A WAND TO REMEMBER
A Tales from the Crypt–Inspired Tale from Haus Morgenrot
as told by The Gremlin
HO! HO! HO! HO! HOOOOOO!
Well, hello there, boils and ghouls!
It's your old pal The Gremlin, crawling out from underneath the couch with another heartwarming tale of employment, bureaucracy, financial suffering, and people standing in hallways where they have absolutely NO FUCKING BUSINESS STANDING.
Tonight's festering little fable takes us once again to...
HAUS MORGENROT!
A magical institution where the radios crackle...
The paperwork multiplies...
The vending machines demand tribute...
And the hallway cats roam freely through their natural habitat despite being told SEVENTEEN FUCKING TIMES to return to wherever they're supposed to be.
And deep within this magnificent temple of institutional nonsense worked our unfortunate protagonist:
MR. GERMLIN.
Not The Gremlin.
That's me.
I'm telling the story.
Mr. Germlin is the poor bastard living it.
And Mr. Germlin had survived Haus Morgenrot for...
SEVEN.
LONG.
MONTHS.
Almost eight!
Seven months inside Haus Morgenrot is roughly equivalent to eleven years, four combat deployments, two divorces, and one extremely confusing afternoon at the DMV.
Mr. Germlin had survived admissions.
He had survived discharges.
He had survived headcounts.
He had survived Computer Club.
He had survived lunch.
Dinner.
Radios.
Reports.
Hallway cats.
Missing hallway cats.
Found hallway cats.
Hallway cats who weren't technically missing because nobody realized they were gone until they suddenly appeared in the front lobby asking:
"Mr. Germlin, can I—"
NO.
"But—"
NO.
"I just need—"
NOOOOOOO.
Seven months.
Mr. Germlin had become part of the fucking architecture.
Ten o'clock?
Germlin appears.
Badge.
Backpack.
Lunch.
Front lobby.
Hallway.
Headcount.
"Sir."
"What?"
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"My room."
"And where is your room?"
"Back there."
"Then why are you walking THIS way?"
"I gotta ask—"
"TURN AROUND."
The hallway cat turns around.
Mr. Germlin resumes existing.
Twelve hours later:
CLOCK OUT.
THROW THE DEUCES.
GO HOME.
That was all Mr. Germlin wanted from employment.
Not glory.
Not recognition.
Not a Hero's Journey.
Not a workplace family.
Not a leadership opportunity.
Not a fucking side quest.
Mr. Germlin's dream career trajectory was a perfectly horizontal line reading:
PLEASE LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.
Clock in.
Do job.
Eat lunch.
Do more job.
Receive ULRICS.
Go home.
Beautiful.
Simple.
Boring.
The greatest movie ever made:
THE EMPLOYEE'S SHIFT
Starring Mr. Germlin.
ACT ONE: Man arrives at work.
ACT TWO: Man performs assigned duties.
ACT THREE: Man receives money and leaves.
Roll credits.
Five stars.
Unfortunately...
Mr. Germlin worked at Haus Morgenrot.
And Haus Morgenrot had writers.
And those motherfuckers were apparently suffering from a catastrophic shortage of plot.
SEPTEMBER 14, 2026
Mr. Germlin was approaching the final stretch before eight months of employment.
Surely this should unlock an achievement.
SURVIVED HAUS MORGENROT FOR SEVEN MONTHS
Rewards:
+2 PATIENCE
+4 INSTITUTIONAL CYNICISM
+17 HALLWAY CAT RESISTANCE
+900 DOCUMENTATION
+1 COUCH DOOG
+0 ULRICS
Instead...
September rolled the dice.
click-clack-clack
Natural fucking one.
RANDOM ENCOUNTER!
Evening descended upon the Haus.
The radios crackled.
The hallway cats wandered.
Somewhere beside a vending machine, Gerald the Cactus felt a disturbance in the Force.
And Mr. Germlin possessed...
a wand.
Not a magical wand.
Not Gandalf's staff.
