When Midnight Strikes at the Crematorium, a Father Discovers His Daughter-in-Law's Dark Mob Secret Inside the Furnace
Part 1
At 11:45 PM on November 14th, an unmarked black van dumped an unregistered body bag onto gurney three without municipal transfer papers or an ID tag.
At 12:00 AM sharp, the retort furnace auto-ignited on an unauthorized remote override, and heavy, muffled pounding began violently against the reinforced steel door from inside.
Arthur realized the person inside was still alive, and the remote ignition order came directly from his own daughter-in-law’s digital notary account.
Now, with fire roaring behind the hatch and heavy footsteps approaching from the hallway, he faces an agonizing split-second decision.
The chill of November 14th clung to the air inside the Riverview Municipal Crematorium, a perpetual, sterile cold that Arthur Pendelton had grown accustomed to over his twelve years on the night shift. His routine was a comfort, a predictable rhythm of logging transfers, performing checks, and ensuring the quiet dignity of the facility. Tonight had started like any other.
He had just finished his second round of checks, the hum of the ventilation system his only companion, when the bright glare of headlights cut through the frosted pane of the receiving bay door. It was 11:45 PM. Too early for the morning deliveries, too late for the evening’s final transfer. His brow furrowed in a slight, uncharacteristic frown.
An unmarked black van, polished to a dull sheen, idled outside. Its side door slid open with a whisper of hydraulics, and two burly men, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing, emerged. They moved with an unsettling efficiency, pulling a long, heavy object wrapped in a thick, black body bag from the van’s interior.
Arthur watched them through the glass, a prickle of unease beginning to spread. There were no municipal transfer papers visible, no clipboards, no official seals. Most strikingly, the body bag itself lacked the usual identifying tags that were standard protocol for every arrival at Riverview. It was a blank, anonymous canvas.
One of the men, a broad-shouldered figure with a shaved head, gestured curtly towards gurney three. Without a word, they hoisted the heavy bag and unceremoniously dropped it onto the stainless steel surface. The thud resonated oddly in the silent bay. The gurney wheels locked with a soft click.
Before Arthur could even consider stepping out of his control room to question them, the men were already retreating. They moved back to the van with the same practiced speed, climbed in, and the side door hissed shut. The vehicle pulled away, its tail lights vanishing into the fog-laced night without a backward glance.
Arthur remained at the monitor, a knot tightening in his stomach. This was highly irregular. He prided himself on adhering strictly to procedure. Every body came with paperwork, every bag with identification. To simply leave an unregistered cadaver on his watch was unprecedented.
He reached for the internal phone, his finger hovering over the director’s extension. He needed to report this, to get clarification. But as he hesitated, the digital clock on his console flipped precisely to 12:00 AM.
A low, resonant rumble vibrated through the floor.
The main retort furnace, usually silent until a scheduled operation, sprang to life. Orange indicator lights flared on the control panel, illuminating the cavernous chamber. A deep, mechanical groan filled the air as the massive burners ignited.
Arthur froze, his hand dropping from the phone. This was impossible. The furnace operated on a strict, pre-programmed schedule, or manual override with two-factor authentication. No cremation had been logged for tonight.
He stared at the panel, his mind racing through possible explanations. A system malfunction? A rogue automated self-test? He had never seen such a thing in twelve years.
Then, a new sound cut through the mechanical hum.
It was muffled at first, a dull impact that vibrated through the reinforced steel door of the retort.
A second impact followed, heavier, more desperate.
Arthur’s blood ran cold. It wasn’t the sound of expanding metal. It was a violent, frantic pounding.
Someone was inside.
Still alive.
A surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp, shot through Arthur. He stumbled towards the control monitor, his eyes scanning the diagnostic readout. The screen scrolled through system logs, confirming the auto-ignition. Below the main status, a smaller, glowing line of text blinked: “REMOTE OVERRIDE: SECURED IP ADDRESS #73.18.214.99.”
He knew that IP address. He’d seen it before, tied to official municipal documents. It was his daughter-in-law, Clara Pendelton’s, secure notary account, used for digital signing and official confirmations. Clara, a senior estate notary, had no business accessing the crematory’s internal systems.
His mind reeled. Clara? Why would she remotely activate a furnace with a live person inside? The implication struck him like a physical blow.
Suddenly, the distinct sound of heavy boot heels echoed from the outer corridor, growing louder, closer. They were firm, unhurried, approaching the control room.
Arthur’s gaze darted from the digital display, where Clara’s IP address mocked him with its casual cruelty, to the pulsing red emergency kill switch. His hand trembled as he reached for the large, plastic button, the desperate pounding from inside the furnace growing more intense with every approaching footfall.
Part 2
The heat pulsed off the steel viewing hatch, radiating through the control room glass, making the air thick and metallic. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the roar of the burners. The digital panel above the kill switch confirmed it again, a data string blinking: “REMOTE OVERRIDE: 11:59 PM, IP 192.168.1.101 (CLARA PENDELTON HOME OFFICE).”
Clara. His daughter-in-law.
From down the long, empty hallway, the distinct *clink-clink-clink* of keys scraping against the crematory’s side entrance door echoed. Then, a turning, scraping sound as a lock began to yield. Footsteps were coming. Fast.
His trembling hand hovered over the large, red emergency kill switch. In his other hand, he clutched the heavy industrial flashlamp, its beam cutting a stark line through the dim room. The service stun gun, cold and heavy, was strapped to his belt, but he instinctively reached for it, his fingers closing around the grip.
The pounding from inside the furnace grew desperate, a muffled, frantic thudding against the metal that sounded like someone was trying to break out. The burners were roaring now, a deep, hungry rumble, pushing the temperature higher. He could feel the heat on his face, even through the glass.
He had seconds, maybe less.
You are Arthur Pendelton. With the furnace burning and someone breaking in, you have a split-second decision to make.
A) Press the emergency power kill switch and manually inspect the furnace hatch
B) Draw your stun gun, lock the control room door, and call Police Captain Sadowski
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