinating. What the hell is this guy?
What is that? Object just dropped out of wound... it's the bullet. The wound is closing now.
The coloration of John Doe's skin is changing. It's flushing.
This... this guy isn't dead.
OH MY GOD HE'S STARTING TO MOVE.
HELP! HELP, SOMEONE HELP!"
Recording continues as pathologist exits morgue, the slam of heavy doors muffling continuing yells and cries for help.
Silence ensues for a few moments, and then there's a rattle of the metal autopsy table.
The sound of flesh sliding and squealing against the surface of it.
Continued movement, a body shifting and pushing itself up.
The soft press of bare feet on the tiled floor.
Softer, wet breathing. Slow inhalations. A pause. Shallower, faster inhalations. Sniffing.
A hot growl and slow, soft footsteps.
Footsteps move to door. More inhalations. Soft sounds lifting up along wall to ceiling.
Silence for five minutes.
The muted cries of pathologist speaking to companion.
Heavy doors open.
"Where the hell is it?"
"Ron, you said there was something weird in here?"
"What the fuck?! IT WAS RIGHT HERE!"
"Ron, calm down. You've been working long hours, man."
Frantic quick steps to autopsy table.
"Ron, c'mon... Ow, what the f..."
The sound of a body collapsing to the floor.
"Frank? Fra... Oh... No! NO!"
Sounds of a struggle. The table tips over with a clatter. Screams that are stifled.
The sound of bodies being dragged slowly to refrigerated storage. Door is opened, more dragging, then the door is closed again.
The sound of clothing being pulled on. Soft footsteps are now the soft clap of work boots that lead to the heavy exit door of the morgue. The jingle of keys taken out of a pocket. A pleased, wet growl.
The door opens, and the footsteps die away as the door closes once more.
End of recording.
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