Not something capable of turning hallway cats into productive members of society.
No.
This particular wand possessed exactly one magical ability:
BEEP.
Mr. Germlin waved it.
BEEP.
Again.
BEEP.
Mr. Germlin stared at the pants.
The pants stared back.
Again.
BEEEEEEEP.
Mr. Germlin's internal monologue:
"Why."
Another pass.
BEEP.
"Why are the fucking pants beeping?"
The hallway cat suggested pulling his pants down.
Mr. Germlin immediately declined this thrilling new adventure.
NOPE.
Keep them up.
Pull them up.
Pants belong UP.
For the love of Gerald, let us preserve this one remaining pillar of civilization.
Mr. Germlin wanted exactly one thing:
FINISH THE SCREENING.
Determine why the wand was screaming.
Complete assigned task.
Move along.
Sit down.
Continue shift.
Go home.
Get paid.
BORING.
Instead, during the screening, there was contact around the very top of the hallway cat's pants/buttocks area.
Mr. Germlin maintained that he did not intentionally touch the man's genitals.
The hallway cat later alleged inappropriate contact.
And somewhere above Haus Morgenrot...
The clouds parted.
Lightning flashed.
A giant skeletal hand descended from the heavens.
And selected:
NEW OPTIONAL SIDE QUEST AVAILABLE!
Mr. Germlin stared upward.
"No."
SIDE QUEST ACCEPTED!
"I SAID NO."
OBJECTIVE UPDATED!
"FAAAAAAAK!"
Haus Morgenrot had overridden his settings.
Fortunately!
Haus Morgenrot had...
CAMERAS!
Glorious cameras!
Modern technology!
Silent electronic witnesses!
At last, humanity's centuries-long march of scientific progress would prove useful.
Fire.
Agriculture.
The wheel.
Electricity.
Vaccines.
Spaceflight.
Digital surveillance.
Surely the cold, unblinking eye of technology would reveal exactly what occurred!
Management reviewed the footage.
There was only...
one...
tiny...
problem.
MR. GERMLIN'S ASS WAS IN THE WAY.
His own body blocked the relevant portion of the screening.
Mr. Germlin had worked there seven months.
Thousands of hours.
Thousands of trips through those hallways.
Countless hallway cats redirected.
And finally his ass had accomplished something no hallway cat ever could.
IT DEFEATED THE SECURITY SYSTEM.
Mr. Germlin stared into the abyss.
The abyss stared back.
The camera stared directly at...
Mr. Germlin's back.
The Gremlin slowly closes the employee handbook.
"Ohhhh, boils and ghouls..."
BUT IT SURE WAS A RIOT!
HO! HO! HO! HO! HOOOOOO!
But there was another problem.
A far more terrifying creature.
Older than Gerald.
More powerful than Human Resources.
More merciless than the vending machine.
Its name was...
PROCEDURE.
Ahhhhhhh, procedure.
That ancient spell specifically designed to prevent exactly this flavor of bullshit.
Mr. Germlin had not followed every required notification/two-person step correctly.
And that?
Mr. Germlin owned.
Should've slowed down.
Should've notified somebody.
Should've followed the procedure exactly.
Could've handled the interaction more gently.
Could've summoned another staff member.
Could've remembered the sacred battlefield doctrine:
WHEN THE BATTLEFIELD CHANGES, CHANGE THE MISSION.
Instead...
Deep inside Mr. Germlin's skull...
SMOL MONKE awakened.
Smol Monke examined the situation.
Beeping pants.
Wand.
Hallway cat.
End of shift approaching.
Smol Monke carefully considered every available option.
Then smashed the giant red button labeled:
JUST FINISH THE FUCKING TASK.
And thus Smol Monke discovered...
why procedure exists.
The allegation was one issue.
The procedural mistake was another.
Mr. Germlin could own one without owning the other.
But Haus Morgenrot poured both ingredients into the same enormous administrative cauldron.
HR stirred.
Management added seasoning.
