Epilogue

The ground floor of police headquarters was quiet. Behind the desk sat Senior Constable Pauling, a grizzled veteran of the force whose primary job now was to keep order inside the building. He looked up when he saw Inspector Galbraith, looking at him with a hint of curiosity.

"What are you hanging around here for?" Pauling asked lazily, pulling a newspaper out of the drawer. "Shouldn't you be upstairs with the others?"

Galbraith chuckled nervously as he came closer, leaning his elbows on the counter as if trying to hide an inner tremor.

"Listen, Frank, do you... believe in spirits?"

The old man froze, then slowly put the newspaper down, as if considering the question. His eyes glittered with a hint of mockery.

"Well, well. Are you seriously asking me this?"

"I'm just... curious," Galbraith tried to justify himself, feeling his face flush.

Pauling laughed, loudly and with a kind of malicious pleasure.

"Oh, boy, you made me laugh. Are you afraid that the girl in the morgue will suddenly rise from the dead and drag you to the next world?"

"It's not funny, Frank," Galbraith muttered, feeling his heart begin to beat faster.

"Well, it's very funny to me," the old man chuckled, picking up the newspaper again. "So Schaeymoure sent you to the morgue, huh? He taught you a good lesson!"

Galbraith looked down, annoyed at his own timidity. He knew he shouldn't have brought it up, but something about the eerie silence of the night and the gloomy atmosphere of the inspector's office had gotten under his skin.

"Listen, Frank," he said, lowering his voice a little, "but what if she really is... well, let's say, a witch?"

"A witch?" Pauling laughed again, this time so loudly it echoed through the hall. "Are you serious? What next, buddy? Maybe she flew on a broomstick before she died?"

"But no one knows what happened to her," Galbraith began, but then the old man waved his hand sharply, interrupting him.

"Enough! Do you believe in these idiotic tales of Stephen King? You know what, son, I have one piece of advice for you: if you're afraid of the dead, then get out of the police. The real threat is the living, every cop should know that!"

Galbraith gritted his teeth, knowing that his attempt to seek Pauling's support had failed. But inside, his thoughts continued to swirl, poisoning his mind.

"But what if she really is a witch?" flashed through his mind. "What if her restless spirit now wanders our sinful earth?"

He suppressed a shudder, said good-bye to Pauling, and walked out of police headquarters. The cold night air immediately stung his face. Darkness had fallen over Portland: the streetlights cast a feeble light on the wet asphalt left by the recent rain, and the occasional car cut through the silence with a steady hum of its engines.

He stopped not far from the exit, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and, nervously lighting one, took a deep drag. The smoke burned his throat bitterly, but it at least calmed the trembling in his hands a little.

"Why the hell did I agree to this assignment?" he thought, looking at the wet spots glinting in the light of the lanterns.

The morgue was on the other side of town, and the prospect of getting there alone, at night, made him feel sick inside. He glanced at his watch: just after ten o'clock. There was no bus at that hour, and the walk was too long.

Stubbing out his cigarette on the iron railing, Galbraith stepped out onto the edge of the sidewalk. His gaze wandered along the road until the headlights of a truck appeared in the distance.

As the car approached, he noticed writing in huge red letters on the side.

"Mailer carries everything and everywhere," the inspector said mechanically, just with his lips, reading the inscription.

The driver, a heavyset man in a baseball cap, looked tired but noticed Galbraith waving for him to stop.

"Where to, buddy?" the truck driver asked hoarsely, opening the window.

"To the morgue on Eastern," Galbraith answered shortly, trying to look confident.

The driver snorted and shook his head.

"Not the best place for a night walk, huh? Okay, get in."

Galbraith climbed into the cab, the smell of tobacco and coffee immediately hitting his nose. The trucker pulled away, and the wheels spun smoothly on the wet asphalt.

"Why are you going to the morgue at this hour of the night?" the driver asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Duty," Galbraith answered briefly, not wanting to go into details. "It's a job…"

"Oh, I get it, you're a cop," the driver nodded. "Well, hold on then, boy. These places are creepy at night."

The trucker's words did not inspire confidence, and Galbraith felt anxiety rising again. The truck sped along the night road, the engine roaring, and the cabin was silent, broken only by the occasional heavy breathing of the driver. Galbraith sat next to the trucker, watching the road disappear into nothingness, swallowed by the black night and fog. The truck's brakes barely squealed as it made its way along the wet, mirror-like roads, and everything seemed equally endless to the inspector.

"Listen, have you been doing this for a long time?" the trucker finally broke the silence, not taking his eyes off the road. "Like, night patrols?"

Galbraith was a little taken aback by the question, but answered:

"Yes, quite a long time ago, I can say I'm already used to it."

The truck driver grinned, looking sideways at him.

"Used to it? You can't imagine what it's like. This job is just nerve-wracking. Especially at night."

Galbraith raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the trucker didn't elaborate, just shook his head.

"Milk outside the window," he said, pointing at the fog that wouldn't let go of the road. "Just imagine, you drive for two hours, and all these lines, signs, edges of the road dissolve and everything becomes the same. You look into this milk, into the whitish emptiness, and you understand that you don't know where you are anymore. A strange feeling, as if you're not on the road, but in some kind of ominous dream.