Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Burden on My Shoulders A Mortuary Worker’s Haunting Encounter with Death #61

Episode Date: July 17, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales#mortuarytales #deathencounter #hauntedbythedead #supernaturaljob #workingwithghosts  The Burden on My Shoulders: A Mortuary Worker’s Haunting Encounter with DeathHe thought he had seen it all—silent rooms, still bodies, grieving families. But one night, after preparing a body that felt far too warm and hearing whispers echo through the embalming room, a mortuary worker realizes something has followed him home. The weight on his shoulders isn’t just the exhaustion of grief and labor... it's Death itself. And it’s not done with him.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, mortuaryhorror, hauntedjob, deathencounters, ghostatwork, embalmingnightmare, creepyfuneralhome, supernaturalshift, mortuaryworkerstory, deadwatchingme, whispersfromthedead, hauntingpresence, realghostexperience, workingwithdeath, eerieprofession

It's not a job most people dream of, I guess. I prepare the dead for their final goodbyes. It's quiet work, mostly. Precise. I've seen a lot in my time here, but nothing prepares you for some things. And nothing prepared me for him. This started about a month ago. Maybe a little more.

It's all a bit fuzzy now, for reasons that will become clear. I remember the day it shifted, though. I just finished with a young woman. A girl, really. Late teens, maybe early twenties. The report said suicide. Gunshot to the face. A messy, tragic end.

Her body was, odd. Not in a gruesome way, not more than usual for that kind of trauma. But her shoulders. They seemed to sag, just a little too much, even in death, even with me working to make her presentable. As if she'd been carrying something immense for a very long time. Her parents, when they came to make arrangements, were devastated, of course. They kept saying she'd been struggling with anxiety. Kept talking about a, wait.

Said she always complained about a terrible weight on her shoulders, a physical burden nobody else could see or understand. They said she insisted it wasn't just a feeling, it was real. I nodded, listened. Grief does strange things to people, makes them fixate on details. I did my work, tried to offer what little comfort I could. She was buried a few days later. And then he started appearing.

The old man. Every morning, without fail, when I arrived at the mortuary building, he'd be there. Waiting. Leaning against the cold brick wall by the entrance, or sometimes just standing, swaying slightly, like a dried-up reed in a non-existent wind. He was old. Impossibly old, it felt like. Not just wrinkled and grey, but ancient. Skeletal is the only word that comes close. His skin was like old parchment, stretched so tight over his bones you could see their outline, his cheekbones, his jaw, the knobbly joints of his fingers. He was abnormally thin, as if he hadn't eaten a proper meal in a

century. His clothes were rags, thin and dirty, offering no protection against the morning chill. And every single day, the same routine. I'd see him from down the block, a knot tightening in my stomach. I'd try to walk a little faster, maybe look at my phone, pretend I didn't see him. It never worked. As I'd approach the door, he'd shuffle forward, his movement slow, agonizing. One hand, gnarled and trembling, would extend towards me. His eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, were like old, clouded marbles, but they'd fix on me with an unnerving intensity. Spare change, son. His voice was a dry rasp, like sandpaper on wood.

Just a little something. For an old man. Always the same words. Always that same pleading, yet somehow demanding, tone. He never got aggressive, never raised his voice. Just that persistent, quiet begging. The first few times, I felt a pang of pity. He looked so wretched.

I gave him a dollar, maybe two. He'd snatch it with surprising speed, his thin lips pulling back in what might have been a smile, or maybe just a grimace, then he'd shuffle away, disappearing around the corner. But he was back the next day. And the next. And the next. My pity started to wear thin. It became an annoyance, a daily irritation I had to navigate just to get to work. Why me? There were other people going into the building, other businesses on the same block. But he only ever approached me. He'd be there when I arrived and gone by the time anyone else showed up. It was like he knew my schedule. I started to ignore him. I'd walk past, eyes

straight ahead, headphones and even if I wasn't listening to anything. He'd still try. That raspy voice would follow me. Son. Just a little something. I'd feel his gaze on my back until I was through the door. It made my skin crawl. The building manager saw him a couple of times, shoot him away.