Someone sprinkled in an incident report.
Someone else added camera footage.
A supervisor whispered the forbidden words:
"Pending investigation."
BOOM!
Lightning struck.
Mr. Germlin vanished.
Not literally.
That would have been significantly cheaper.
Mr. Germlin was...
SUSPENDED.
Go home.
Clock out.
Keep your phone available.
Wait.
And thus began the most terrifying episode of Tales from the Crypt ever produced:
THE WEEK OFF THAT WASN'T A FUCKING VACATION
DAY ONE.
Mr. Germlin waited.
DAY TWO.
Mr. Germlin waited.
DAY THREE.
Mr. Germlin began applying elsewhere.
DAY FOUR.
More applications.
DAY FIVE.
More applications.
DAY SIX.
At this point Mr. Germlin had thrown approximately SIXTEEN FISHING LINES into the employment ocean.
Warehouse.
Shipping.
Receiving.
Assembly.
Distribution.
Places containing beautiful, magnificent creatures known as:
BOXES.
Mr. Germlin began developing an emotional attachment to cardboard.
A box does not complain about a screening.
A pallet does not tell Night SOD it feels uncomfortable around you.
Shrink wrap has never requested an investigation.
A shipping label does not say:
"Mr. Germlin, I've always respected you."
And if a forklift starts going:
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Mr. Germlin can finally scream:
THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS SUPPOSED TO!
Meanwhile...
Back at Haus Morgenrot...
Something terrible had happened.
The front hallway had lost Mr. Germlin.
At first...
the hallway cats did not notice.
One cautiously stepped outside his assigned area.
Nothing.
Another wandered toward the lobby.
Still nothing.
A third appeared from somewhere nobody could adequately explain.
The three hallway cats looked around.
One whispered:
"Where Mr. Germlin?"
Silence.
They waited.
No voice.
No:
"Sir."
No:
"Where are you supposed to be?"
No:
"Your counselor isn't here."
No:
"TURN AROUND."
Their eyes widened.
They had discovered the horrifying truth.
THE WARDEN OF MILD ANNOYANCE WAS GONE.
Within seventeen minutes...
civilization collapsed.
One hallway cat declared himself Mayor.
Another founded an independent republic beside the vending machine.
Computer Club annexed Recreation.
Somebody attempted agriculture.
Nobody authorized agriculture.
Nobody stopped agriculture.
By Wednesday, a cactus had appeared.
His name was...
GERALD.
Nobody hired Gerald.
Nobody knew where Gerald came from.
But by Thursday morning...
GERALD THE CACTUS HAD BECOME SOD.
A hallway cat approached.
"Gerald, can I go outside?"
Gerald remained silent.
"Thanks, Gerald."
The hallway cat left.
Gerald filed no paperwork.
Gerald raised no objections.
Gerald requested no clarification.
Gerald was a cactus.
This immediately placed Gerald among Haus Morgenrot's most effective administrators.
Meanwhile...
Mr. Germlin remained at home.
Not fired.
Not working.
Not receiving the Ulrics traditionally associated with working.
He had entered that mystical dimension of employment known only as:
PENDING.
A fascinating economic system wherein:
YOU HAVE A JOB.
But...
YOU CANNOT WORK THE JOB.
Therefore...
THE JOB DOES NOT PRODUCE MONEY.
Mr. Germlin checked his bank account.
The bank account stared back.
Mr. Germlin checked his phone.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Apparently staring intensely at a Samsung does not summon Human Resources.
Another devastating defeat for science.
Eventually...
The phone rang.
Mr. Germlin prepared himself.
Was this it?
Termination?
Execution?
Would Haus Morgenrot finally throw him the deuces?
The answer came.
YOU'RE NOT FIRED.
Mr. Germlin blinked.
"Oh."
He checked himself.
Still employed.
Fascinating.
There was discussion.
Perhaps Mr. Germlin would leave his old assignment.
Perhaps...
NIGHTS.
Perhaps...
