Bodies of Evidence

Note: This story was a contest entry for the Demon Night 2011 Contest. To view the contest rules, click on Contest Rules:

Rules and Regulations:

This is an open prompt contest, but all stories MUST contain a HALLOWEEN theme and be within the Horror genre. No cutesy poems, please.
Stories are due by October 24th, 2011 at 11:59 p.m. WDC time. Anything submitted after will not be considered.
Your stories must be posted in the forum in Bitem format only. {bitem: #######} No spaces.
Your word count needs to be visible either in the body of your story or in the forum posting.
Length of story should be between 500-5000 words. No more, no less.
You may edit your entry as many times as you want before the contest comes to a close.
Ratings should be 13+ or higher. We are looking for some really scary stories here...
Anything created before August 1, 2011 will not be considered for this contest.

Judging:

You will be primarily judged on the scare factor of your story
Please proofread your story! Ultimately bad grammar and spelling detract from your story. So polish it up!!! You will not be judged solely on your grammar and spelling. However, it will help your chances of winning in the long run. Besides, the prizes are not small- is it really too much to ask?

"Horror, Inc. Presents: Demon Night 2012" 

Oops! Like an idiot, I edited a typo after the deadline and was disqualified. Rules are rules; one day I'll remember that...

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Bodies of Evidence

By Indelibleink

"Hey Mister! Hey Mister!"

The boy ran excitedly up the driveway, stopping just a step below the porch. The newspaperman turned and dubiously scrutinized the eleven or twelve year-old.

"Whatever you're selling, kid, I'm not interested."

Undaunted, the young man grabbed something from his pocket and shoved it up within inches of Ben Graham's face.

"I'm not selling anything, sir. I'm looking for my dog, 'Bonkers'. He ran away three days ago and I'm trying to find him. Have you seen him?"

"I don't even live here kid." Nonetheless, Graham looked at the wrinkled photo of the dog, which appeared to be a Collie mix. "But I haven't seen your dog, either."

"Oh, I know you don't live here. I'm not even supposed to go near this house - my parents think the man who lives here's weird - but we always come over at Halloween because he decorates his front yard with really cool dead people. Besides, it's not scary here during the daytime, and the bodies aren't out yet."

Ben handed the photo back to the boy. "Have you seen the 'weird guy' around lately?"

"No. He works inside his house a lot when he's not at his job."

"You know what his job is? And what do you mean when you say 'really cool dead people'?"

"My dad said he works at a creamery or something like that. I gotta go."

With that, the youth took off running down the drive, glancing back for a second and shouting, "If you find Bonkers, I live two houses from here."

Ben waved at the kid and watched as he turned at the end of the long driveway and disappeared behind the trees which insulated this home from the rest of the neighborhood. Sure, kid...I'll keep an eye out for Bonkers. Good name, though - sums up my day pretty well so far. He found himself daydreaming ahead to that evening when he and his girl, Rachel, would escape to Key West for a long weekend. Blessed with Clooney-esque good looks and the charm to match, the thirty-ish Ben Graham wasn't used to rejection, be it from women or assignment.

Okay...Let's try this one more time. With his patience already at low ebb, Ben Graham took one final poke at the doorbell, apparently of the notion that showing the doorbell he meant business would inspire someone to come to the door that much faster. Seconds later, still annoyed that he had even been assigned this story in the first place, he began scribbling a note for the occupant of the stylish colonial residence:

Dear Mr. Marquette,

I've tried to reach you via phone and now, home
visit, to arrange an interview for my newspaper,
The Linndale Beacon/Journal. Please call me at
your earliest convenience @ 888-433-6...

 
"May I be of some help to you, young man?"

The voice from behind was as chilling as the breath that invoked thoughts of an arctic breeze. Almost afraid to turn and face whomever - whatever - was behind him, Ben still mustered the courage to begin the one-eighty.

"I, uh, hope so..."

Ben turned to face an older man of perhaps sixty or so, rather diminutive stature, well dressed, but with piercing, relentless eyes.

"Well then, let me repeat myself. My name is Roger. Just how may I be of service to you?"