He'd go, docile as a lamb. But the next morning, he'd be back, waiting for me. I began to dread going to work, not because of the deceased I had to care for, but because of the living ghost at the door. He never touched me, never got too close, but his presence was a constant, gnawing pressure. It felt, targeted. I wondered, briefly, if he was some distant, destitute relative of one of the families I'd served. But that didn't make sense.

His appearance was too, extreme, too unsettling. And this all started, I was sure of it, right after the young woman, the one with the weight, was laid to rest. The thought flickered, then I dismissed it. Coincidence. This city has plenty of desperate people. But the daily ritual continued. The skeletal figure, the outstretched hand, the raspy plea.

Some days I'd give in, shove a bill into his hand just to make him go away, to stop that awful, expectant stare. He never said thank you. Just took the money and vanished. Other days, I'd steal myself and walk past, the guilt and annoyance warring within me. This went on for weeks. It felt like months. My sleep started to suffer. I'd see his face in my dreams, that skeletal, waiting figure. I was jumpy, irritable. My colleagues at the mortuary noticed I was on edge. I just shrugged it off, said I wasn't sleeping well. How could I explain this? That an ancient-looking beggar was singling me out every morning. They'd think I was losing it. Finally, one morning, I snapped. I'd had a particularly bad night, filled with those hollow, staring eyes. As I approached the building,

There he was, same spot, same pose. Son. A little help for an old man. Look, I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I can't keep doing this. You need to find somewhere else to, to be. He just blinked, slowly. That hand remained outstretched.

Just a little something, son. Frustration boiled over. No. Not today. Not anymore. You need to leave me alone. He didn't react, didn't flinch. Just kept that hand out, his gaze unwavering.

It was like talking to a wall, a particularly creepy, emaciated wall. That was it. I pulled out my phone. I'm calling the police, I told him, my hand shaking slightly as I dialed. This is harassment. He watched me dial, his expression unchanging. It was unnerving. He showed no fear, no concern. Just, patience. The dispatcher took my report. Loitering, persistent begging, causing distress. They said they'd send a car when one was available.

I stood there, a few feet from the old man, waiting. He waited too, perfectly still. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant city sounds. It felt that. like a showdown, a ridiculous, pathetic showdown. A patrol car pulled up about 20 minutes later. Two officers got out, young, looking bored. I explained the situation. How this man was here every day, how he only approached me, how it was becoming a serious issue. They looked at the old man. He just stood there, looking frail and harmless, a picture of pitiable old age. One of the officers, a woman sighed. Sir, she said to me, he looks pretty harmless.

And, well, he's on a public sidewalk. Technically, he's not doing anything illegal by asking for money. But it's every day. I insisted. And he only targets me. It's unsettling. The other officer, a burly guy, chimed in. Look, we can ask him to move along.

But he'll probably do. just be back tomorrow. These guys, they find a spot. He shrugged. Maybe, the woman officer suggested, her tone now slightly patronizing, you could just give him a few dollars. Might be easier than calling us every day. He looks like he could really use it. I stared at them, incredulous. That was their solution. Give him money. I felt a surge of helpless anger. So you're not going to do anything. We'll talk to him, sir, the burly one said, already walking towards the old man. Tell him not to bother you. But honestly, there's not much more we can do. They had a quiet word with him. I couldn't hear what was said. The old man nodded a few times. Then the officers

came back to me. He says he won't bother you again, sir, the woman said. Hopefully that's the end of it. They got back in their car and drove off. I looked at the old man. He was looking at me. That same empty, expectant gaze. He hadn't moved. The officer's intervention had done nothing. He was still here.

Waiting. A wave of defeat washed over me. They were right. What else could be done? I was stuck with him. Defeated, frustrated, and just wanted to be. it to be over, I reached into my wallet. I didn't have much cash, but I pulled out a 20. Not a lot, but not a little either. Enough, I hoped, to make him leave for good this time. Maybe enough for a

decent meal, a warm place for a night. I walked over to him, held out the bill. Here, I said, my voice flat. Take it. And please, just go. His skeletal fingers, surprising nimble, plucked the twenty from my hand. For the first time, I saw something flicker in those clouded eyes. A glint. And his lips pulled back into that smile grimace, wider this time. It sent a shivered down my spine. He didn't say a word. He just turned, with that same slow, shuffling gait, and walked away. He didn't look back. He rounded the corner and was gone. I stood there for a long moment, the spot where he'd stood feeling suddenly, strangely empty. A profound sense of relief washed through me.