MEDICAL.
Six PM to six AM.
Mr. Germlin considered this.
Nighttime suited his naturally questionable circadian rhythm.
Medical appeared to know what Medical was doing.
And most importantly...
Night Medical presumably participated in the ancient capitalist tradition of exchanging labor for:
ULRICS.
Mr. Germlin expressed interest.
Then waited.
And waited.
And waited some fucking more.
Finally, he emailed.
Professional Germlin emerged.
"Good morning."
"I remain interested."
"I am available to return to work."
"Please let me know when my assignment and start date have been finalized."
Thank you.
Beautiful.
Boring.
Professional.
The exact opposite of this fucking story.
Then came...
SEPTEMBER 22.
Eight days after...
THE WANDENING.
The telephone rang.
Mr. Germlin answered.
On the other end was the facility director.
But this is Haus Morgenrot.
Real names have no power here.
Therefore, boils and ghouls...
The Gremlin hereby introduces:
MADAME THUNDERCLIP!
Why Madame Thunderclip?
Because I'm The Gremlin.
I'm narrating this shit.
And somebody made the catastrophic mistake of giving me creative freedom.
Madame Thunderclip had a request.
Of course she did.
What wonderful reward awaited Mr. Germlin after more than a week away from work?
Back pay?
No.
A start date?
No.
A schedule?
No.
A ceremonial basket of Ulrics?
ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT.
Madame Thunderclip required...
HOMEWORK.
"I need you to write me a statement regarding the interaction."
Silence.
Mr. Germlin stared into the middle distance.
Eight.
Days.
EIGHT. FUCKING. DAYS.
He had already experienced the event.
Replayed the event.
Explained the event.
Discussed the event.
Waited because of the event.
Lost wages because of the event.
Applied to warehouses because of the event.
Developed a newfound appreciation for cardboard because of the event.
And now...
PLEASE WRITE AN ESSAY ABOUT THE EVENT.
The Gremlin slowly turns toward the audience.
"Boils and ghouls..."
"Looks like Mr. Germlin's suspension came with..."
A WRITING ASSIGNMENT!
HO! HO! HO! HO! HOOOOOO!
Somewhere, the Crypt Keeper applauded.
Even that skeletal bastard thought this was excessive.
So Mr. Germlin sat before his computer.
The transformation began.
Jerry "The Ankle-Biter" Silverhand was escorted from the building.
Smol Monke was sedated.
Couch Doog received one cracker and was assigned perimeter security.
Gerald was explicitly prohibited from practicing employment law.
And from the darkness emerged...
PROFESSIONAL GERMLIN.
Destroyer of contractions.
Writer of complete sentences.
Wielder of punctuation.
Master of terrifying phrases such as:
"This statement reflects my recollection of the incident to the best of my knowledge."
DEAR GOD.
Professional Germlin wrote.
The wand repeatedly alerted.
The hallway cat suggested lowering his pants.
Mr. Germlin told him not to.
Mr. Germlin described where he remembered making contact.
Mr. Germlin stated that he did not intentionally make contact with the man's genitals.
He described the conversation afterward.
He described speaking with SOD.
He described meeting HR.
And he acknowledged the part that actually belonged to him:
He should have followed the required staff-notification/two-person procedure.
OWN YOUR SHIT.
But...
DON'T OWN SOMEBODY ELSE'S.
No Gerald.
No hallway cats.
No Ulrics.
No Couch Doog.
No Smol Monke.
Not one:
FAAAAAAAAAAAK!
Professional Germlin had achieved the impossible.
He sounded...
employable.
Mr. Germlin reread it.
Modified it himself.
Reread it again.
Then waited a perfectly normal amount of time so nobody at Haus Morgenrot would receive a fully polished workplace statement twelve seconds after requesting it and wonder whether Mr. Germlin had secretly transformed into a law firm.
At approximately one in the afternoon...
His cursor hovered over:
SEND.
Mr. Germlin considered adding:
"P.S. CAN I PLEASE COME BACK TO FUCKING WORK NOW?"