The man had a stare that could burn a hole through a concrete wall, so Ben felt terribly uncomfortable simply making eye contact. Yet, thinking this might be his only shot with this 'weirdo' - the neighborhood kid sure was right - he spoke rapidly. "My name is Graham. I work for the Beacon/Journal. It's my understanding that you have some pretty convincing bodies gracing your property every Halloween. You've won awards - what is it - six years running now? My editor at the paper has assigned me to get a story on just how you do it year after year. Would you mind sparing a half-hour or forty-five minutes of your time?"

"No problem at all, my friend. In fact, you take as much time as you'd like. Let's go inside the house where we can sit a while - I'm afraid these old legs don't have too many miles left on them." It took some effort, but Roger opened the front door and motioned for Ben to join him. 

The inside of the home was not really any different from any other Ben had ever been in - save for the fact that it was appointed with furniture from a previous generation or two - but it was clean and well-maintained.  "Please, sit anywhere you desire." As the pair reached the living room, Roger took a seat in a large easy chair. After Ben settled on a couch directly across from the old man, the old man got up. "And where are my manners? I forgot to offer you something to drink. Can I get you coffee, tea....anything?"

Starting to relax a bit, Ben found himself mildly amused by the old guy's quirkiness. He took a small recording device from his jacket pocket, and set it on the coffee table, and placed the notepad he had been holding onto his lap.  "No, but thank you, Sir. If we could just get on with your story...I do have a deadline...You don't mind if I record our conversation, do you?" Ben gestured at the recorder on the table.

"Indeed, Mr. Graham, let's begin. I understand your time is limited - but then again - we all have expiration dates, don't we?" 
 
"No doubt about that. How about if we cover the basics first of all? For instance, what is your occupation? I understand you work in the dairy industry - a creamery or something of the sort?"

The old man let out a chortle and slapped his knee. "A creamery, huh? Well, you're half right, Ben. Actually, I work at the Hagans-Willis Crematorium - been there for the last fourteen years now."

Ben fidgeted somewhat nervously at the revelation. "Crematorium? You mean a place where..."

"I incinerate your body after you die? That is correct. Ever watch a human body burn, Mr. Graham?"

"Uh, no." Can't wait to tell Rachel about this comedian. Ben had been looking into the kitchen - only partially visible from his vantage point - and had noticed a cat crouching and staring intently at him from the moment he had entered the house. A good ten minutes later, the cat hadn't taken his gaze off of Ben.

"Sorry, but I couldn't help but notice your cat in the kitchen staring at me..."

"Oh...Mr. Whiskers? He does have a bad habit of staring at people...I'll bring him in so you can meet him." The host got up from his chair and went into the kitchen. Ben heard the man speaking - presumably to the cat - and moments later returned with the cat cradled between his arms. When he was within a few feet of Ben, he said, "Okay Mr. Whiskers, you stay on your best behavior now, and say 'Hi' to Mr. Graham." Without warning, Marquette then tossed the feline in Graham's direction.

Stunned, Ben instinctively curled up in a hands-over-face fetal position, expecting the cat's claws to be frantically clawing at his upper body to get a grip. When he felt the cat bounce harmlessly off his head and fall to the floor, he heard nothing but hysterical laughter coming from Marquette. Roger then bent down and picked up Mr. Whiskers, and held the perfectly preserved cat at eye-level for Ben, himself still curled up on the couch.

"I'm sure you were going to ask somewhere along the line if I had any hobbies, Mr. Graham. What better way to show you that taxidermy is my second love?"

"You could have just told me, you know."  Ben finally uncurled, sat upright, and attempted to regain his composure. He took the cat from Marquette and examined it closely. "You know, I have a friend that's into taxidermy - has been all of his adult life - and he'd be very jealous of Mr. Whiskers. Damn near perfect."

As Marquette took the stuffed animal back from Ben, there was a crash - followed by a female's voice cursing - that came from the basement. The reporter jumped up and moved toward the door he guessed led to the basement. "What the hell was that?"