Finally. It was over. He was gone. Maybe the 20 was all it took. Maybe he'd finally gotten what he wanted from me. The rest of the day passed in a blur of normalcy. I went to work, focused on my tasks. The constant background hum of anxiety I'd been living with seemed to have faded.

I felt lighter. I actually ate a proper dinner that night, slept soundly for the first time in weeks. I woke up the next morning feeling, heavy, not emotionally heavy, physically heavy. My shoulders ached, a deep, burning ache, as if I'd been lifting weights all night. My neck was stiff. I groaned, rolling out of bed. Must have slept funny. I shuffled towards the bathroom, the evening.

ache in my shoulders intensifying with each step. It felt like I was carrying something. Something substantial. I stretched, trying to work out the kinks, but the feeling persisted. A dull, crushing pressure centered right between my shoulder blades, radiating outwards. I reached the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked in the mirror. And I screamed. It wasn't a loud scream, more of a choked, strangled gasp. My blood ran cold, colder than any chilled room in the mortuary. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to break free. There, in the mirror, perched on my shoulders, was the old man.

He was sitting there, cross-legged, as if my shoulders were the most natural throne in the world. His skeletal legs were hooked around my neck, his hideously thin arms wrapped around my head, his gnarled fingers resting lightly on my temples. He was a dead weight, a grotesque, leering gargoyle. And he was smiling. That same wide, lipless grimace, but this time it was triumphant, knowing. His clouded eyes, reflected in the mirror, stared directly into mine. I whirled around, hands flying up to my shoulders, expecting to feel him, to grab him, to throw him off.

Nothing. My hands met only my own skin, my own shirt. There was nothing there. I spun back to the mirror, heart pounding. He was still there. Still perched on my shoulders, still smiling that awful smile. I could feel his weight. The crushing pressure was undeniable, real.

My muscles were screaming under the strain. My spine felt like it was compressing. But when I touched my shoulders, there was nothing. He existed only in the reflection. and on my aching back. Get off me. I yelled, my voice cracking. I thrashed, trying to shake him loose, like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas.

I jumped up and down. I spun in circles. Nothing happened. In the mirror, he remained perfectly balanced, his smile unwavering, his eyes fixed on mine. He didn't even sway. Panic, raw and primal, clawed at my throat. wrote. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. I splashed cold water on my face, looked again. Still there. I pinched myself, hard. I was awake. This was happening. I tried talking

to him, to the reflection. What do you want? Who are you? My voice was a desperate whisper. No response. Just that silent, knowing smile. His weight seemed to increase, pressing me down. I stumbled out of the bathroom, avoiding mirrors. But I could still feel him. That terrible, crushing burden. The girl.

The young woman who'd carried a weight. Her slumped shoulders. The way her parents described her suffering. It hit me then, with the force of a physical body. blow. This was her weight. This was what she'd been carrying. And somehow, somehow, that old man, he was it. Or he was its conduit. And by giving him money, by engaging with him in that final transaction, I had taken it from him, or he had passed it to me. The relief I'd felt yesterday was a cruel joke. He hadn't just left. He'd, transferred. I spent the rest of the day. I spent the rest of

in a days of terror and disbelief. Every reflective surface became a source of horror. A shop window, a car's side mirror, even the dark screen of my phone. Each time, he was there, perched on my shoulders, that terrible smile fixed on his face. And the weight. God, the weight was unbearable. Who could I tell? The police? They thought I was overreacting to a beggar. What would they say to this? They'd lock me up. My colleagues, my friends. They'd think I'd finally cracked under the strain of my job. I remembered the young woman's parents. No one believed her, they'd said. They said it was just a feeling. Now I understood. It wasn't just a feeling. It was real. And now, it was mine. I don't know what to do. The weight is always there. And every time I catch my reflection, he's there too, smiling. Waiting. I think he's waiting for me to find someone else to pass this on to.

But how? And who would deserve such a fate? I think. I think this is a curse. A curse from that poor girl or something that clung to her, and now it clings to me. The old man was just the ferryman. And there's no one in the world who will believe me. I'm carrying this alone.

Just like she did the E.N.D.