Contributor: Mark Slade
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AUG-27-19---
Mrs. Beasley rented me a grand room containing a lumpy bed and moth eaten blankets. The room is the same size as the room I was given by the bastards that said I was looney. That will be a word I'll not use often with my own lips, as it is a very dirty word.
Mrs. Beasley is a lovey large woman just ripe for the picking. I lick my chapped lips every time I see her, and I see her often through the little hole I made in my bedroom wall. I always just catch her as she is finishing dressing or bathing her left side of her body. What were the chances mine and her bedrooms were next door. Just ripe for picking.
Mrs. Beasley tells a tale of a missing husband at a young age. A right fool if you ask me. She said Father and husband didn't get along. The husband went missing a few months after they were married, never to turn up again. So, the only way to make ends meet was to rent rooms.
There are other guests in Mrs. Beasley's house. A large house her Father used to own. As she said, her Father was a renowned Surgeon and respected scholar in the medical field. What Mrs. Beasley don't know is what is stored in the basement of the house. Something I stumbled on when I was looking to get rid of that nasty cat of hers I was experimenting with sassafras and arsenic.
I rather felt in awe of a master, it seems. Pure genius, the bastard was. I accidentally touched a lever of some sort and the wall of the cellar moved. It opened up to a new dark and dank room. What I saw was completely and utterly beautiful.
It was about twelve of these wonderful human sculptures. Several people with animal body parts. One woman had the legs of a goat. A man had the head of a deer, antlers and all! But my favorite to have been the man split in half, sewn together with the right side of a woman.
I wonder what Mrs. Beasley would think if she ever stumbled upon her Father's passionate art?
(2)
AUG-28-19---
Living in Mrs. Beasley's house provides wonderful opportunities. The other guests stay to themselves mostly. Except Marx. He is a snotty little man with big world ideas. I don't agree with any of them. I don't believe in a class war. It would interfere with my own activities. He is a very nosy individual. Every time I open my door he seems to be standing in the halls, listening. At the dinner table he is almost always writing in his little book.
Mrs. Beasley seems very much in awe of this stupid little man. She laughs at his dense jokes. Interested in every word he utters.
I'm sorry Mrs. Beasley, I can not have competition for your affections.
Mrs. Beasley would be upset if she knew what I did. I let myself into Marx room. That's the very reason I keep mine locked. It was cold and smelled of soiled linen. His room was littered with books, none of which were on a shelf. Books are a waste of time, unless you read Sherlock Holmes. Murder is always entertaining. What I saw next made me go red.
Marx had his own little hole to Mrs. Beasley's room.
Oh, yes. It was time for him to make his exit.
I waited until nine, which is when Marx goes out to the pub. I donned my costume of black pork pie hat, black scarf wrapped around the lower part of my face; and of course my black goat hair coat. I didn't want anyone to recognize me. I slipped my pearl handled knife in my coat pocket. I was ready for the newspapers to print their next BLACK RIPPER story.
I followed Marx down a street past the banks and shops. It seemed we traveled far to reach a pub. That was when I realized he was leading me on a wild goose chase. We ended up at a bridge. He stopped, looked over, dropped a few books over the edge into the river below.
What was his game?
“Oh, Mrs. Beasley....you'll never know how much I love you....”
Then the bugger jumped!
I turned to make sure no one heard his screams as he leaped to his death. I was dumbfounded. What the hell? I heard police whistles. Heels on the cobblestone. I did the only thing I could do. I ran.
I ran all the way to Mrs. Beasley's home. I went to my room and stayed to myself the rest of the night. I heard Mrs. Beasley rummaging in her room. I couldn't resist. I removed the painting of Queen Victoria. Through my little hole I watched Mrs. Beasley dress for bed.
Just ripe for the picking.
There was a knock on her door. She opened it and let a large brutish man inside. I believe he fixes things around the house. They kissed. She took him by the hand to her bed.
“It worked,” The man said. “Those love letters to Marx....then the kiss off letter.”
“He gave me the envelope of the rest of his money he earned from the publishers. I found it slipped under my door earlier. The fool!”
I couldn't resist watching them. I hate him, the large man. But Mrs. Beasley . What luck. A woman after my own heart, the murderous bitch.
(3)
Sept-24-19----
Mrs. Beasley's guests have been disappearing. It has come to the day that I am the last of guests. I have my suspicions. Her helper around the house, a large burly man, has been carrying a trunk down to the basement and in the house again.
I was curious. I headed back down the basement. I saw the wall to the hidden room was open. Mrs. Beasley's helper was with her Father's masterful sculptures. He had the trunk open and was extracting various body parts from that moldy velvety box. I knew his intention right then. He was the one carrying on the legacy of Mrs. Beasley's Father.
I saw my chance when a hacksaw and a hammer appeared beside the man.
*********************************
When I was done with Mrs. Beasley's helper, I headed to my room to clean the blood from my hands and clothes. Mrs. Beasley stopped at my room. She saw the blood and smiled at me. She took hold of my shirt, pushed me against the wall, kissed me hard. I moved my hand to her left breast, squeezed. I moved my hand over to her right breast, gave it a squeeze.
It felt strange.
Nothing was there. No soft pillow to lay my head upon. Her night dress fell to her feet revealing her naked body to God and me. At first I was horrified. Then aroused.
It seems her Father not only experimented with the dead for his sculptures, but also the living. The right side of her was man's chest. And in between her her legs was not only her womb, but a dried up dead penis.
“Take me as I am,” Mrs. Beasley said.
I did. And another chapter in my life has begun.
- - -
I have appeared in Burial day, Blood moon rising, and Weirdyear. I live in Williamsburg, VA with my wife and daughter.