Marquette moved over and positioned himself between Ben and the door. "I should have told you earlier, Mr. Graham, that I have a young lady that helps me with my Halloween displays every year. Let me make sure she's okay, and I'll have her come up and meet you. How about that? You'll get two interviews for the price of one. Now, wait right up here and I'll be right back."

Ben watched as the old guy entered the stairway, turned, and then closed the door behind him. This was followed by the sound of a deadbolt becoming engaged. He then heard a muffled conversation between Marquette and the female, but couldn't quite make out any of the words being spoken. He noticed a closet door slightly ajar a few feet away, so he walked over gingerly and peeked inside.

There was nothing out of the ordinary: jackets and overcoats hanging; shoes and boots on the floor. About to resume his seat on the couch, Ben noticed something maroon and circular stuffed in one of the boots. He grabbed it and brought it out into the light for further investigation. It looked to be an animal's collar, with tags for shots, licenses, etc., and finally a larger tag which read, "Hi! My name is Bonkers. Please return me to..."

The sound of the deadbolt on the basement door sliding open interrupted the excitement of Ben's discovery. He quickly mashed the collar into his pants pocket and took a few quick steps back to where he was standing when Marquette had entered the basement. The old man opened the door, seemingly a bit shaken.

"The silly girl dropped a bottle - made quite a mess, I'm afraid - but no harm done. If you will follow me, Mr. Graham."

With only the dim light available from a tiny, wall-mounted night-light, the two then proceeded down the rickety steps. It didn't escape Ben's attention that Marquette stopped and once again dead-bolted the door behind them. When they reached the basement floor, Marquette hit a switch on the wall, and the basement was quickly drenched in brilliant light.

There were a number of coffins - perhaps five or six - in various stages of "preparation," presumably decorations for this year's Halloween exhibit. It quickly became apparent why Marquette was always the runaway winner in the "Most Realistic" category. The bodies looked like actual human cadavers - it hadn't been long since Ben had completed a week-long assignment on the "Bodies" exhibition at the science center - so he was used to getting up close to "real" corpses, and these were as real as any he'd seen. 

Ben had a million questions for Marquette, but before he could begin with the verbal barrage, cause for a million more questions appeared. A woman, who appeared to be in perhaps her late twenties or early thirties shuffled over to the two men. She definitely looked to suffer from some kind of muscular distress, but Ben didn't have the medical acumen to hazard a guess as to what. The first thing that came to his mind was the trailer that came out about almost ten years ago for a film called Gothika. He never saw the movie but saw the trailer on TV many times. The young girl in the Gothika trailer walked much the same as this woman did.

"Ben," Marquette grabbed the young woman's hand and held it out to the reporter, "I'd like you to meet Lisa. Lisa is a colleague of mine who is staying with me temporarily."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lisa." Ben reached out and shook her hand, which he thought unusually stiff.

Somewhat surprisingly to Ben, she didn't respond to him, but turned and looked at Marquette. "Perfect" was all she said, then turned and with the same herky-jerky motion that brought her there, disappeared behind a curtain.

"Busy girl. "

Apparently that was all Marquette was prepared to offer as far as explanation for her behavior.

Ben looked at the rigid curtain that partitioned off a good chunk of the basement. For one thing, the basement was much larger than the dimensions of the house would have suggested. The length of the divider curtain was at least twice that of any exterior dimension of the squarish home.

"Mr. Marquette, that looks like a huge area you have behind that curtain. Can I ask what's behind there?"

The old man smiled; it was the same kind of perverse grin he had prior to tossing Mr. Whiskers Ben's way upstairs earlier.

"Well, I don't normally show that section to anyone other than business associates, but then , Mr. Graham, you're here to do a story, aren't you?"

There was now an excitement - again, a seemingly twisted sense of - which Marquette's eyes now radiated. Likewise, Ben sensed that whatever was shielded behind the curtain was done so for a very legitimate reason. With a sense of anticipation rivaling that of a kid on Christmas morning, Marquette scurried over to the wall and pressed a button which mechanically drew the curtains back.