Professional Germlin grabbed his own wrist.
"No."
Smol Monke whispered:
"Do it."
"NO."
Jerry the Ankle-Biter appeared outside the window.
"DO IT."
Couch Doog barked once.
Gerald remained silent.
Gerald understood professionalism.
The sentence was deleted.
Mr. Germlin pressed:
SEND.
And so, boils and ghouls...
Our terrifying tale ends exactly where all great horror stories eventually end.
Not in a cemetery.
Not in a haunted mansion.
Not inside a crypt.
But somewhere far more terrifying:
HUMAN RESOURCES NOW HAS THE DOCUMENTATION.
What happens next?
Night shift?
Medical?
A procedural write-up?
A return date?
Another meeting?
Another phone call?
Another hallway cat crawling from an air vent carrying previously undiscovered lore?
Nobody knows.
Not Mr. Germlin.
Not Smol Monke.
Not Jerry.
Not Couch Doog.
Not Gerald.
And certainly not me.
I'm just The Gremlin.
I narrate this bullshit.
But something has changed.
Mr. Germlin isn't sitting around terrified that Haus Morgenrot represents the entirety of his economic future anymore.
Because floating peacefully in the employment ocean are:
SIXTEEN FISHING LINES.
Warehouse.
Production.
Shipping.
Receiving.
Assembly.
Distribution.
Perhaps Haus Morgenrot will provide Ulrics while he waits.
Perhaps Night Germlin will discover that 6 PM to 6 AM is gloriously uneventful.
Perhaps another employer will call first.
And perhaps...
Someday soon...
A warehouse supervisor will approach Mr. Germlin.
He will point toward a pallet.
"Move those boxes."
Mr. Germlin will freeze.
"That's... it?"
"That's it."
"Nobody inside the boxes is going to complain?"
"They're boxes."
"Nobody is going to tell SOD they feel uncomfortable?"
"What the fuck is an SOD?"
Mr. Germlin's lip trembles.
A single tear rolls down his cheek.
He places one loving hand upon the pallet jack.
"I'M HOME."
So remember tonight's lesson, boils and ghouls!
When the wand goes:
BEEP!
FOLLOW THE PROCEDURE.
When management says:
WAIT!
KEEP APPLYING ELSEWHERE.
When you make a mistake:
OWN YOUR SHIT.
When somebody else's allegation becomes an investigation:
DON'T OWN SOMEBODY ELSE'S.
When Madame Thunderclip requests homework eight fucking days later:
WRITE THE DAMN HOMEWORK.
When Haus Morgenrot finally permits Mr. Germlin to return to the mysterious realm known as:
PAID EMPLOYMENT...
Take the Ulrics.
Do the job.
Be boring.
Go home.
Throw the deuces.
And above all...
For the love of Gerald...
For the love of Couch Doog...
For the love of Smol Monke...
For the love of every Ulric remaining in Mr. Germlin's bank account...
DON'T. BLOCK. THE. FUCKING. CAMERA.
HO!
HO!
HO!
HO!
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
The Crypt Keeper slams the Haus Morgenrot Employee Handbook shut.
Thunder crashes.
Lightning illuminates the hallway.
Seventeen hallway cats scatter.
Gerald receives another promotion.
Couch Doog eats his cracker.
And The Gremlin turns toward the audience.
"Looks like poor Mr. Germlin discovered that one little screening..."
dramatic pause
organ sting
WANDERED OFF COURSE!
BA-DUM-TSSSSSS!
The Gremlin stares.
"That pun was fucking terrible."
The Crypt Keeper shrugs.
HO HO HO HO HO!
"But boils and ghouls..."
IT SURE WAS A RIOT!
THE END
—The Gremlin
NEXT TIME ON TALES FROM HAUS MORGENROT:
NIGHT OF THE LIVING PAYCHECK
...assuming somebody finally tells Mr. Germlin when the fuck he's allowed to come back to work.