The room plunged into darkness. When the emergency red lights kicked in, the elderly man on the table was sitting up. His jaw hung at an impossible angle, and his eyes had been replaced by swirling, oily voids. He raised a finger, pointing not at her, but at the incinerator.
She peeled back the sheet on the gurney. Nothing. She checked the woman in cold storage. Nothing.
She grabbed her clipboard, her hands shaking so hard the pen skittered across the floor. She needed to identify the mark. Every demonic possession left a sign—a sigil hidden in the folds of skin or behind an eyelid. If she didn't find it and burn the right body before the shift ended, she wouldn’t be leaving through the front door.