Ben was virtually paralyzed by what he saw:

A state-of-the-art medical facility complete with at least a half-dozen beds in semi-private rooms, a glass-enclosed surgical unit, two or three gurneys, and all the bells and whistles usually found only in the best of the best hospitals. The  young woman he met earlier moved around from unit to unit checking vitals on whatever was occupying the particular bed. However, it was just what exactly was occupying each bed which seemed incredible to Ben. One bed held the lower torso of an adult human male, severed just above the hips, with a myriad of tubes and other wires running in and out of the severed area. Interestingly, the severed area looked as though the covering, or skin, was supposed to be there - there were no signs of a graft of any kind. The next bed over held the upper torso of an adult female - severed in approximately the same area as the male, and fully intact up to just above the neck, where the head had been removed. The rest of the beds, as well as other smaller infant-sized cribs, held numerous body parts, from human heads, arms, legs, and sexual - as well as a plethora of other vital, internal - organs. There was also a smaller area to Ben's right which seemed to have been dedicated solely to various animals such as cats, dogs, squirrels, rats, and even a small chimpanzee - all of whom were in various stages of vital parts being either removed, attached, or both.

Marquette gave Ben plenty of time to take it all in before speaking. In fact, he went over and sat down behind a desk and began typing on the computer's keyboard. "When you're ready, Mr. Graham, if you'd be so kind as to join me over here."

Ben slowly walked toward the desk - still unable to take his eyes off of the simply unbelievable sights surrounding him. "Where in God's name am I?"

"Some would call it hell, no doubt. And my guess would be that you're leaning in that general direction too, am I right?" The old man chuckled, noting the expression on Graham's face - one of shock - had remained the same for several minutes. "Have a seat, Mr. Graham. Perhaps I should just begin, and you interrupt me should any questions arise. Deal?"

Ben nodded meekly and motioned for Marquette to proceed. Just as the old man was about to begin, Ben noticed out of the corner of his eye Lisa struggling to carry the carcass of an animal out of a partitioned room. The animal's legs were protruding from inside of what might best be described as a heavy gray trash bag, but as she turned a corner into the hall, the Velcro came loose and the animal's head was fully exposed. It was clear that some kind of surgical procedure had been performed on what Ben was sure had been a dog. As a matter of fact, the dog looked vaguely familiar. Then it hit him. Bonkers! So this was where the lost pooch had ended up! It also reminded Ben of what he had in his pocket. He reached in and withdrew Bonkers' collar, and laid it next to the keyboard where Marquette was typing rapidly.

"Oh yes...you found the collar, did you?"

Ben was flabbergasted at the flippant, casual manner Marquette had used to address his revelation.

"You stole and killed the kid's dog; I confront you about it, and that's your reaction?"

Never having taken his eyes off the computer screen, Marquette continued typing.

"Bonkers isn't dead."

"He sure as hell is. I just watched 'Elvira' there take Bonkers - or what was left of him - out of one of your torture chambers. The kid just showed me a picture of his dog before, you have the collar...I'm not stupid. You killed the damn dog."

Marquette finally stopped typing, swung around in his swivel chair, and whistled.

"Here, Bonkers! Come here, boy..."

Sure enough, a few seconds later, Ben could hear the sound of a dog's paws on pavement getting nearer. From around the corner came a full grown...German Shepherd.

Ben was more annoyed than surprised.

"What do you think you're pulling, Marquette? The kid had a Collie. Are you trying to make me believe that..."

Marquette pulled areas of fur back from around the Shepherd's head, revealing a circular pattern of stitches.

"Am I trying to make you believe that this is Bonkers? Well, in a manner of speaking, yes and no. No, because it's not the dog the young lad is looking for. But yes, because the dog knows he is Bonkers."

"And you expect me to believe that is Bonkers? How so?"

Marquette sat back in his swivel chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

"Perhaps I gave you too much credit, Mr. Graham. I thought you would have figured it out by now. I know brain transplants are fairly uncommon in most parts of the world, but..."

Ben shot up quickly.