- -
AUG-27-19---
Mrs. Beasley rented me a grand room containing a lumpy bed and moth eaten blankets. The room is the same size as the room I was given by the bastards that said I was looney. That will be a word I'll not use often with my own lips, as it is a very dirty word.
Mrs. Beasley is a lovey large woman just ripe for the picking. I lick my chapped lips every time I see her, and I see her often through the little hole I made in my bedroom wall. I always just catch her as she is finishing dressing or bathing her left side of her body. What were the chances mine and her bedrooms were next door. Just ripe for picking.
Mrs. Beasley tells a tale of a missing husband at a young age. A right fool if you ask me. She said Father and husband didn't get along. The husband went missing a few months after they were married, never to turn up again. So, the only way to make ends meet was to rent rooms.
There are other guests in Mrs. Beasley's house. A large house her Father used to own. As she said, her Father was a renowned Surgeon and respected scholar in the medical field. What Mrs. Beasley don't know is what is stored in the basement of the house. Something I stumbled on when I was looking to get rid of that nasty cat of hers I was experimenting with sassafras and arsenic.
I rather felt in awe of a master, it seems. Pure genius, the bastard was. I accidentally touched a lever of some sort and the wall of the cellar moved. It opened up to a new dark and dank room. What I saw was completely and utterly beautiful.
It was about twelve of these wonderful human sculptures. Several people with animal body parts. One woman had the legs of a goat. A man had the head of a deer, antlers and all! But my favorite to have been the man split in half, sewn together with the right side of a woman.
I wonder what Mrs. Beasley would think if she ever stumbled upon her Father's passionate art?
(2)
AUG-28-19---
Living in Mrs. Beasley's house provides wonderful opportunities. The other guests stay to themselves mostly. Except Marx. He is a snotty little man with big world ideas. I don't agree with any of them. I don't believe in a class war. It would interfere with my own activities. He is a very nosy individual. Every time I open my door he seems to be standing in the halls, listening. At the dinner table he is almost always writing in his little book.
Mrs. Beasley seems very much in awe of this stupid little man. She laughs at his dense jokes. Interested in every word he utters.
I'm sorry Mrs. Beasley, I can not have competition for your affections.
Mrs. Beasley would be upset if she knew what I did. I let myself into Marx room. That's the very reason I keep mine locked. It was cold and smelled of soiled linen. His room was littered with books, none of which were on a shelf. Books are a waste of time, unless you read Sherlock Holmes. Murder is always entertaining. What I saw next made me go red.
Marx had his own little hole to Mrs. Beasley's room.
Oh, yes. It was time for him to make his exit.
I waited until nine, which is when Marx goes out to the pub. I donned my costume of black pork pie hat, black scarf wrapped around the lower part of my face; and of course my black goat hair coat. I didn't want anyone to recognize me. I slipped my pearl handled knife in my coat pocket. I was ready for the newspapers to print their next BLACK RIPPER story.
I followed Marx down a street past the banks and shops. It seemed we traveled far to reach a pub. That was when I realized he was leading me on a wild goose chase. We ended up at a bridge. He stopped, looked over, dropped a few books over the edge into the river below.
What was his game?
“Oh, Mrs. Beasley....you'll never know how much I love you....”
Then the bugger jumped!
I turned to make sure no one heard his screams as he leaped to his death. I was dumbfounded. What the hell? I heard police whistles. Heels on the cobblestone. I did the only thing I could do. I ran.
I ran all the way to Mrs. Beasley's home. I went to my room and stayed to myself the rest of the night. I heard Mrs. Beasley rummaging in her room. I couldn't resist. I removed the painting of Queen Victoria. Through my little hole I watched Mrs. Beasley dress for bed.
Just ripe for the picking.
There was a knock on her door. She opened it and let a large brutish man inside. I believe he fixes things around the house. They kissed. She took him by the hand to her bed.
“It worked,” The man said. “Those love letters to Marx....then the kiss off letter.”
“He gave me the envelope of the rest of his money he earned from the publishers. I found it slipped under my door earlier. The fool!”
I couldn't resist watching them. I hate him, the large man. But Mrs. Beasley . What luck. A woman after my own heart, the murderous bitch.
(3)
Sept-24-19----
Mrs. Beasley's guests have been disappearing. It has come to the day that I am the last of guests. I have my suspicions. Her helper around the house, a large burly man, has been carrying a trunk down to the basement and in the house again.
I was curious. I headed back down the basement. I saw the wall to the hidden room was open. Mrs. Beasley's helper was with her Father's masterful sculptures. He had the trunk open and was extracting various body parts from that moldy velvety box. I knew his intention right then. He was the one carrying on the legacy of Mrs. Beasley's Father.
I saw my chance when a hacksaw and a hammer appeared beside the man.
*********************************
When I was done with Mrs. Beasley's helper, I headed to my room to clean the blood from my hands and clothes. Mrs. Beasley stopped at my room. She saw the blood and smiled at me. She took hold of my shirt, pushed me against the wall, kissed me hard. I moved my hand to her left breast, squeezed. I moved my hand over to her right breast, gave it a squeeze.
It felt strange.
Nothing was there. No soft pillow to lay my head upon. Her night dress fell to her feet revealing her naked body to God and me. At first I was horrified. Then aroused.
It seems her Father not only experimented with the dead for his sculptures, but also the living. The right side of her was man's chest. And in between her her legs was not only her womb, but a dried up dead penis.
“Take me as I am,” Mrs. Beasley said.
I did. And another chapter in my life has begun.
- - -
I have appeared in Burial day, Blood moon rising, and Weirdyear. I live in Williamsburg, VA with my wife and daughter.
Author:
Mark Slade
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