The Spherical Ghoul
Fredric Brown
Murder Makes the Morgue Go
I HAD no premonition of horror to come. When I reported to work that evening I had not the faintest inkling that I faced anything more startling than another quiet night on a snap job.
It was seven o’clock, just getting dark outside, when I went into the coroner’s office. I stood looking out the window into the gray dusk for a few minutes.
Out there, I could see all the tall buildings of the college, and right across the way was Kane Dormitory, where Jerry Grant was supposed to sleep. The same Grant being myself.
Yes, “supposed to” is right. I was working my way through the last year of an ethnology course by holding down a night job for the city, and I hadn’t slept more than a five-hour stretch for weeks.
. . .