"I'm not stupid, Mr. Marquette. But, it's just that anyone can get a dog to answer a call - it's not the name - it's the inflection in the voice. If you're going to resort to carnival side-show antics to try to make me believe..."

"Fair enough, my friend. Perhaps you need something a bit more convincing than a silly dog."

The old man stifled a cough, got up, and motioned for Ben to follow him into another hallway. They approached a room which was totally surrounded by curtains. Marquette stopped at the door, and gestured to Ben to enter the room. As Ben entered, the old man hit a light switch, and a high-intensity surgical lamp bathed its limp, unconscious, and naked subject in brilliant light.

Rachel!

Ben lurched forward to embrace his love, but at the last moment turned to go after the insane lunatic who put Rachel in this state. Alas, Marquette anticipated the man's reaction, and now smiling, he simply took a step back and slid the reinforced Plexiglas door into place, which locked shut upon closing.

Ben Graham pounded the Plexiglas, checking various sections of the enclosure while shouting expletives for a good three minutes or so before realizing it wasn't going to get him anywhere. He looked at Marquette, who had now been joined by Lisa, and then backed his way to a solitary chair which had been positioned next to Rachel. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, he flopped into the chair so he could begin to try and determine what the insane duo had done to his precious love. The moment he hit the cushion of the chair, a significant number of tiny needles penetrated his jeans and broke the skin. The same thing happened with the cushioned arm rests on the chair with just enough penetration from many points to break the skin and introduce a sedative.

He shot back up as quickly as he had gone down, and as he tried to figure out what had just happened, Marquette began speaking, only now with the assistance of a microphone.

"Rest assured, Mr. Graham, that the 'pokes' you just felt were nothing serious. The tips of the pins upon which you sat contained a mild sedative which will eventually make you drowsy enough for us to 'prepare' you. I know you are confused about your girlfriend - and well, probably about many things right now - so I will do the best I can to 'bring you up to speed', as it were, before you pass out."

Ben was already beginning to feel a little groggy, and leaned against Rachel's gurney for support. His mind whirring from the effects of the drug, he tried to remain lucid and think of a means to escape. Marquette's haunting voice provided a macabre backdrop for Ben's distorted thoughts.

"Let's go back to the beginning, my boy. Almost fifteen years ago, I was a prominent doctor who also taught at the Harvard Medical School just outside of Boston. I was highly regarded as a cardio vascular surgeon, although I seemed to be constantly at odds with some of my esteemed colleagues who were more concerned with political correctness than results. The name I went by at the time - my given name was - or should I say, is - Gautier Boucher."

Ben, now considerably groggier than only a minute earlier, began to frantically wave his hand.

"Boucher...Boucher...I remember that name...in French it means 'butcher'...I had just graduated from high school when there was a big deal...made national news...oh, there was a murder...no, at least a few murders...was so intriguing, it motivated me to want to become a reporter..."

"Correct you are, Mr. Graham. Allow me to provide you with some details...In one of my classes, there was a beautiful young woman with whom I became virtually obsessed with. I was too old for her - I knew that - but I still found myself preoccupied with her; she dominated my thoughts."

Marquette then looked lovingly at Lisa, who took the microphone and continued, speaking in much the same broken, choppy manner in which she walked.

"Yes Mr. Graham, I was the one Dr. Boucher was in love with, and although I found him to be engaging and a wonderful man, our age difference was too great a barrier, and I was dating a young resident at the hospital. He was the jealous sort, and one evening, after a class taught by Dr. Boucher, he just snapped. Enraged, he came to the classroom to kill Dr. Boucher, but Dr. Boucher had just stepped out. My boyfriend told me if he couldn't have me, no one could, and stabbed me in the heart. My boyfriend - make that ex-boyfriend - panicked and ran... "

Boucher took the microphone back from Lisa.

"I returned to the classroom moments after the attack had taken place, and with the knife still in my beloved Lisa's chest, I knew I had to act quickly. Since I had the benefit of the surgical instruments and everything else found in a hospital, I knew I had the expertise and the equipment to save Lisa. But one thing was missing: a human heart. I had no time to wait for a donor, so I called the first student I saw in the hallway and asked for help. As soon as he was inside the room, I killed him with a syringe needle through the subclavian vein, which you probably know better as the jugular. No matter...as it turned out, I was in such a rush I didn't bother to check his blood type, and I couldn't use him anyway. I quickly found a maintenance man who turned out to be a perfect match."

Ben's head was resting squarely in his hands with elbows on Rachel's bed. His eyes flitted constantly.

"How did you identify his blood type?"

"I asked him. I've found that sometimes, the best approach is also the simplest. I also asked him if I could borrow his claw hammer, which he gave me, and then I requested he hold a shelf while I put a nail in the wall. I sort of missed and caught him in the back of the head - with the claw end. Understand it wasn't something I wanted to do, but I needed to do. I needed that heart."

Once again it was Lisa's turn at the mike.

"He saved my life...or more to the point, he gave me life. By all accepted standards, I was dead. With his skill and genius, Gautier was able to keep enough oxygenated blood flowing through my brain during the transplant to maintain my knowledge and skills - I'm one of the world's best neurosurgeons - but he wasn't able to keep adequate blood flow to all of my other organs, resulting in considerable atrophy of many muscles. That's why physically, I'm something of a mess. But I owe Gautier everything."

Boucher gently brushed Lisa's cheek with the back of his hand.

"We were fortunate this happened so late at night, because the bodies in the classroom weren't discovered until the next morning. By that time, I had long since taken a school ambulance and we had fled the state, driving and switching vehicles a couple of times along the way, until we came upon this fair city. I was lucky enough to fall into the crematorium position with my new identity, which gave me - and later Lisa - the opportunity to hone our skills with all the body parts we could ever want to practice on. After all, I was the one who was cremating them, who would be the wiser if an urn contained a little less ash than it should have? Working at the crematorium also gave me access to otherwise privileged medical data, which is how I came upon yours and Rachel's medical information. Everything...blood type...age...and the young man's..."

Ben's head had slipped through his hands and was now on the bed, while his eyes were virtually shut.

"Wh...what are you going to do to us?"

Boucher smiled, then laughed.

"In your condition, I can't expect you to see the obvious, Mr. Graham. Lisa is going to transplant only the vital part of my brain - a relatively small part contains all of my critical knowledge - to you, Mr. Graham.  Normally, that would suggest that most of your brain would remain in your skull. But Lisa will remove all of you brain, because, as an adult male with a fully developed brain, your brain would probably have compatibility issues with mine. We can't have that, Mr. Graham. That's where the boy comes in. His young, impressionable brain will coexist perfectly with mine. I will assume your body, Mr. Graham. I will have essentially a new, youthful brain and body, and Lisa can then truly love me.

"Then Gautier will return the favor. I have spent much time training him to perform neurosurgery at the same level as me, so he will transplant my brain into Rachel's body. I will no longer be trapped in this wretched excuse for a human that I am now." 

"Then, I will - realizing the error of my ways - therefore commit murder/suicide after explaining it all in an email to the crematorium. With all of the flammable chemicals I've smuggled here from the crematorium, they'll find what's left of Marquette's and Lisa's bodies. Plus, since there are so many body parts in this basement, and with the intense heat of the fire, it will take them months to sort the mess out - if they ever can. Lisa and I - or should I say Ben and Rachel - will have long since established themselves elsewhere, living long, full, and productive lives."

Ben's - the reporter's - eyes closed one final time.

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"Young man, I think I have some good news for you."

The boy started up the driveway, and then, remembering the warnings of his parents, stopped.

"What do you want, Mister?"

"I think I might have your dog, Bonkers. Is this his collar?"

He stuck the red collar out the door and shook it so the boy might recognize it.

"You have Bonkers? For real?"

"I believe I do. He's down in the basement eating all of my food, I'm afraid. I was about to call the authorities..."

The boy needed hear no more. He was a recently-launched rocket coming up the drive.

"Thanks, Mister! He's going to be so happy to see me!"

"We're all happy to see you, my boy."

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